Unfair-Chapter 123: (Patreon)

Chapter 123: Joys and Torments

The peace I’d earned from Janet’s Mom lasted only as long as it took for the four of us to get back to the car.

“You’re not going to make him wear this stuff all the way back, are you?” Her mom said.

“Of course not,” Janet replied, sounding slightly offended. She popped the trunk.

“How long has he been wearing it?” her mom pressed, “Your house is quite a drive. He looks hot.”  

Her Dad got in on the action. “Hey Pookie,” he said, “I’m having trouble getting our suitcases and Clark’s buggy thing into your trunk.”

Janet bit her lip and looked at her mother and father, unsure of which fire to put out. Her Mom added more pressure when she stretched her arms out.  “Hand him over, sweetie. Go help your father.”

It was subtle but I felt Janet tense up. In the space of just a few minutes her mother had acted and sounded very much like a typical Amazon; closer to Raine Forrest than Melony Beouf. She was still ‘Mom’.

Fuck it.

“Are you going to tickle me, again?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly in almost the same way Janet did when she thought she was letting me down easy.  “Not right now, baby. Nana just wants to clean you up so you’re comfortable on the car ride home.” A smile creeped out of her. Oh yeah. ‘Nana’ was her auditory addiction. “We’ll play later. Promise.”

I gave Janet’s neck a quick hug.  “Okay Nana. I trust you.”  

My Mommy immediately untensed.  She just didn’t want a fight.  I leaned out of one Amazon’s arms and into anothers. “Diaper bag?” she asked Janet.

“He should still be dry,” Janet said, still handing it over. “Or only a little wet.”

“I believe you dear,” her mother reported, “But I still need the wipes and a place to stuff everything after I got it off him.”

“Oh,” Janet chuckled. “Oh yeah.”

Mrs. Foster clicked her tongue, and chuckled to herself.   The back door opened and I was back to staring up at the car ceiling with. “Your Mommy,” she said, “So neurotic! Always worried about doing things just so. Ever since she was your size.”

I held my tongue and tried to find something to distract myself with while the slippers and pants were taken off. She took my socks and the bits of straw grass around my ankles for good measure. “Uh-oh! Look at these widdle piggies! Look at ‘em! Coochie coochie coo!”  

Her fingers tickled at my toes and my muscles spasmed fighting laughter. “Nana!” I said, trying to do my best not to squeal, “You said you wouldn’t tickle.”

“Sorry, baby,” she grinned like a cat eyeing a canary. “Nana couldn’t help herself.”  Witch couldn’t control her impulses for fifteen minutes, but I was the baby?  This was going to be a long couple of days. “Does that feel better? Less hot?”

“Getting there, ma’am.”  

Naturally, she stuck two fingers past my onesie and the leakguards of my diaper.  “You don’t need a change,” she sounded slightly disappointed and I stared into the middle distance to prevent my eyes from rolling. This was Day One all over again.

“My Mommy already told you,” I lifted my head and reminded her. No point in invoking my own reason or authority to someone who wouldn’t listen.

“Just checking,” the older woman chirped.  “Mommies are always right, but babies are full of surprises, aren’t they?”

Was that a wink? I couldn’t tell because by the time I processed it the makeshift wig was being tugged off my head and shoved into the bag.  

“Awwwwww!” Janet’s mother gushed.  “Cuuuuuuute!”  I had a very bad feeling I’d be hearing that noise a lot.  She leaned back and stood up.  “Janet! Clark is such a cutie carrot top! Why’d you put that wig on him?”   

The garage was quiet enough that I could just make out Janet’s reply as more than garbled tones. “I’ve sent you pictures, Mom.”

“Not in a while,” her mother nagged. “I thought you did the wig cuz you went and dyed his hair black to match yours or something. Why’d you do the wig?”

“It was my idea,” I said even though I thought I knew better. “I wanted to keep the homemade artificial aesthetic going and-”

Mrs. Foster bent over and leaned back in. “What was that, baby? Nana couldn’t hear you.”

