A Million Second Chances

1. Two Years Ago

one

Two Years Ago

Boston

Ican’t remember the last time I slept a whole night without interruption. It’s always the yelling that wakes me.

I have no clue why they have to fight in the middle of the night instead of during the day like normal people.

By “they,” I mean my mom and her boyfriend du jour, whose name I can’t even remember.

It might be Jimmy, or Billy, or who the fuck knows.

My mom goes through them like others go through underwear.

“Boss?” I hear my little sister’s voice.

“What’s up, Cassie?” I whisper.

“Can I sleep in bed with you?”

“Of course.”

I wait for her to climb down from her bunk, then lift my blanket so she can crawl underneath it.

“You’re the best big brother,” she mumbles.

“Can I come, too?” Bronx squeaks from the bottom bunk.

“Sure. The more the merrier.”

I scoot to the very edge of my bed, knowing full well my brother and sister are going to take up the rest of it in no time at all.

“I don’t like it when they scream,” Cassie says, her voice is small.

My mom’s latest hookup is a real piece of work.

It’s only been six weeks and already he’s made himself at home.

Our apartment’s too small as it is—two bedrooms for four people—but that guy has no problem spending all day and night planted on the pull-out couch, TV blaring.

He eats whatever he can get his hands on, then randomly yells at us.

“I know, Cassie. Here, cover your ears with the pillow and see if you can go back to sleep, okay?”

I adjust one of my pillows around her small head. She smiles gratefully, her tired eyes falling shut.

At only six years old, Cassie has never known a true father figure.

She and my little brother Bronx, who’s only five, were born into chaos.

They don’t share the same father. None of us do, actually.

I got a few years with mine. Cassie and Bronx, though?

They never even met the guys who so generously donated their DNA before disappearing.

Hopefully my mom’s relationship with the guy who’s calling her a whore right now is close to expiring, too.

“How about you, Bronx?” I ask. “You okay?”

He nods sleepily.

“Good. Get some sleep, bud.” I stroke his hair out of his forehead and pull the blanket over him and Cassie. Then I shove my earbuds in and play some early 2000s rock on my phone, drowning out my mom’s argument with shithead.

It wasn’t always like this.

I grew up in the kind of neighborhood where the kids play street hockey and ride their bikes after school.

You know, single family homes, white picket fences, mowed lawns, all that.

My parents were never wealthy, but we were—as my dad would say—comfortable.

My mom stayed home, while he was some fancy-pants businessman.

He liked what he did and traveled a ton—until one day in February seven years ago when he left on a business trip and never came home.

All I’ve ever been told is that the roads were icy that day, that the driver of a fully loaded semitruck underestimated how long it would take to stop and careened into a long line of cars at a dead stop.

My dad’s car folded like an accordion. He didn’t stand a chance.

It was so bad that all I got to see of him was a blown-up headshot at the funeral.

I didn’t know it then, but death has a way of splitting your life into before and after.

I’m awake again what feels like only minutes later, and I roll out of bed groggily. I purposely get up before everyone else to enjoy at least twenty minutes to myself.

I grab my clothes and tiptoe into the bathroom. No shitface in the living room. Hopefully that means he bailed after the late-night screaming match with my mom.

He’s one of the more unpleasant dudes my mom’s fucked around with.

His face and neck are covered in tattoos that look like they were done by a cellmate with a dirty needle and homemade ink.

He’s a few inches shorter than me, but the tattoos, the permanent scowl carved into his sunken face, and the obvious track marks don’t exactly give me the warm-and-fuzzies.

I stand under the shower for the entire twenty minutes I allotted to myself, relishing the quiet. I brush my teeth, wash my hair, then use the last five minutes to take care of… other things. Privacy is hard to come by.

Once I’m dressed, I wander back into the dark bedroom.

“Cassiopeia, New York City Borough, wake up, guys.”

Cassie and Bronx slowly blink their eyes open.

“Morning guys. Time for school. What do you want for breakfast? Pancakes?”

“Waffles,” Bronx croaks.

I smile and help him clamber out of bed. “You got it. Get dressed and bring me your toothbrushes.”

In the kitchen, I pop a couple of frozen waffles in the toaster. I don’t have time or the ingredients to make anything from scratch, but I do cut up a banana, spoon a dollop of peanut butter onto each plate, and try to make each serving look semi-appetizing.

I inspect the dingy dining table. It looks clean enough—no mysterious substances I wouldn’t want anyone to ingest or even touch.

It’s not uncommon for me to have to disinfect the table in the mornings, especially if my mom had some “friends” over the night before.

I decide to wipe the table down anyway. Better safe than sorry.

“I don’t want to go to school,” Cassie whines when she joins me in the kitchen. Bronx toddles behind her.

“Why not?”

She hands me their toothbrushes. “It’s boring.”

“Aw, but your friends will be there.” I kneel in front of Bronx, who opens his mouth like a baby bird. “And you get to do crafts. Playground time.”

Cassie rolls her eyes. “Ugh, but Dillon always wants me to share my snack with him.”

“Oh no.” I laugh and motion for Bronx to climb into his seat. “Want me to come kick Dillon’s butt so he leaves you alone?”

She gasps. “You can’t come to my class and kick Dillon’s butt. You’ll get in trouble, and then you have to go to the office!”

I smile at her. “I think I’d have bigger problems than getting called into the office if I beat up a first grader, but I’d do it for you.”

I was eleven when Cassie came into this world, and twelve when Bronx showed up less than a year later, but my age didn’t prevent my mom from relying on me to help raise them.

I can’t even count the diaper changes, the bottle feedings, the sleepless nights I’ve shouldered since their arrival.

The responsibility has only increased as I’ve gotten older.

“Is today a Miss Janine day?” Bronx asks as I help him and Cassie into their winter boots and jackets.

I nod.

Cassie sighs. “Aww, but I don’t like her mac and cheese,” she complains about our elderly neighbor who sweetly offered to babysit when I started working part-time after school. “And Tuesday is always mac-and-cheese night.”

I chuckle and usher them out the door with promises of shakes and burgers once I get paid on Friday. It’s the only real treat I can afford.

Outside, the cold bites my ears. I pull my hood up, grumbling.

God, I hate Minnesota winters.