Page 93 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He was scared of bein’ found out. By his mother. His boys. Himself.

Andrew set his Coke on the speaker and broke through the livin’ room. “Yo—lemme take it,” he said, pattin’ Roger on the shoulder. “I know that face. That’s the ‘boutta blow’ face.” He slapped Roger lightly on the cheek before yankin’ him up by the arm. “Handle your shit. Then get your ass back here and earn your spot, bitch.”

Roger staggered upright, laughin’. “Big round’a applause to first baseman, Andrew fuckin’ Harding, always tryna steal the moment. Even on my goddamn birthday.”

Andrew grabbed the back of the chair, spun it in a quarter turn with one hand, then dropped into it before Mrs. Robinson could object. “Yeah, yeah. Go throw up, ya fuckin’ lightweight.”

After Roger dipped fast, Andrew flicked a glance to Mrs. Robinson, and gave her a crooked shrug. “Birthday delegation,” he said, leanin’ back and tiltin’ his chin up at the stripper, fake confidence stuffed into his grin. He motioned the stripper closer with two fingers. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he said over the music. “We’re all waitin’. Gimme your best.”

Somebody yelled, “Harding came to play!” right before the girl stepped between his knees with a dirty smirk. A second later, she was slidin’ off her top, lettin’ her bare tits bounce free.

The room fuckin’ exploded, cups sloshin’, guys howlin’ and whistlin’.

And that was the first time Andrew ever had a pair of tits in his face.

For a Union City kid raised on Sunday mass and guilt, that was the first time anything sexual was put on display for him. But he kept the same poker face he used at home when the yellin’ started, played it smooth, remindin’ himself she didn’t actually want him. That she was paid to rattle him.

And from the outside you’d think he was born in that chair with a pussy in his lap. He didn’t realize ‘til later. That night was the turnin’ point to his downfall. The night he let a naked woman grind on his thigh while all the guys watched.

The night she worked his lap like a fuckin’ stage.

Even if the only point was to protect Roger, even if none of it was real, that was the night he learned sex wasn’t about him.

It was about what other people wanted from him.

And it was also the night learned: Childhood is truth without armor, and adulthood is armor without truth.

// ANDREW - MAY ’14 - THE ROBINSONS - MONTCLAIR, NJ //

The couch in the den had no business bein’ that comfortable, with throw pillows that probably cost more than his whole paycheck. But Andrew still couldn’t sleep.

The heat was rich-people heat—soundless, baking you from the inside. And he missed the lullaby of the radiator clang, the hissin’ pipe, the kind of heat that had to fight to stay on.

Because of the cold, he’d grown up sleepin’ on his stomach, in hoodies with socks on, buried into the mattress, head under the pillow to stay warm ‘til mornin’. But this? This quiet-ass warmth? It felt cocky as fuck.

So he stayed up with the TV’s volume on low, watchin’ reruns of some nineties sitcom that played the same fake laugh every eight seconds. Andrew lay there with one arm slung over his head as he scrolled his phone, checkin’ for missed calls or texts from his Ma. But there was nothin’. Not even a ‘where the hell are you.’

It used to hurt, but not anymore.

He got used to the ache stretchin’ out inside him.

Though it was sad to think he could drop off the map, be bones in the Meadowlands, and the only thing she’d notice was the trash not takin’ itself out.

“You’re still awake.”

Andrew sat up quick, gaze darting to the voice.

Mrs. Robinson stood barefoot in the entryway of the den in only a robe.

“Shit,” he muttered, sittin’ up straighter. “Yeah. Uh... couldn’t sleep. Think I might just head out.” He paused, squintin’ at the two wine glasses, one in each hand as she closed the distance. “Yo, you out here double-fistin’? Got the liver of a queen, huh.”

She bent forward, settin’ one glass on the table, and the robe slipped off her shoulder. His eyes darted right to it before he could stop it.

One tit was out, round, bare, sittin' high.

Andrew blinked hard and turned his head, as if he just caught his boy’s mom changin’ through a cracked door. Which was basically what was happenin’.

He made it through seventeen years of behave-yourself-Harding and seein’ nothin’ but TV cleavage, then outta nowhere—BANG—a night full’a tits.