“Nevermind,” I sighed.

“Ohhhhhh,” she giggled. “Somebody is all tuckered out from puttin’ on a show for his Nana and Pop Pop and is gettin’ grumpy, isn’t he?”  I declined to comment and quit while I was behind.  She dug out the baby wipes.  “You can nap all the way home if you want to. Just hold still and let Nana get all that gunk off your face.”

A torrent of baby wipes dragged their way over my forehead, nose, cheeks and chin, scrubbing off the dried makeup. I grinned and bared every comment and condescension.

“Where’s my grandbaby? Oh there he is! He’s coming out!”

“Why did your Mommy even paint these cute little cheeks? You didn’t need it! Nope nope nope!”

“Buh-bye big boy beard! Buh bye!”  That one hit particularly hard.

“Hm? What’s wrong?” she asked. “Was I bein’ too rough?”

On face? No. She was surprisingly gentle. It’s strange what words can do to open up wounds thought scabbed over. I was going to be stuck in a car for the next two hours with this lady who made Janet cringe yet she deeply wanted to impress. I couldn’t afford to make things worse.  “No, Nana.”

She leaned in deeper so that she was practically on top of me.  “Just seeing if I missed any big spots,” she told me.  Then paused, staring at me for I don’t know what reason.

A kathunking sound signaled that the luggage problems had been worked out. The passenger side back door clicked open.  “Okay, Helen, I think we’ve about got it sorted out,” Janet’s father said. “Let me just check. On my periphery I saw movement and heard something being set down.  “Alright! Good thinking Pookie!”

Janet opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.  “Mom, since your bag is smaller and Clark’s feet don’t reach the floor, we’re just going to put it there for the drive.”

Mrs. Foster didn’t look up; just kept staring at me.  “Janet,” she said. “Clark has very pretty eyes. Did you know that?”

“I did!” Janet agreed. “It’s one of my favorite things about him.”

My temples buzzed and my face flushed. Where was this going?  “You didn’t get them altered at one of those Little salons, did you?” her mother asked. A hint of disgust was present in her tone.

“Nope,” Janet said. “That’s all him.” She buckled her seatbelt, but waited to turn the engine on.

“Good,” her mother said, still looking my way. “Don’t change them.”  This was definitely Janet’s mother. She scooped her hands up under my armpits, lifted me off one seat and sat me down in the car seat.  

“Those places are total rip offs if you ask me anyway,” Janet’s father volunteered. “Especially for the boys.” He slid into the front seat with Janet. “Boys don’t gotta worry about stuff like split ends or having their hair done up all pretty in pigtails. Ain’t that right Clarky boy?”

I was unable to respond because the other new Amazon had squeezed herself into my line of sight and was picking and pawing at me.

“Hold still, baby,” Janet’s mom said, taking the last bits of straw grass from my neck and wrists. “Almost got you.”  A swift yank saw the removal of the pacifier clip posing at a tie.  She held it between her thumb and middle finger and looked at it with a special kind of revulsion. It went on the floor, and she finished buckling me in.

“If ol’ Clarky boy here needs a cut,” her dad continued, “ just sit ‘em down, break out a pair of buzz clippers and start fresh. That or a bowl.”  

A rock of disgust fell from my throat all the way down to my tailbone. Me? Bowl cut? No thank you. I had enough grief in my life.

“He does need a haircut,” Janet admitted. “Combing his hair is just so hard.” She quickly tacked on, “And not because he’s fussy or cranky first thing in the morning.”

With me secured, my so-called Nana took interest in the conversation. “That’s not the point, Bill. Those places are basically drive through plastic surgery centers. If someone Adopts and then changes literally everything about their Little, then they never really wanted that Little to begin with.”

Perhaps I’d misjudged this woman. Beneath the beige mittens my hands were sweating up a storm. Janet’s mom forgot to remove them. Luckily they were just regular mittens. I peeled them off.

“No-no-no-no!” Amazon hands lurched forward and tugged them back down over my wrists. “We keep our mittens on, do you understand?”  

