Scott Sherman - Third You Die

“On your feet, soldier,” he commanded. “We have to go to school.” He straightened up and grabbed my hands. “C’mon.”

I let him pull me up to sitting and blinked a few times. “All right,” I said, “you got me. I’m getting up.”

“Good boy,” Rafi said, in his manliest voice. “You don’t want to be wate for school, do you?”

“No,” I said, deciding there was no reason to point out he was the only one going to school. “Have you made breakfast yet?” I asked him skeptically.

“No, Kebbin. I can’t make breakfast. That’s your job!”

“Fine,” I said. “You get dressed and I’ll make breakfast for us. But first…” I let the tension build.

“What?” Rafi finally asked.

I flipped him off me and on to his back.

“It’s attack of the Tickle Monster!” I cried.

Rafi squirmed and laughed with delight as I alternated my attacks between his tummy, underarms, and legs.

“C’mon,” he ordered after a few minutes of this. “We have to get weady!”

“All right, boss. You need my help getting dressed?”

“Kebbin,” he said with exasperation. “I’m a big boy now. I know how to get dwessed.”

Not so big that you can pronounce it, though.

Which I thought was just about perfect.

Ms. Sally gave me a wry smile as she saw me approach with Rafi.

“Is that bed head I see?” she asked wryly.

“On me or him?”

“You,” she asserted. “He looks perfect.”

It was true. I’d paid a lot more attention to his grooming this morning than mine. The price of being a parental stand-in, I conceded. First I’d skipped the gym, then my shower. Apparently, good child rearing was an exercise in sacrifice.

Her knowing look implied I’d come to this messy end after a night of impassioned lovemaking with Rafi’s sexy dad. I would have hated to disappoint her with the dreary truth: Tony and I had a conversation followed by conflict followed by sleep. Then, I helped his son get to sleep and ready for school. Not quite the bawdy man-on-man action she’d been imagining.

Instead, I echoed her observation. “Yeah,” I said, “he does look perfect, doesn’t he?” I’d taken extra care getting Rafi ready today, dressing him in a nice outfit he’d left over on a Sunday when Tony’d taken him to church, and slicking his hair back with about fifty dollars’ worth of Clinique for Men styling products. He looked like a miniature businessman on his way to close an important deal. He was so cute you could die from him. A fate I wished upon his “faggot”-flinging mother.

“See?” Ms. Sally asked. “Didn’t I say you’d make a great second dad?”

“You did at that,” I commented. “And if the job opens up, I’ll be sure to apply.”

Ms. Sally regarded me curiously. “I thought you and Mr. Rinaldi were… you know.”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “ He’s complicated.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But he’s not stupid. Hang in there, sweetheart.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s all set,” my mother announced cheerily. “Tomorrow’s the big day! Isn’t this exciting?”

My mother had a habit of labeling as “exciting” events I found, alternately, embarrassing, horrifying, or deeply traumatic. This was looking to be one of those that managed to be all three at the same time.

We were in Andrew’s office again, this time at the oval conference table that fit six. And six we were: Andrew; my mother; myself; Roni, the segment producer; Steven Austen, who’d be handling the makeup; and our cameraman, Laurent. The job before us was to plan the covert taping of the interview Andrew had set up for us at Families by Design, the adoption agency that had placed Adam with the Merrs, the couple who’d caged and brutalized him for the two years he’d been in their custody.

“We’re going to expose these chozzers for what they are,” my mother practically spat. Well, when I say “almost” I mean “actually.” Spittle flew from her lips at the thought of the serial child abusers. The fine spray landed on the left hand of Roni, a somewhat quiet woman in her mid-thirties who commanded respect on the set without ever raising her voice. Roni discreetly wiped the anointed hand against the leg of her jeans.

“We’ve never done a location shoot like this,” Andrew observed. “But we’re lucky to have Laurent on our team. He’s got the skills to carry the ball on this one.”

Andrew had been a jock in high school and it showed.

“Thanks,” Laurent answered. Before joining Sophie’s Voice, he had worked on 60 Minutes for three years. He was well versed in covert video technology. He explained to the group-sorry, Andrew, team — where the cameras and microphones would be concealed on our persons. Laurent was a true geek-passionate about his equipment and oblivious to the mind-numbing boredom settling over the room. My mother suppressed yawns, Andrew started texting on his BlackBerry, Steven appeared to have fallen asleep, and even Roni, whose job was to understand all the details of any given shoot, doodled elaborate designs on her notebook while he droned on for over an hour.

The video would be streamed to monitors in a van that’d be parked on the street, as close to Families by Design as they could get. Andrew, Laurent, Roni, and Steven would be waiting for us in there, observing the proceedings in case something went wrong.

And when I say “in case” I mean “when.”

Steven was coming to apply any last touches to our makeup, a process we’d begun hours earlier in the studio.

“How close in age do you think you’ll be able to get them to look?” Andrew asked him. I don’t think Andrew had anything particularly against Steven, so why he put him in that position I’ll never know. My mother had me late in life and was a good forty years older than I was.

Steven’s eyes darted nervously around the room, like a man looking for the shooter with the worst aim on the executioner’s line.

As he’d just helped me the other day with my SwordFight makeup, I felt compelled to rush to his aid. “I was just talking to Steven about it this morning,” I answered brightly. “He says my mother and I will be totally believable as an unmarried couple looking to adopt.”

I left out the last part of his warning: “if they’re deaf, dumb, and blind. Or just very, very dumb.”

“Yes,” Andrew said, “but exactly how close can you… ow!”

I’d kicked him under the table. Hard.

“Andrew, darling”-my mother slipped into her maternal voice-“are you okay?”

Andrew shot me a dirty look. “I’m fine. Just a cramp.”

“Probably from sitting so long,” my mother concluded sagely. “I think we’ve covered everything we need to. Shall we break for now?”

Under the best circumstances, my mother had the attention span of a hyperactive three-year-old. I suspected she’d been looking for a way to wind up the meeting halfway into Laurent’s excruciating monologue.

“Good idea!” I sprang to my feet. “It’s a wrap!”

On set, that’d be Roni’s line, but I felt free to use it here. Steven’s grateful nod toward me affirmed I’d been right.

“Kevin, just a minute,” Andrew said as I made a beeline for the door. “Could I have a word?”

Andrew’s tone implied the word wasn’t thanks.

“Just one,” I said, trying to keep it light. “Choose carefully.”

“Is there some reason you kneecapped me just now?”

I explained I was protecting Steven from having to pretend that even with all the makeup in the world, he could get me and my mother looking within a decade of each other.

“Fine,” Andrew granted. “But next time you want to change the subject, can you do it without pulling a Tonya Harding on me?”