Page 21 of Call You Mine
“It was like she was either super, super happy with me or really, really mad,” Georgie continues. “And when I noticed she wasn’t going to work, I asked her why, and she would yell at me to mind my own business. So, I just stopped asking.” She shakes her head, as if she could shake the memories I’m forcing her to relive. “I kind of just stopped asking for anything.”
At Georgie’s age, I knew something was off when my mom drank—the house felt tilted, like the rules had quietly changed, like she was there but not present. Just like Georgie, I couldn’t really put what was happening into words that made sense to anyone who hasn’t lived through it themselves.
And just like her, I learned to stay small and wait for things to settle back into place.
Wait for it to pass.
I begin to feel myself unravel, the control I need slipping through my fingers like sand, as I open and close my fists.
One. Two. Three.
I had been sending my mom money for the last year to help her and Georgie, and I thought things were okay—I thought everything was going well.
Four. Five. Six.
Turns out, Mom was too drunk to go to work and probably got fired.
What was she going to do if Georgie never called me?
What was Georgie going to do?
No.
I can’t go down that road—can’t get lost in those thoughts. I don’t think I’ll find my way out.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
It’s a struggle to hold myself together, and I hope Georgie can’t see how I’m fighting a losing battle.
I see myself in her as she brings down a mask—or tries to—one that reminds me of when she was four and she came downstairs wearing all my clothes that were way too big for her. “I heard you talking to Ms. Mullins when you picked me up from school last year. Because Mom was—” she trails off, leaving the word unsaid.
Drunk.
Our mom was drunk—too drunk to remember she had to pick her daughter up from school.
Georgie walks over to the living room, having a seat on the couch, and I try to remember that first conversation with Georgie’s teacher, but the only thing I remember is how worried I was about my mom and the feeling of my nails meeting my palms, counting to seventeen over and over again, barely registering what Callie was saying to me as she looked over my shoulder at Georgie waiting for me in the car.
“What did you hear?” I ask, wracking my brain for what possibly could have made Georgie afraid to call me about our mom drinking again and wishing I didn’t have a brain that actively works against me—causing me to forget key information that could’ve prevented all of this.
Following her to the couch, I sit next to her.
“She told you that if there was something going on at home—with Mom—that she’d have to report it. Since she’s amendableteleporter,” Georgie explains.
“A what?”
“Amendableteleporter.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I ask, “And what is a ‘mendable teleporter’?”
Georgie sighs, as if just talking to me is exhausting her. “I looked it up with my friend, Benji, on our Chromebooks last year during free time.”
I wait for her to say more, but when she doesn’t, I ask, “And, what did you and Benji find?”
She lets out another sigh—this one way more dramatic. “Well,” she says, dragging the word out forever, “the internet said ‘mendable’ means something you can fix, and a ‘teleporter’ is someone who moves stuff from one place to another.” She does little air quotes around each word like I’m supposed to already know this, and I’m inconveniencing her by having her explain it to me. “Soobviouslya mendable teleporter is someone who fixes a problem by moving it somewhere else.” She shakes her head. “Shouldn’t you already know this?”
Part of me is impressed by her ability to utilize context clues—the other part of me is reminded that this girl is still just a kid at the age where you feel so grown-up yet have so much more growing up to do.
“And you’re saying Ms. Mullins is one of these ‘teleporters?” I copy her air quotes, asking carefully.