Nope. I’d very much caught the measure of her right on the first go through.

Janet looked back over her chair. “They’re just mittens, Mother.  Part of the costume.”

“What? Really?” Color rose up in Helen Foster’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Janet. I thought those were no-no mittens,” she explained. “I know how a lot of Littles go through a phase where they like to touch themselves down there.”

“Clark doesn’t do that, Mom,” Janet said, “He’s very good about that.” I thought I’d become immune to Amazons talking about my bodily functions as if I had neither control nor care. Whether or not I spontaneously masturbated in public was unexplored territory.  “We have a system at home for helping him if he feels the need to express certain urges.”

The majority of my clothing had been stripped off, but I was starting to feel hot in the worst possible way.  If Janet brought up the green goop, I would die right then and there. I held my breath hoping that no one would ask for specifics.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Janet’s mother replied. “I didn’t mean to question your parenting.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” my Mommy said evenly, “Apologize to Clark. I think you hurt his feelings.”

“Don’t be silly,” her mother almost laughed. “It was just a misunderstanding.” She stared back at me.  “Nana didn’t hurt your feelings, did she baby?”

Now or never. “You kind of did, actually.”  I looked away, afraid of the wrath that might rain down.

“Oh…” came a soft reply. My hands were taken up in hers. “I’m sorry, baby. Nana didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Do you forgive me?”

I looked past her and looked to Janet, sympathetic but afraid of what I might say.  It’s amazing what power our loved ones have over us. How we desperately want to impress them even when they’re in direct opposition to us.  Somehow I had as much if not more power than I’d ever had with her.

“Clark?” Janet repeated.  “Do you forgive Nana? She said she was sorry. Do you forgive?”

I weighed my options.  Long term strategy, dignity, and petty base instinct all battled for supremacy.  I settled on, “Maybe…”

Her mom’s face went blank. Her lips puckered like she’d just sucked on a sour lemon and worked side to side like there was something stuck in her teeth that she just couldn’t get out with her tongue.  “Janet? Are you sure Clark’s Adopted? I thought you could only get sass like that if you inherited it.”

She laughed through her nose and ended things with a “Mwah” on my forehead. “Kids.”  She pivoted back into the backseat and buckled up.

The fear of reprisals dissipated all around. Her father offered up a friendly nudge and said “She’s got you there, Pookie.” He thumbed back towards me. “You were a sassy little thing when you were tiny enough to fit in one of those.”
“I’m two years older than her,” I grumbled to myself.  The comment went ignored.

Janet bit her lip and started backing out.  “Driving, Dad. Thankyoooou.”

Peace and quiet ruled the car all the way home until about five minutes after Janet successfully pulled out of the airport and onto the main highway.  

“Hey, Clark.” Janet’s dad turned around in the passenger seat. “Wanna see a trick?  He stuck out his index finger and stretched his arm out. “Pull my finger.”

“Daddy!” Janet whined. “No! Don’t!”

“Oh, Bill!” her Mom huffed. “No…”

“Hey, you two get to do Nana and Mommy stuff. This is Grade A Pop Pop material right here!” He brushed them off and reasserted his gaze. “Go on, son. Pull my finger!”

If I could have retracted my hands inside of myself, I would have. “No, thank you.  I’d rather not.”

His face became a harlequin mask of disappointment. “You sure? You don’t wanna pull Pop Pop’s finger?”  He switched to the kind of smile normally reserved for clowns and strangers with unmarked vans. “Something reeeeeally funny will happen!”

“Daddy…”

“Bill…”

He winked at me. “It’ll make your Nana and Mommy really upset and you won’t get in trouble. Right Nana? Right Mommy?”  Neither one answered.  

Now this was tempting.  Did I really want to turn the entire car into a gas chamber, though? There were times when my own brand still bothered me.  An old man’s crop dusting would be so much worse.  “No thank you,” I replied.  For bonus points I also said, “I’m making a good choice today.”

“Thank you Clark,” Janet’s eyes smiled in the mirror, grateful.

