Baby Jay

“I dunno. I’ll go find someplace better once Mom and Dad are okay, again.” It has to be soon, right? His parents need him, would crumble without him.
“Probably more realistic to do drugs,” Michael says.
A knife twists in Jay’s gut. “Yeah. I guess.”
Mom and Dad’s screaming match escalates higher and higher until it sounds like one of them trips—probably Dad, by the weight of the footfalls—and collides with something. A shatter, a grunt. Mom’s scream bleeds into a curse and a fresh tirade. Dad is so fucking clumsy, so fucking stupid, so fucking useless.
Dad screams back, incoherent.
Mom breaks away with a drawn out “fuck you” before charging upstairs. Jay prays she turns into her bedroom, but she knocks on his door.
“I’m coming in,” she says.
Jay braces himself. The knob twists and the door rattles, opening an inch before his weight forces it shut.
“What the fuck?”
“You have to calm down,” Jay says.
“He’s been talking to you, hasn’t he? He says things about me. Every moment I’m not here, he’s feeding you lies.” Over the past year, Jay has learned how quickly rage bleeds into derangement.
“Mom, please go to your room and take a few breaths. I’ll come in and sit with you when you’ve calmed down, but I can’t do this right now.”
There comes a pause. This trick always works on her: his voice calm and reasoned, a promise that he’ll be with her, supporting her. It’s all she really wants.
Except, there’s apparently a ban on normality today. Mom slams the door and draws what sounds like a painful breath through clenched teeth. “They’re trying to get me fired.”
Jay jolts upright, removing his weight from the door. “They’re doing what? Who?”
Mom must notice the shift in weight. She shoves the door open, slamming it against him. He trips away from the door, giving her a clear path inside.
“The fucking math teacher caught me smoking. Thought it was a joint, but I’m telling you it was just a…” She sniffs. “What’s that smell? Oh God, what the hell is that?”
She grimaces at the sight of Michael.
“A science project,” Jay says. “Sorry. It was worse before, believe me.” Jay pulls the sheet off his bed and tosses it over Michael’s bin. “And Mom, they’re not gonna fire you for smoking. You have tenure.”
“They’ll try,” Mom says. “They have an eyewitness.” Mom reaches for the sheet. “What the hell is in there? It stinks like cleaning fluids, but the thing—it looks like dirt? What are you trying to do?”
“It’s… from Twin Lakes. We’re trying to see how effectively different chemical solutions can purify pollution. It’s boring.”
Mom arches and eyebrow. She wears vibrant, red lipstick and styles her hair like Hillary Clinton. “Then why can’t I see it?”
She sees through him. The realization settles in his belly like a stone in a bed of mud. “I guess you can look at it…”