2. Kaden
Kaden
“Whatchu still doing here?” Mom stands with her hands on her hips, staring at me sitting on the couch. The rings on her fingers glinting in the light from the lamp next to her.
“What?”
“It’s Saturday night, K. Get!”
And that pretty much sums her up. No fuss, no beating around the bush. Take it or leave it.
I’m not saying she’s not a very loving mom—she is. She’s the best, honestly. I wouldn’t be where I am without her.
And I mean that literally.
My biological mom dropped me off at a fire station when I was a day or so old—claiming I wasn’t hers to avoid any legal trouble. And I got thrown into the system for a few years before I ended up at Alisha’s.
She used to be a social worker before she got sick of seeing all the abandoned kids day in and day out, so she quit, and she and her cousin moved to San Diego together, where my mom turned her house into a foster home. I was the third kid she took in. And the youngest.
“Get where?” I ask.
“What do you mean where? You don’t have plans with Seth?”
“No?”
“No? Every time I call you, you either at the studio or at Seth’s.”
“That’s not even remotely true,” I lie for some reason. Because yes, I do spend most of my time with Seth, but so what? That’s what best friends do, right? And especially since this COVID shit happened.
“So what’s Seth doing tonight?” she pushes.
“I don’t know?”
“That a question or a statement?”
I sigh, rolling my eyes.
“Now, either you find something to do, or start making yourself useful.”
“Jesus,” I mumble.
“Na-ah!”
“What, now you believe in God?” I raise my brows, shooting her a look.
“I ain’t risking it,” she states with a flick of her head.
I gape at her, scoff, and gesture at the TV. “I thought we were watching that clown murderer documentary?”
She clicks her tongue. “You want some toilet paper?”
“What?” I frown, not sure if I heard her right.
“For all that shit you’re spewing.” Fine. I don’t share her enthusiasm for true crime. And I don’t want to watch that fucking clown murderer, but I don’t want to spend the night home alone either.
I narrow my eyes, examining her. She’s got her braids up in a big bun, her blue jeans have been swapped for a yellow dress and—
“You’ve got lip-gloss on,” I state, leaning back on the couch, resting my ankle over the other knee.
“So?” she says, dropping her gaze and dusting off her clothes.
I suck on my teeth, staring at her. When she looks up, I tilt my head, raising my brows. “So, who is he?”
“I don’t know whatchu talking about,” she says, matter-of-factly.
I blow a bubble with my gum until it pops. “Uh-huh. Well, then you won’t mind me staying?”
She clicks her tongue, putting her hands on her hips. “Kaden Ezekiel—"
“Wow, full name. Really?”
“—Merrick. Can’t a woman have some privacy in her own home?”
I blink at her. Two times. Three.
She sighs. “Fine. It’s Homer.”
“Simpson?”
She shoots me a tired look. “Davis.”
“Our neighbor?” I raise my brows.
“Na-ah, you moved out. He’s not your neighbor anymore. Now, you best start moving that skinny ass outta here, or I’ll be late.”
Geez, even my mom is getting more action than me. Fucking COVID.
When I got home from Mom’s, I spent the night on my couch, scrolling TikTok before I checked my temperature, like I’ve done every night for the past eighteen months, and went to bed.
I hate TikTok. One minute, you’re watching a man mowing people’s lawns for free. Next thing you know, you're three hours deep into videos of a guy feeding his snakes.
I used to have a life before all of this.
I used to go to bars, festivals—Seth even convinced me to hit the clubs a few times after he turned twenty-one.
I trained in kickboxing.
I was in a band with my old friends from high school.
Now I’m like that sad washed-up fucker who sits at home, strumming the guitar in an empty apartment, wailing “Wonderwall.”
I don’t do that—I hate that song.
When they started talking about lockdown, me and some neighbors threw together some equipment and made a gym in our shared basement.
That was a life-saver. I think that’s basically the only thing that’s kept me sane this past year.
Whenever I feel like I’m losing my mind, I go down there and hit the punching bag for a round.
Even now, when everything’s open again, I still go down there instead of hitting a real gym. I’ve tried, but there were too many people not wearing face masks for me to feel comfortable.
Swear it, this pandemic has fucked me up real good.
During the curfew, I thought I was going insane. I felt like there were germs everywhere. I cleaned my apartment to the point where I could’ve licked the bathroom floor.
And that’s another thing that COVID took from me. I used to like the smell of disinfectant combined with ink and rubber gloves. It used to make me feel at home, like I was at the studio.
Now, every time I wipe down my station after a customer, all I think about is fucking deadly viruses and how many minutes I’ve washed my hands for, and if it’s really enough or if I should wash them again, just to be sure, before I drown them in hand sanitizer.
If it wasn’t for Seth, I probably wouldn’t have seen another soul for all those months. He even did some of my grocery shopping for me, claiming he was going there anyway—which is bullshit, he knew exactly how paranoid I was.
So, yeah, COVID fucked me up, and wasn’t for the basement gym and Seth, I’d have lost my mind.