“Good boy,” Mrs. Foster said, showing tremendous restraint by not patting me on the head.

“Awwwww, you’re no fun,” Mr. Foster sulked.  “Fine. You win, Clarky boy.” He retracted his single digit and offered up his fist. “Put it there.”

I leaned as far forward as the harness would let me to give him a fist bump…

“Clark! No!”

Too late…

Our fists tapped, and the loudest smelliest wettest sounding fart I’ve yet heard sounded off like a cannon. It was less than half a second til I was awash in a stench so bad that even Billy would retch. It was like being dunked in Beouf’s diaper pail at the end of a day where the entire class had the runs.

“Oops! Pushed my button!”

I grabbed a discarded mitten and shoved it up to my nose and mouth, praying it would act as a sort of filter. “Ugh!” I groaned, “Son of a…got me.”

The windows rolled down immediately.  Immediately was not nearly fast enough. The stuff was rancid enough to give birth to new microscopic civilizations and then kill them.

Janet’s dad faced forward and tossed his arms up in celebration.  “HA-HA! POP POP WINS AGAIN!”

“Darn it, Bill!”

“Daddy! Gross!”

Several other, less polite sounding things were said that were difficult to interpret over the roaring wind of the highway and Bill’s maniacal laughter.

“Really,” Janet’s mother huffed as soon as the windows were rolled back up and the stench was (mostly) gone. “I swear, Bill. Sometimes I think you should be in diapers, too.”

“As long as I don’t have to change ‘em.” her husband chortled. “As long as I don’t have to change ‘em.”

Things died down for a few minutes, Janet driving, her father infinitely pleased with himself, her mother probably fantasizing about bouncing me on her lap, and me kicking myself for falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book.

Janet’s mom was the one who next broke the silence. “Tell me again how you Adopted Clark.”

That same sneaky smile mounted herself on Janet’s face. LIke a pouty teenager, Janet whined. “Mom, I already told you.” This was all for my benefit. Despite all the fighting and fussing that had gone on, the events leading up to and immediately preceding my capture took on a strangely nostalgic charm for my caregiver captor.  

“Tell me again,” her mother said. “It’s Unification weekend! We’ve got our feasting friend right here! You should tell the story of how our family grew!”

Janet checked my expression in the rearview mirror. I pretended to not be looking, unconcerned. Bored.  That was good enough for her.  “Clark and I used to be co-workers and…”

I tuned out this story, in no mood to relive the trauma through rose colored glasses…
************************************************************************************************
“So Clark, are you and Cassie still having sex?” Bert Braun asked out of the blue one summer visit; I honestly can’t remember which.  My nephew, Olliver, had either just been born or was about to be, so it wasn’t that long before my life was derailed in the big scheme of things.

We were outside, grilling on the Misty Brook blacktop. Bert had managed to saw and weld down a grill so that we could reach it.  We were doing the traditionally prescribed manly pastime of looking at meat and nodding appreciatively.  

Cassie was inside. Using the bathroom? Talking with Michelle? My Brother-In-Law was working, I remember that much.  His call center job didn’t give him summers off.

I swallowed my beer wrong, spit the rest out onto the parking lot and bent over into a coughing fit. In all the years I’d been with Cassie, her family had never broached the subject of children    “Bert!” Ida scolded him. “Stop it!”

“I’m just asking,” Bert said “when are they gonna get us some grandkids? Mishelle and Bruce are doing it.  You two got married before them. What’s the hold up?”

My mother-in-law slapped him on the shoulder.  It didn’t hurt but he still flinched.“That’s none of our business!”

“Whaaaaaat?” Bert almost laughed, “I’m allowed to be curious about being a Grandpa.”  It wasn’t a visit to the Brauns unless Bert was antagonizing me about something. Thank goodness the flavor had gotten more and more jovial over the years.  I don’t think I would have lasted with year one Bert.

“Bert…” Ida warned.   I was still catching my breath. I’d lost count of how many times Cassie and I had banged under their very roof.  I thought we were stealthy. I didn’t think we were that stealthy

“If it helps they can use Cassie’s old room like when they were in college.”

