Chapter 32: Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys

February

"Sorry about last night," I say to her while we're sitting in home ec that afternoon. We're supposed to be learning about the care and feeding of infants. But we both have other things on our minds.

"It's okay."

"Was your mom pissed?"

"A little. I think it's all good now," she says.

"Alright."

"Kind of embarrassing, though," she says. "Jesse finding me in his bed like that. I hope he doesn't think, you know, I'm like a slut or anything."

Just then, Pickle speaks sharply at us. "Chaplin, Thomas. Your turn for baby duty. Be sure and pick up your infants after school by 3:30." 

I exchange glances with Peyton. "Jesse isn't like that. He doesn't judge."

She sighs.

"Seriously. Seen his share of troubles. He understands. He's been like a father to me."

"Like a father? But you have a dad."

"Yeah, I do. Now. But I didn't always. And Jess, he manned up."

"Because of the drinking?"

"Yeah. Because of that. And, also...because my dad left for a time." The memory of it makes me a little nauseous.

"You never told me that."

"It's not easy to talk about," I say. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about Jess. He's a good guy."

            *****

After football class is over, we trudge back to Pickle's room.

"My stomach is all clenched up," Peyton grumbles. "I've been dreading the terror that is this robot baby ever since the first day of class."

"Aw, it'll be fun, Mamma."

"Oh my God, please don't call me Mamma. It's super creepy."

I laugh. I know exactly how to push her buttons.

"We were going to go see a movie. I guess that's a no-go now." She sighs.

"Nah, we can take them. My little Junior, he'd probably enjoy a night out."

We've been planning this trip to Huntsville to see the latest Star Wars movie for weeks.

"How do you know it's a he?" She asks. 

"Cuz." I shrug. "I'm so manly, I only produce boys."

"What the hell does that even mean?" She laughs. "Haven't you covered reproduction in biology yet?  It's a coin toss. Besides, this is a robot. Not the actual fruit of your loins."

I smile and shake my head.

We walk into Pickle's room to retrieve our progeny. Our school can only afford two babies. With twenty-four in the class, it takes almost the entire unit for each student to get a turn.

"Chaplin. Thomas. Glad you made it."

She turns and opens a drawer, pulling out one baby dressed in blue and another in pink.

Peyton raises her eyebrows at me. "Fruit of your loins," she mutters under her breath.

"Okay," Pickle says, sniffing. "This is Almost Alive Infant 3000, the world's most sophisticated neonate simulator. It uses wireless programming to track and report on caregiver behaviors, including mishandling actions, time spent in car seat, and diaper or clothing changes. They each come with three outfits, two color-coded diapers, a bottle, car-seat, diaper bag, and blankie. Whatever you do with or to these little guys gets reported right back to my data set. Your grade rests on your ability to respond to your baby's needs in an appropriate and timely fashion. Now, I've never had my own baby, except Lil' Dill. But I've been told these simulators are about as close to the real thing that you can get. Any questions?"

"Yeah," I say. "Who's Lil' Dill?"

"Oh, I thought I mentioned him. He's my baby—" She takes out her phone and shows us a picture of a tiny camel-color pug with bulging black eyes and a worried expression on his wrinkled little face. "He's my pride and joy, Lil' Dill. Isn't he cute?" she asks, sniffing.

*****

As we're walking to my truck, it occurs to me that we probably look like a couple of pack mules with diaper bags, car seat carriers, and our own school bags strapped to us.

I thread the seat belt through the base of the car seat and snap it securely into the fastener. I take Peyton's carrier from and strap it on the other side of the bench seat. After I'm done wrestling with the various components, I'm slightly out of breath.

"Okay, done. You hungry?" I ask.

"Starving."

While we're driving to Dairy Queen, I keep looking in the rearview mirror, checking up on them like they're real infants.

"We sure do make cute babies."

"Stop it!" She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. Messing with her is one of my new favorite pastimes. 

"We're so blessed that God gave us twins," I joke. Then I remember.

Twins. A boy. And a girl.

