Rose Quacker
came home, Mom remembered she still had to wash the dishes. In the kitchen, Mom ran the water and scrubbed at cereal bowls while Cal dried them. The beat up CD player on the counter next to him played Mom’s favorite, “Come and Get Your Love.” But now, in front of the dirty sink upstairs—his cheeks covered in sour cream—his chest felt too tight. That was stupid. That was a stupid thought. That was stupid. The next trick was honey. He ripped open packets and massaged pure stickiness into his pores. In that moment, Cal couldn’t believe that he had resorted to honey on his cheeks. Nothing was happening to his freckles—he should just scrape this stuff off and get back to his math homework. Maybe Cal would text Dad before he headed home to see if he could pick up burgers from that place on Polk Street. Maybe Mom would call again. Maybe this time Cal would answer. Mom was the one who named him Calix. It was an old Greek name that she had read in a book somewhere. She told him that his name was special and ancient and that it meant “handsome.” The jibes at school started with Caltits or Caldick, years ago, when he was just old enough for his survival instincts to kick in, so he settled on Cal. During third period today, Jackson was just trying to be
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