But where the fuck is he?
I lower my arm. “We’ll find him.” I’m an iron fortress, and my nine-year-old son will not see my uncertainty. “Let’s check your room.” I go to the doorway.
“I already did.” Beckett and Ben have similar hair, wavy with a few curlier strands, and people believe they look more alike than Beckett does to his own twin.
It’s not their hair that unites them. Beckett is the only brother searching for the bird because Pip-Squeak grew fond of him. Unless he’s defending Charlie, he’s the most even-tempered and the calmest of all my children. He can move his arms like billowing silk. He dances so gracefully that at nine he’s begun classes for twelve-year-olds.
Your hands are too tight. Softer, Rose, the ballet instructor would chastise me as a little girl. I was stiff. Unbending.
Beckett is the surface of a rippling lake. Water. Just like his father.
“We’ll look in your room again.” I have a hunch that the bird flew over there. Either that or Pip-Squeak is very much dead.
Beckett trails after me, “He’ll cry. Tom stepped on a caterpillar yesterday, and Ben wept by the oak tree.” My heartstrings tug.
“I’m finding this bird if it’s the last thing I do,” I say with so much conviction.
Beckett nods, his doubt receding. We both slip into his bedroom. Gray and white bedding, dark wooden furniture. Much, much neater than every room down this hallway (except mine). Though the way he positioned his books at a slight tilt on the fourth and fifth shelf looks off.
I cluck my tongue, my eyes flaming. “Pip-Squeak, reveal your feathery ass or we’ll serve you to Lady Macbeth.”
Beckett whistles and peeks beneath his bed. “I taught you happy birthday to sing to Ben, not to hide. Where’d you go?”
I keep my finger raised in case Pip-Squeak decides to join the party, and I fix some of Beckett’s books, pushing them upright. Also I put two of his pencils into a holder.
Beckett whistles again as he stands. The sound dies midway and he shouts, “Mom!”
I freeze in the middle of the room. Beckett rarely raises his voice. He rushes to his bookshelf and meticulously angles the novels I pushed up. Then he scans the room, sees the pencils out of place, and sets two side-by-side in the center of the desk.
My blazing eyes simmer a little.
He can’t look at me as he says, “Why do you need to touch my things every time you enter my room?” Beckett clutches the frame of his desk chair.
For years we’ve known that he has OCD. He knows that he has it. Charlie knows.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. I’m sorry you have to experience this. I’m sorry my OCD tries to trump yours. “I won’t touch.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“I’m trying, Beckett.” My chest is tight. Sometimes it’s harder with so many children. Jane’s room is always messy. I might as well be living with Daisy again. I just have to shut her door and block out the disaster.
I like things arranged a certain way. Orderly and in their proper places. When I was younger, I had nightly bathroom rituals that would take two-hours to complete. I manage to not obsess about the way I brush my teeth and how many times I wash my hands.
Now I just worry that his OCD will become a much greater enemy like mine did. First slow, then fast, and before he knows it, he’ll waste hours obsessing.
“Beckett, if we need to schedule another therapy—”
“I’m fine.” Beckett faces me. “It’s only my room.” He’s frightened we’ll forbid him from dancing.
So I have to say, “Need I remind you, I was in ballet classes all throughout prep school? It breeds perfectionism like this pretty little monster.”
Ballet is about perfect technique, perfect form, perfect timing. He can be OCD and be a ballet dancer. Connor even believes it’ll make him a better one, but if his health plummets, my claws will come out.
I’ll try to annihilate everything that hurts him.
Even ballet.
Beckett stands stick-straight. “I know, but I promise, it’s not any worse than it was.” His honesty rings truthful.
“My gremlin,” I say in a quieter tone. I reach out for his hand.
He takes hold, his eyes sad. “Will this be easier one day?”
I squeeze. “Yes.”
He squeezes back, and like fate has spoken, Pip-Squeak lands on Beckett’s shoulder. I’m about to chew out the bird, but then he begins singing happy birthday. To the wrong boy.
Beckett and I share a smile.
And he squeezes my hand again.