Okay. So not that stealthy.

“Stop it.”

“I’m just asking the boy, Ida. Having kids is something they should be doing at their age.”

From a purely strategic social survival point of view, my father-in-law was correct. Besides generally being something people did, walking around pregnant or holding an actual baby was a kind of psychological Amazon repellent.  Dollars to donuts, changing diapers was a reason why Ida had made it to her fifties without wearing them. Even for a Little she was petite. Her carrying around Cassie and Michelle, being as motherly as possible likely kept her safer than most.

Cassie and I talked a couple times a year about when would be the right time for us, and the answer was always the same: Ready. Set. Not yet.  Every time we talked about it, the discussion inevitably came around to wondering what would happen if one of us-probably me- got snatched.

What was she supposed to say to our hypothetical child if one day they went to Oakshire Elementary and saw me sitting in one of those rickety high chairs being force fed by Beouf or her Yamatoan assistant?  I never had an answer to that because I knew deep down it’d never happen.

Cue Fight. Cue Crying. Cue make-up sex.

“I’m um…we’re…doing it…just something…isn’t taking…I guess.”

“Is it you?” Bert smirked. “Got trouble getting the soldiers out?”  He flipped the burgers casually.  “Because I bet it’s not Cassie.”

“You really want me to go into the details of how I rail your daughter?” I asked.  Brazen needed responding to with brazen.

Bert grunted and thought better of it. “Fair.”

“We’re gonna have kids,” I said.  “We want to.  Eventually.  Just the time isn’t right.  Babies are expensive. You know that.”

“Aw, come on, Clark.” Bert’s meaty paw rested on my shoulder.  “I know you’ve got it pretty good working with Amazons, but you can’t let the humongous sons of bitches control every aspect of your life.”  Damn. Maybe his near Tweener size gave Bert some kind of psychic ability.  “Just take off the rubber, tell her to get off the pill, and put one in her.”

“You sound almost like an Amazon…” I warned. “All that baby talk.”

Bert took his hand off my shoulder. “Amazons don’t obsess over babies, son. You know better.”  I’d gone too far.  He favored me with a forgiving smirk.  “That’s not why I want you and Cassie to have kids, though.”

“Why?”

“I want both of my daughters to experience what parenthood is like. If it were easier to adopt, I’d say do that if you wanted to.”

The taste of beer on my tongue was bitter but I swallowed the swig. “I think I got an idea of what it’s like to be a parent. Being a teacher and all.”

To my surprise, both Brauns chuckled.  “Nah,” my father-in-law replied. “You’ve got an idea of what it’s like to be a Grandpa. You see the kids. You play with them. You send them home.”  He waggled his spatula. “To be fair, you do teach them, and you probably change a dirty diaper or two, but that’s being a Grandparent too.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously.  “What’s the difference?”

“When you’re a parent,” Bert explained, “you get to experience all the joys and torments that you put your parents through.  Especially the torments.” He smiled wickedly. “And we get to watch.”  

I did a look back to the trailer to make sure no one was coming out. “And you’d wish that on your own daughters?”

“Darn tootin’!” Bert laughed. “They did it to us first!”

“Children are a blessing,” Ida told me.  “Grandchildren are revenge.”
************************************************************************************************
“So his name is Clark…Grange?” Janet’s Mom said.  “Not Clark Foster?”

I snapped out of my stroll sans stroller down memory lane when Mrs. Foster interrupted.

“Correct,” Janet said.  “It was my last name when I Adopted him, so I wanted it to be his last name, too.”

“So what happens if you change your name back to Foster?” her dad asked. “Would he still be ‘Clark Grange’?”

“Unless I changed his name too, I think so,” Janet answered. “But I’m not planning on doing that.”

I couldn’t see the consternation in her dad’s eyes, but I could hear it. “Why not, Pookie?”

“Pookie?” I whispered.  So weird hearing Janet be infantilized.

“It’s not like Edward had anything to do with Adopting him,” her mom added.  “He’s not Clark’s Daddy.”

