“Dude! Seriously? What’s the number one rule? You wrap that shit up. Not unless you want hordes of little Deanies running around, asking for a cut of your paycheck until they’re eighteen.”
“I’m always careful.” At least, I try to be. Condoms have been known to bust on me. Big-dick problems. “But I met Marli that night. You know. Eleven months ago?”
Mike gives me a knowing look. “Oh. That night.”
Yes, the night my life seemed over. The great flop. Dean “the Mighty” Norland became Dean No-Land. Because I couldn’t land one touchdown, even when it was handed to me on a silver platter.
“So the screaming banshee in your room could actually be yours?” Mike asks.
I exhale with a groan and run both hands through my hair. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“Welp, not sure that changes much. You still gotta call, man. You can’t take care of it, and what sort of mom just leaves her kid with a stranger?”
I agree with everything Mike is saying, especially the part about leaving a baby with a person you don’t know. Who the hell does that?
A crazy person, that’s who.
Proof being how Marli says she did it so she could get back together with her cheating husband, who may or may not want her if he finds out she has a baby.
That’s one fucked-up situation.
What’s even more fucked up is dumping off your child with a twenty-two-year-old guy you don’t even know. It’s the kind of thing my own mom would’ve done, although most of the time she forgot we existed and left us alone for days.
Eventually, those days turned into a week. Then another. The school found out we weren’t being looked after, so we were put with Child Services until they got a hold of my uncle Norm. They placed us with him temporarily at first, but temporarily turned to permanent after my mother just plain disappeared.
Meanwhile, Norm had his own issues with life. Drugs. Alcohol. Whatever. We barely saw him since he was a musician and traveled to gigs ninety-nine percent of the time. Every few weeks he’d show up, pay rent or buy us groceries, and give us what little money he could spare. That was about it.
So Flip and I were left on our own. Me, ten years old, taking care of a six-year-old. Pretty messed up. When I became a teen, I got into trouble a lot—going to school drunk, high, or not at all. That’s when the principal caught me with weed and gave me a choice: get my shit together and join the football team or go to juvie. I couldn’t leave Flip alone, so I took the deal.
But while I got straight, Flip got worse. Wilder. Angrier. By the time I graduated high school, he’d been to juvie twice. Norm always got him out and tried to help Flip with “stern talks,” but the truth was, Flip needed a parent, and parents we were not.
Eventually, Norm gave up. We fought about it and stopped talking. Now I’m all Flip’s got.
“I can’t call the cops,” I say to Mike, with a dread-filled sigh. “Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if I do, that baby’s going into the system, and she might never get out.” And a half-bad mother is better than none at all or going into foster care. Marli is the lesser of evils.
Mike stares at me like he doesn’t get it. How could he? He grew up in a small town with a big family and food on the table. He went to church every Sunday and celebrated Christmas with presents under the tree.
“It’s just one week,” I add. “If Marli doesn’t return, I’ll make the call.”
“Dude, you’re insane. Who’s going to watch the baby while you’re at work? Or practice?”
I give it some thought. “Nina can help. And maybe I can find a daycare for a few hours.” I have a couple hundred bucks in my account. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll make it happen.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Well, can you make it stop crying?”
I freeze in place. “What if she needs her diaper changed?”
Mike gets up, leaves the room, and shuts his bedroom door.
“What a friend.” I slide my phone from my pocket and search the internet on how to change a baby.
I find a video and tap play. “Jesus! It’s like a crime scene. Made of poop!” I tilt my head to the side, wondering how the hell you get all those crevices clean. Wipe front to back. Okay, but…gross, man! Just gross.
I go into my bedroom and look down at the red-faced infant, who reminds me of a demon, flailing its fat little arms, hiccupping like mad, eyes clenched tight. I’m pretty sure she’s about to explode if I don’t do something.
I reach down and pat the bundle of rage on her fat little leg. “Hello, angry little person. I’m Dean, your d-d-nanny. I’m your nanny. Well, not really because I don’t know how to take care of you. But if you stop crying, I’ll stop freaking the fuck out.” My heart is racing a million miles a second. I don’t know the first thing about babies. What if I do something wrong and break it?