‘You can’t talk!’ Moxie whips to face him. ‘You never have to look after them. I’m only fifteen. I’m a kid too. And they’re exhausting and … and frustrating!’
The baby pops open a wide pink mouth – and howls.
Sam winces.
‘All right, let’s calm down,’ Mr De Lainey says.
No one listens.
Jack rolls his eyes at the dagger look Moxie gives him. ‘It’s not like you’re the only one working.’
‘Jack, maybe shut up?’ Jeremy says.
‘I never get to stop,’ Moxie shoots back. ‘Who got up for the baby last night? Me.’
‘I’m sorry—’ Mr De Lainey tries again, but Moxie is already half out of her chair, bunched fists on the table.
‘Who’s been up since five with Toby? Me.’
Sam slowly eats another piece of garlic bread, feeling guilty for even seeing this. But in that moment, his heart tugs for Moxie.
He gets it.
A life tangled with siblings who can’t look after themselves? Sam gets it.
‘Who gets called “mama” like eighteen times a day, which is like a stab in the guts every single time?’ Moxie’s face is red. ‘ME.’
The baby’s howl escalates so Toby joins in at a clashing pitch and Mr De Lainey scrabbles to try and soothe them both.
‘We all miss Mum,’ Jack says. ‘You’re not special.’
‘Shut up!’ Moxie shoves away from the table, nearly tipping the bench, and Sam grabs it as it wobbles wildly. ‘Shut the hell up, Jack!’
‘Moxie, language.’ Mr De Lainey is barely heard over the chaos.
Grady snaps his book shut, snatches car keys, and walks outside.
‘Grady,’ Mr De Lainey calls, sounding a little desperate. ‘Hey, just wait a—’
The front door bangs.
Mr De Lainey puts his head in his hands.
Moxie flips around in a whirl of purple and mint shirt and storms towards the stairs.
Jack snaps garlic bread in half. ‘Oh, so now she’s going to get out of the dishes? It’s like Moxie is the only one “suffering” around here.’
‘Just stop, son,’ Mr De Lainey says quietly.
Moxie gets to the bottom step, fingers clenching the rail, and then she twists back to Sam. ‘Come on.’ It’s a command.
Sam jumps out of his chair, stuffs a last piece of bread in his mouth, and ducks after her. They sweep upstairs and leave the clatter of crying below. Over the top, Jeremy’s saying, ‘Wow, way to go, Jack,’ while Jack snaps, ‘I miss Mum too, OK?’ and Dash yells for someone to shut up the kids. And then a wail cuts above them all from the three-year-old:
‘I want Mama!’
Moxie pulls Sam into her bedroom and slams the door.
For a second he just stands awkwardly on the duct tape divider that separates elven catastrophe from a sewing cyclone. One step and he’ll end up in a button jar or a box of tin foil play-coins.
Moxie flops on to her bed and buries her face in her knees. ‘You can officially take back your comment about my family being “awesome”.’ She lets out a bitter laugh.
Sam gingerly tiptoes across the room, hesitates, and then climbs on to the bed next to her. Half his nerves knot and shred, like she’ll scream at him how dare you come this close, you creeper and stalker and thief? But she doesn’t.
They sit shoulder to shoulder, listening to the dimmed chaos downstairs.
‘I’ve seen worse,’ Sam says.
Moxie tips her head sideways, cheek still resting on her knees. ‘Do tell.’
He bites his thumbnail and then forces himself to stop. Don’t tell. Don’t be miserable and needy or she won’t want you around. Don’t don’t don’t—
‘My dad used to beat the hell out of my brother and me.’ Sam’s biting his nail again, not realising. ‘But … we were little and my brother’s autistic so he just caught it more …’ His thumb’s bleeding.
She stares.
God. He should not have said anything.
‘It’s fine now.’ He tries to pin a smile on his face. ‘Long time ago.’
‘OK, wow. I am such a jerk.’
‘No …’ Sam’s heart thuds. ‘No, please. It’s – you’re allowed to hurt. It’s not a contest.’
Moxie sighs and digs fingers into her scalp. She swivels on to her stomach and reaches under the bed to drag out a small box. A packet of marshmallow chocolate biscuits is snatched and shared and they both chew in silence.
‘I really miss my mum,’ Moxie says. ‘I’m being a complete jerk to Dad, but … I’m tired and I hate trying to be her and—’ She bites savagely at a biscuit.
Sam looks out the window at the darkening sky. They’re quiet. Alone. Comfortable.
‘I should go.’ Sam doesn’t move. ‘Thanks. For … today.’
‘Are you sure talking to my dad would …’
‘End with me in prison.’
‘Because of the stealing?’
Sam’s heart speeds up. ‘Yeah,’ he says, the lie soft as butter on his tongue. He thinks of the school. The blood. Running away. ‘I’m sorry … I’m … I’m really, really sorry.’
Moxie stretches out her legs, and it’s probably definitely an accident, but she leans harder against him, her hair tickling his ear.
He’d give anything to stay like this.
‘Just sleep in the office again,’ she says finally.
‘But you nearly murdered me for—’
‘Throwing a bucket of glitter at you is not murder, you drama queen.’
‘You try getting it all off.’
‘You didn’t.’ She reaches out to brush behind his ear. She presents fingers of glitter in proof. ‘The difference is now I’m inviting you.’
‘But your family—’
‘I’ll figure it out tomorrow.’ She offers him the biscuit packet. ‘It’s just one night.’
Sammy is a breath and a whisper away from fourteen and he just wants time to stop.
Life has grown complicated, his wishes and wants screwed like broken marbles in his lap. He can’t do this. He doesn’t know how.