“And the paperwork reflects that,” Janet said. “I just didn’t want to change my name.”

Her dad kept at it.  “Why not, though?”  

“Mom, would you change your name if Dad died before you?” Janet asked.

“Of course not.”

“Well…Edward’s dead to me.”

“But I would still love your father,” her mom said. “Do you still love Edward?”

Her father answered for her. “After that two-timin’ son of a bitch-”

“Bill. Language. The baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” His voice softened. “After what he did to you? He doesn’t deserve you having his last name. Or our grandson.”

“I’m not doing it for him, Dad,” Janet said. “I’m doing it for me.  Married or not, I like being ‘Janet Grange’. It’s not about who I’m married to, it’s about who I am.”

I looked over and saw her mother’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “I don’t know about that…”

We were going ten under the speed limit and in the far right lane.  Janet’s eyes were focused forward but her attention was anywhere but.  “Am I any less your daughter just because my last name is still Grange?”

“No.”

“Is Clark any less your grandson?”

“Of course not, Pookie. We love both of ya.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Janet said firmly. “Names aren’t about connection and family trees. They’re about identity.”  I didn’t feel it right away, but those words lodged themselves deeply into my brain.

“So what happens if you marry somebody else, Pookie?”  An innocent question.

“That’s a bridge we’ll cross if and when we come to it.” Janet said.

“Does that mean you’re not seeing anyone, dear?”

“We are not having this conversation right now, mother.”

Holy shit, these two were just as bad in some ways as mine or Cassie’s parents. Prying. Snooping. Judging. Asking uncomfortable questions. Saddling her with their own expectations and life goals.  It wasn’t even mean spirited in nature. It was just annoying and condescending. Care that was disrespectful because she was presumed to need such care. And her boundaries came second because they felt they knew better than her. Because they’d raised her they still felt they knew more than her; knew her better than she knew herself.

It was almost as if they still saw Janet as a child. They’d changed her diapers, burped her, stayed up late nights with her, walked her to school, and took care of her when she was sick. Those days were long past, but that’s how they still saw her.  Even though she was a grown woman with her own life, job, house, and supposedly baby, they still felt both a responsibility to her life and a sense of entitlement that gave them a say in how it was run.  

They’d known her as a child and on some level she’d always be a child to them, in need of nagging and managing, her protests just suggestions because they always knew best. The block tower of her personal growth and life was still right side up, but her parents couldn’t help but still look at it from the bottom of the stack first.

And Janet, flustered, annoyed, and still afraid on some level could only bristle, protest, and whine.  Her putting her foot down was about as effective as me getting red faced and stomping my feet.

It was almost like she had Maturosis.

A terrible smile broke out over my face like hives. A rare opportunity for mischief had presented itself.  None of my long term goals would be served, but they wouldn’t be hindered either, and no one would be hurt.  That and it would be fun.  Time to give my Mommy a taste of her own medicine.

“Okay,” I broke in,  “I gotta know. Why ‘Pookie’?”

Both of her parents immediately brightened. “Oh gosh, I love that story!”

Janet’s head stiffened and her eyes glared at me. I had found a button. A big shiny red button begging to be repressed.

“Well let’s see,” her mother tapped her chin in thought.  “Janet was something of a late talker.”

“Had the cutest little speech impediment,” her father said. “It was almost like a foreign language. If you didn’t train your ear and know what she was already talking about, it’d sound like complete baby babble.”  

“Mom…Dad…”  Janet was clutching the steering wheel. “We don’t have to talk about-”

“Mommy!” I gasped. “Don’t interrupt Nana and Pop Pop!  You’re being rude!”  I saw her lips retreat inward and her nostrils flare.  Oh this was so going to be worth it!  “Please, Nana and Pop Pop; tell me what Mommy was like when she was little…like me.”

Her mother’s hand reached sideways and roughed my hair. It had to happen sooner or later. “Awww, such a good Little boy!”