{ 55 }
July 2027
Disneyland
California
LILY HALE
Before we split into three groups (at least one parent in each), we gave all of our children a stern talking to about our Disneyland adventure.
Rose: “Remember the buddy-system. Do not wander off alone.” We all looked right at Charlie.
Daisy: “Have fun!”
Me: “Do not eat a hamburger before riding Gadget’s Go Coaster. Lo will second this.” I learned that the hard way.
Lo: “She puked on her feet when she was ten.” All the kids laughed. “No talking to strangers.”
Ryke: “And if you need anything, tell whichever fucking parent is with you.”
Connor: “Use your brains. You all have them.”
I’m not so worried about their safety. We have an incredible team of bodyguards with us, some of which are very familiar with Disneyland, so we opted for this park instead of Disney World. We’ve even been taking secret tunnels to avoid tons of attention, but it doesn’t eliminate it all. I just hope our kids can experience the magic of the park the way that Lo and I did when we were younger.
But it’s definitely different growing up famous.
“Oh my God, there’s Xander Hale!” someone screams.
“Lily Calloway!”
“XANDER!”
Splash Mountain in front of us, my four-year-old boy hugs my leg in a death-grip. Hiding. It’s loud. Not just with people calling our names but with the general park chatter and excited squeals as the log ride descends the watery mountain. We’re not in line for Splash Mountain, but we’re waiting for the big kids with Ryke and Lo to ride down.
My bodyguard stands very close, blocking people from approaching.
“XANDER!!!”
I lift Xander in my arms. At four, he’s starting to be really heavy for me. Then he buries his face in my shoulder, and I think, I can carry him for light years! My arms are steel. I am titanium.
I hold him tighter. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” We never put Xander on the docu-series. It’d just terrify him more. We also hoped he’d be in the media less, but Celebrity Crush has started running articles about Xander’s physical appearance.
[PHOTOS] Xander Hale
: Most Photogenic Baby!
Xander Hale: Future Model
10 Reasons Why Xander Hale is Cutest Baby on Earth!!
Luna spotted that Celebrity Crush headline in a grocery checkout and said it was inaccurate. Xander is from planet Thebula 2.
I’m biased, but I can see why they’d peg him as photogenic. His intense, bold amber eyes contain more emotion than most. If we were all on Animal Planet, he’d be the cuddly cub that mesmerizes the viewer by sheer expressiveness.
He’s captivating when he doesn’t mean to be, and I try my best to make him comfortable so he won’t miss out on the magic. He was supposed to be in the second group of kids with Eliot, Luna, Tom, and Ben, but he wouldn’t release his death-grip on me.
I selfishly love having someone hug me this tight. I hug right back and try to ignore the ache in my arms. Steel arms, stay with me.
Xander is slipping.
SOS!!
I adjust him and pant a little. His gray tank, a Star Wars logo across, bunches up towards his belly button. I somehow maneuver him to my left side and then tug down the hem to his jean shorts.
I could pat myself on the back if my arms weren’t so busy.
When Xander peeks from my shoulder, I take full advantage of the opportunity. I ask him over the surrounding noises, “Are you hungry?” He was painfully shy this morning at breakfast. He hardly ate his strawberry waffle, and as a former shy child, I can relate to letting my food go to waste but still wanting to eat.
Xander nods.
“Me too.” I set him down, my wimpy arm muscles throbbing and shrieking in thanks. I crouch next to Xander and dig in Ryke’s backpack. I stuffed all my snacks in the front pocket. Gold Fish, a few smashed Ding Dongs—ah-ha! I snatch the plastic baggie of cheese puffs.
He takes a handful, then I do, and we both eat cheese puffs together. We’re on the lookout for Moffy on the log ride, and Xander pays more attention to Splash Mountain and his snack than the cacophony around him.
I can only smile. Parenting success.
“Did you see me?!” Moffy jubilantly rushes up to us, combing a hand through his dark brown hair. He just turned twelve last week. I hone in on his orange The Fourth Degree shirt, slightly wet. Oh shit. I missed him descending Splash Mountain.