The Routine

Mother’s thick voice echoed down the narrow hallway of our two bedroom apartment. I could hear her wrestle with the twin mattress, the plastic crinkle of sheets. She balled the bedding into a cracked plastic hamper and lugged the burden down the hall. The back door thwacked the house and I cringed. Mother left the soiled hamper on the back porch and I hid my mortification that a passing stranger might see it.

Curled around my cereal bowl, I pushed spoonful after spoonful into my mouth. Moving on the balls of my tennis shoes, I tip-toed passed our broken TV through the front door and down the two good stairs to the street. The sun was just coming up and I was the only kid on the street. I walked purposefully, head down, checking over my shoulder every few minutes. No sign of the bus.

Several weeks ago, I’d stepped up onto the bus like any other day, passed a few kids, most tired, many jazzed up on sugary cereal. Halfway down the aisle, a big girl stood up. I didn’t recognize her and tried to squeeze around her.

“Where you think you’re going?” she said. I didn’t like the way she eyed, face scrunched up tight. She frowned and then her largemouth exploded.

“What’s wrong with your face, kid?”

“What do you mean?”

“I said, what’s wrong with your face? Did your parents chain you to the back of their car and drag you down the street?”

I froze, too horrified to wipe away the spittle that now flecked my cheeks. Everyone was staring and I felt the tears well up before I could stammer a response. The bully took a step closer to me and I fell backwards. She laughed, and her shoulders quaked as she turned and forced her way back into her seat.

I scrambled backwards on hands and pulled my way up into an empty seat.

I don’t remember the rest of the ride to school. Too scared to move, too scared to face the jeers and taunts at school, I refused to get off of the bus.

Eventually, the principal called my mother at work and she came to get me. I avoided her gaze but didn’t need to see her to feel the dangerous levels of energy she was giving off. Her hands remained firmly in fists as she led me to her hobbled car. Expecting a slap, I scrunched my face up, but mother merely started the car and drove us home.

The bed wetting started that night. Mother never said a word to me about the incident. We developed a routine. She washed my sheets each day, and I scoured the parts of me that the soap couldn’t touch.