“So anyway,” her Dad continued, “One time we took her out to a fancy restaurant. We were meeting up with some of my old fraternity brothers. Kind of a reunion thing.”

“And Janet is the only child at the table, the waitress sees Janet and is trying to talk to her,” her Mom tagged in.

Janet stared in the middle distance. “I hate this story…”

“Yeah, that’s right,” her dad kept talking. “And she goes, ‘What’s your name, little girl?’”

“And our Janet, sweet little thing gets all glossy eyed, kind of like she is now actually,” her mother said, “and blinks a few time, and out of nowhere she says…” the couple looked at each other and in unison shouted.”

“I’M POOOOOOKIE!”

They laughed.  Janet turned the deepest shade of red. I didn’t get it.

“Pookie?”

“‘Pookie’ is how your Mommy said ‘Poopie’ way back when,” her mother said. “She wasn’t saying her name.”

“Our baby girl had just dropped a load in her pants and was telling a stranger about it.”

“And I had left her diapers at home on accident.”

“So she had to sit in her messy Monkeez all through dinner.  And the waitress kept calling her ‘Pookie’ all night!  And we didn’t want to embarrass her, so we kept pretending that was her name.”

“So it stuck.”

Oh this was too good. “Awwwwww!” I cooed. “Cute Mommy!  How old was she? One? Two?”

“Clark…”

“Five!” her mother howled.

“Mommy!” I covered my mouth just enough to suppress my own peels of raucous laughter. “You weren’t potty trained when you were five?”

“We almost didn’t get her into Kindergarten!” her father roared.  “Good thing you had that birthday that missed the cutoff. Gave you the extra year to mature!”

Speech impediments and toileting delays? “Mommy!” I squealed, “You could have been in my class!”

Naturally, I was thinking of myself as a teacher.  Her folks took it another way.  “Come to think of it, that’s right,” Janet’s mother said. “We threatened that if you didn’t stop going ‘pookie’ in your pants, you’d have to go back to daycare with all the Littles.”

The stretch of highway we were on was open and flat. I truly believe in that moment, if we had been on a bridge or an elevated platform, Janet would have steered us off.

“It worked, too!” Her dad agreed. “Cleared it right up. ‘Cept for the bed wetting, but that stopped around second grade.”

“Dad! Please…!”

Her mother balled up her fists and scrunched up her face in a pantomime of a child’s tantrum. “She was like. Nooooo! I don’ wanna be a Widdle! I wanna be a Mommy and take cawe of the Widdles!”

“Mother!”

“She wanted to take care of the Littles?” I half-shouted. “Really?”

“Oh yeah, she went through a looooooooong Littles phase,” her mother remembered. “From about age seven to right about when she started getting her period, she was obsessed with Littles.  Which I want to say was about fourteen. Bit of a late bloomer.”

I rubbed my hands together like a cartoon villain. “Oh really?”

“You don’t know the half of it, Clarky boy.  She had all these Little dolls, the kind that ate and peed and pooped like the real thing.”

“Mhmmm…”

“Mom? Dad? Can we not?”

“Oh it was cute, Janet,” her mother shrugged. “She used to draw all of these pictures of herself, holding a baby.  Do you remember the pictures, Janet?”

A low growl from Janet. “I do.”

“She was such a talented artist for her age.  And everytime someone asked, she’d make it very clear that she was holding a Little, not a baby.”

Her dad nodded.  “She always said, I want a Little. I want a baby that doesn’t have to grow up.”

“I’m honestly surprised it took her this long to Adopt,” her mother mused. “I thought she would have Adopted a Little right out of highschool.”

“I thought she’d have three or four by now.”

Janet had gone from bright pink to ghostly pale. She was sniffling, trying not to cry and hiding it.  Her parents too lost in their own bullshit to notice. She was looking at me.  What was that? Humiliation? Fear?

This was supposed to be embarrassing, not traumatizing. Not that traumatizing.  Why was she looking at me?  So she was a late potty trainer? That doesn’t affect who you are. So she was a typical baby crazy Amazon when she was a kid?  That was the environment she grew up in. She was completely professional up until she wasn’t.   Why did it look like it was hurting her for me to know this?  She was an Amazon.  I already knew she was a hypocrite.

