Page 60 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Do you like hugs, Madison?” my mom asks. “Oliver gives the best hugs.”

“Yes.” Madison’s voice is thick with tears.

“Oliver, give Madison another kitten.”

“Check.”

“Then hug her until she feels better.”

“On it.”

“Call me later, Madison,” my mom says. “I’m going to need to know how you’re doing. If you don’t, I’ll have to ground Oliver.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Madison says.

“Love you, honey,” my mom says.

“Love you too, Mom.” I end the call then look at Madison. “Did I make it worse?”

“I . . . don’t think so? I don’t do this much, so I don’t know what I need.” She sounds frustrated and tired.

“You don’t fight with your parents much?”

“I fight with them all the time.” She looks down at the kittens. “I haven’t mad cried since I was seventeen.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “My mom would probably call and lecture them for you if you want.”

She sniffle laughs. “You’re supposed to give me all the kittens. That’s what your mom said.”

“All? I heard ‘another.’ Here’s chonky tabby.” I start to scoop him up, but Madison shakes her head.

“All,” she repeats. “Give me or I’m telling.”

“Fine.” I hand over the other two. “Feel better?”

She stands up suddenly, and before I can get up too, she’s right in front of me. “You can do the hugging part. Except I still need the kittens, so I guess you’re getting all of us.”

Zero objections to that. I reach up as she turns her back to me, taking her hips to guide her to a soft landing in my lap. When she’s settled in, she leans her head against my chest.

“Is it okay if I cry some more?” Her request is quiet enough to break my heart.

I wrap my arms around hers, to help her hold the kittens. To help her fall apart. “Of course.”

At first, I don’t think she takes me up on it, but when I brush her hair back after a while to see her face, her cheeks are wet with slow-rolling tears. I use the sleeve of my sweatshirt to dry them for her, then wrap my arms around her again so she can cry some more.

Eventually, she murmurs something I don’t hear.

“What was that?” I ask.

“I want you to know that my dad got everything wrong.”

“I know.”

She rustles against me, resettling. “But you don’t. He and I work with mostly the same set of facts, but he makes them sound ugly. He makes it sound like I’m the reason they’re ugly. I hate it. And now you have enough information to assume the worst.”

“I haven’t. I won’t.”

“Anybody would.”

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