Page 51 of Forgotten Comeback
“Quite sure, Ms. Kowalski. Your son broke the jaw of another student.”
Glancing at my right knuckles, I lift the ice pack. They’re way bigger than they should be.
“What can I do to make this little problem go away?” She bats her eyelashes, and I cringe.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but your son has been expelled from our school. Whether charges will be filed depends upon the victim and his parents.”
My mother rises, slamming her hands on the headmaster’s desk and leaning over. “You don’t know who you’re messingwith.” She straightens, jerking her head toward the door. “Let’s go, Rocco.”
I grab my backpack, trailing along behind the angry click-clack of her sky-high heels.
She gets behind the wheel of her new luxury vehicle, and I climb in the passenger seat.
“Mama, I’m sorry?—”
Holding up a manicured finger, she silences me. “Your father will be livid when he learns you’ve been kicked out of school! I had to beg that man to get you into the best private school in the city, and this is how you repay me! Really, Rocco, how could you do this to me?” Mama shrieks.
Do this to her. Always about her.
She gives me the silent treatment for the ride home, and I spend the rest of the day hiding in my room.
Daring to come out around dinnertime, I peek around the corner, finding my brothers at the kitchen table doing their homework.
Mama’s in the kitchen. Not cooking, of course; it’s fend for yourself around here. Shooting me a death glare, she opens the fridge and grabs a package, peeling those weird, gold strip thingies and placing them under her eyes.
“Did you win the fight?” Dante asks me.
I smirk. “Broke his jaw, so I’d say so.”
“See, Mama, Papà will be proud that Rocco stood up for himself,” Dante tries to spin this for me.
“Yeah, Mama, why don’t we ask Papà if Rocco can get into boxing?” Luciano suggests, my eldest brother always with a plan. “It’d make him proud,” he continues, even though I’m not so sure anything I do could ever make that man proud.
The sound of a key jangling the front door lock has Mama ripping off the eye patches and tossing them in the trash. “That’s your papà. We’ll be out late. Get yourselves toschool tomorrow. Except you, Rocco.” She sighs heavily before scurrying to the door.
“Amore mio,” she coos.
All three of us roll our eyes.
Our mother is Polish, not Italian, and yet she bestowed upon all of her boys the most Italian-sounding names she could come up with.
“Boys, come say hello to your papà before we go.” She calls.
We dutifully move to the living room, and my older brothers give our papà a double cheek kiss, and then it’s my turn.
“What happened to your fist?” Papà’s cold eyes don’t miss a thing.
My chest puffs. “Broke a boy’s jaw who was disrespecting Mama.”
“And what did he break of yours?”
“Nothing. I laid out in three seconds flat.”
Papà slices his head, the closest thing to praise I’ve ever gotten from the man.
“Amore mio, I wanted to talk to you about that,” Mama pounces. “Rocco here would like to get into boxing.”
After a beat, Papà says, “The boy can train with Gus at the boxing club. Tell ‘em I sent you.”