I was hurting her!  Things were going too far.

“I guess she was looking for the right one,” her mother concluded. A dull pain on the left side of my face registered with the pinching of cheeks.

“And she found him,” her dad agreed.

“Hey, Mommy,” I said, pitching my voice up slightly higher. “I wasn’t paying attention to your story.  Did you tell Nana and Pop Pop about Raine and her giving me those chocolates.”

Janet shook herself out of whatever personal torment she’d plunged into.  “Hmm? No. I hadn’t got that far yet.”

“What’s this about?” her father asked.

“An ex-coworker that I had to put the fear into.” Janet said. Her grip on the steering wheel loosened.  “She was trying to force feed him laxatives behind your back.”

Enthralled and outraged, her mother leaned forward. “Excuse me?  She fed him laxatives? Behind your back?  That could make him sick!”

“Don’t worry,” Janet said. “She’s not a problem anymore.”

The car started going the speed limit.

“Atta girl, Pookie.” Her dad patted her on the shoulder.  She blushed again, but it was a good blush.

“Did you tell them about Lion?” I asked.

“Lion?” her dad smiled. “Now we’re talking! Who’s Lion?”

“His favorite stuffie,” Janet said, her surety increasing.

“Why didn’t you bring it?”

I spoke up before Janet had a need to play defense.  “Did you tell them about the time you saved me from that mean lady who wanted to take me?”

Her mother gasped. “Really?!”

“The one who spanked me and wanted to make me her daughter’s brother?”

“What?!”  her father roared. “Who the heck is this? Nobody hits my grandson and gets away with it!”

“Oh,” I beamed. “then I need to tell you about Mrs. Ambr-”

“It was before I Adopted him,” Janet cut me off and explained.

“I don’t care!” her old man punched his fist into his open palm. “Give me names. I want names!”

“Oh Bill, hush.”

I tried to say “Her name is-!”

“Clark,” Janet interrupted. “Shush. It’s Mommy’s turn to talk.”  

I laid back. “Yes, Mommy.”

“I first met Clark when he was still a teacher. Preschoolers, a lot with developmental disabilities.  I knew who he was, had seen him around campus, but we hadn’t really talked besides saying hello…”

Janet went to tell the whole story of us all the way back home. It wasn’t the same as my story. She got some of the events out of order, or had to double back.  A lot of the crying and the shouting matches were omitted. A lot of my motives were gravely misattributed and I wasn’t nearly as cute and childish as she made me seem.  The things that made me cringe or made her look good were embellished.  The things that made her look bad were glossed over or omitted entirely.  

Her parents hung on every word, enraptured by the telling of it all.  Her, the hard working teacher jumping in headfirst to parenthood. Me, the fun loving but mischievous Little who she found and took into her home after being a proper Grown-Up got to be too much for him, fighting all the way despite everything.

Brollish was of course still the villain. As were Ambrose and Raine.  Painting the frog was a hit. Mark was reduced to just a bad date. Picture Day got laughs, but only from her father.  Mercifully, she left out both my house burning down and the green goop.

It wasn’t entirely accurate. Much artistic license was used.  But it was a good story.  Truly the stuff of Unification. Real crappy made for T.V. movie junk.  And it all ended with a car ride home from the airport.

“Why didn’t you tell us any of this in your emails?” Her mother asked just as we were pulling into the neighborhood.  

Janet shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted you to think I was a good Mommy.”

Her mother unbuckled her seat belt and leaned forward just so she could give Janet a hug. “Oh, honey. If there was one thing in the entire world I think you were born to be, it was this.”

“Yeah,” her father agreed. “Getting in trouble is just what kids do.”  He mean mugged right at me. “Little hell raisers.”

“If anybody was going to be able to handle a child that never gets past their terrible twos, it’s you.”

Janet put the car in park and wiped away a single tear. “I don’t think he’s so terrible.”

[End Part 10]