The Kiss Principle (Hazardverse: Sidetracks)

2

When Mom started screaming the next morning, I turned on the shower.

Three more hours, I thought. Less if I’m lucky.

The sound of the spray swallowed her voice. Almost. I leaned against the vanity, my back tight and aching, and waited for the water to warm. That was an old trick, the shower. Or the vacuum cleaner. Or turning on a fan and telling Augustus if we put our faces right next to the grille, we could talk like Darth Vader. And the nice part was, it worked for all sorts of things. When Mom was fighting with the nineteen-year-old child she was fucking. Or when Mom was doing one of her productions— No one will ever love me always got rave reviews. Or when she came home with her head screwed on backward, and the bozo she brought with her kept looking at Augustus like the Big Bad Wolf. Slide the dresser in front of the bedroom door and turn on the fan, easy peasy. I checked the water; hot enough to sting. I got under the spray and let it needle my aching back.

Three more hours and I’d be on a plane. And because, as Augustus liked to put it, I was seriously messed up and because there was, in Augustus’s words, something wrong with your head, my first vacation in—God, how many years? Three? Four?—wasn’t to an all-inclusive resort in Mexico where I could pound drinks, blaze up, and, if I were lucky, have a string of meaningless fucks to refill the well. (We were beyond a dry spell. This was the fucking Dust Bowl.) No, instead, I was going to visit my fuckhole of a baby brother. And his partner, the dinosaur. In Missouri. The fact that I was so excited told me how fucked-up my life had gotten.

Mom’s voice rose, the words shrill and indistinct over the hiss of the water.

Of course, I had to survive the next few hours first.

As my back loosened up under the heat, I got to work cleaning myself, and from time to time I took a swig from the energy drink on top of the toilet. That’s called multitasking, bitches. On a bad day—and I’m only talking every once in a while—you can swap it out for a beer. Makes it easier to slide into a Monday. There’d been a time when Augustus was always posting “life hacks” on TikTok. Stupid stuff like tape a dryer sheet over your AC unit to make it smell better and take a picture of business cards in case you lose them and use a hanging shoe rack to organize cleaning supplies . Give me a break; when was the last time Augustus organized jack shit, let alone cleaned something? Energy drink on top of the toilet, that’s a good idea. And here’s a tip: all soap is soap, so you can use your body wash for your face and hair and butt and stuff. Oh, and—in a pinch—to jerk off. Follow me for more life hacks.

By the time I got out of the shower, the screaming had stopped. Everything’s fine, I told myself. She got it out of her system. I dried myself off. She probably sent him to play outside, and she’s cooling off, and everything’s going to be okay. I ran a comb through my hair. Or she’s on the floor, I thought, sobbing. Or she’s gotten into Mommy’s special candy again. I checked the mirror and told myself—for the millionth time—I was going to get back to the gym. For my back. I turned sideways, though, and thought, Jesus Christ. As soon as I’m back.

She only has safety razors, I thought as I let myself out into the hall. Maybe she’s hyping herself up. Maybe she’s getting ready for a matinee performance of My life is over and nothing matters . I listened, but I still didn’t hear anything. And another part of me said, She knows how much this means to me. She has to know. She wouldn’t fuck it up now.

Towel wrapped around my waist, I rapped on Chuy’s door. He didn’t respond, so I shouted, “Get your ass out of bed.”

I dressed in my room. Jeans that were too tight. T-shirt that had shrunk in the wash. My luggage was already packed. As I pulled on socks and sneakers, I shouted, “Chuy, get up or we’re going to be late!”

Still nothing. I hammered on his door again.

A cat yowled, and for a moment, I thought someone was screaming. The sound startled me. My heart pounded, and pins and needles ran down my body. As though on cue, my back tightened, and pain sparked. The damn cat was still going, the noise high-pitched and unrelenting. I made my way down the hall and knocked on Mom’s door.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Mom said breathily.

“Hurry up, or we’re going to be late.”

Mom said something too low for me to hear, and the boy toy laughed, and then Mom moaned.

We had an electric oven, otherwise I’d have opened up the gas and stuck my head inside. Maybe I could drink bleach, I thought. What was the right way to go out after hearing some Gen Z micropenis finger your mom?

You are so strange , said the voice that sounded like Augustus. You are seriously so messed up .

Don’t I know it, I thought as I made my way across the living room. That horrible yowling scream was getting louder and louder, and I was starting to think it was inside the house. Another of Chuy’s fuckups. Some stray he’d picked up while he was high, and I’d be the one who had to take it to the animal shelter. Or he’d left the back door open—that had happened more times than I could count—and a tom had wandered in. I had a vision of dragging Chuy out of bed, making him catch the damn thing and put it outside. But forcing Chuy to do anything always ended up taking more energy than doing it yourself, which was why—

I stopped in the opening to the kitchen.

On the table, in a car seat, a baby was screaming its head off.