She's not smiling anymore. Something in the expression on her face makes me turn serious.

I'm such an idiot sometimes.

I try to redirect the convo. "So, which one do you want?"

"I'll take the boy, I guess. Girls are too much drama."

"Okay. What are you going to name your bundle of joy?"

"Hadn't given it much thought," she says. "You?"

"Little Peyton, after the least dramatic girl I know."

"That's me," she says, raising her eyebrows.

"You could name the boy Jack...if you wanted."

"No, I think I know what his name is," she says.

"Well, cough it up."

"Okay...Patrick. After Patrick Mahomes."

"Lil' Pat?" I ask.

"No, but Patrick Mahomes Thomas is quite a mouthful. I'll call him Homes."

"Don't you mean Patrick Mahomes Chaplin?"

"No. I mean Thomas. Listen, dude. I'm a single mom. You're on your own with Lil' Peyton."

As we're pulling into the parking lot, Patrick Mahomes starts screaming like someone severed his right arm. She stares back at him, paralyzed by fear. I ease the truck to a stop, and we both get out. She starts heading toward the Dairy Queen, Patrick Mahomes still crying in the back seat.

"Aren't you going to even try to comfort little Homes, there?"

"How?"

"Well, pick him up, for starters."

She stomps back to the truck, wrenches open the back door, unstraps him from his seat, and grabs him by the arm. He dangles at her side, screaming louder.

"Jesus. Not like that. Here, give him to me."

She tosses him to me like a football. I just shake my head.

She really does suck at this.

I hold Patrick Mahomes against my chest so that his tiny little head rests on my shoulder. I bounce softly up and down, shushing in the baby's ear.

"It's okay, little Homie. It's okay."

The thing stops crying instantly.

She rolls her eyes. "Can we go eat now?"

"We can't just leave them in a cold truck, Thomas. Why don't you grab Lil' Peyton's car seat and we'll take them in with us?"

"No way! Screw that. What if people see us? I mean it's bad enough that we're dating. Now we have kids? Let's just get drive thru."

I narrow my eyes at her and silently strap Homes into his seat again.

I walk around to the driver's side door and slam it shut as I'm getting in.

It's bad enough that we're dating? WTF?

"What?" she asks, clueless.

"Nothing."

"Oh my God, Jack. What's wrong?"

I shake my head. Don't want to talk about it.

"I'm sorry I suck at this, okay? Remember? When I babysat an infant who projectile vomited on me almost the whole time? Scarred me for life. It was very traumatic!"

The corner of my mouth twitches up—damn, it's hard to stay mad at her. "It's not that. I mean, yeah, you look like you're trying to put socks on a rooster with that baby, but I don't care about that. It was the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"The 'bad enough we're dating' thing.'"

"Oh."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"I just meant, you know, people judging us. Not thinking we're supposed to be together."

"What? Why would they think that?"

"I don't know. I mean look at you. You're like this hot football player. Frickin homecoming king. A senior. Guys like you don't date weirdos like me."

"Peyton. You're not weird."

"I am. I mean, I'm different. I'm not your typical teenage girl, that's for sure."

"For sure. And that's exactly why I like you."

"I know. But the thing is. Other people don't understand that. They don't think you belong with someone like me.  They make snide remarks to me all the time."

"Like what?"

"Like, 'hey dyke, thought you'd be dating a cheerleader, not a teammate...' and other stuff," she says, turning her face to the window.

"Like what other stuff?"

"Like stuff I don't want to say out loud. It's embarrassing. Anyway, the point is, they think you should be with a cheerleader...someone like Bree."

I take a deep breath, lowering my forehead to the steering wheel. "I don't care what they think. I want to be with you."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"I mean. I'm kind of a disaster sometimes."

I grin at her. "I know."

When I pull up to the window, the girl taking orders gives us this surprised look.  She must have spotted the twins in the back seat. Homeboy starts screaming again while I'm trying to order.

"Seriously?" Peyton asks no one in particular.

"Maybe he's hungry," I offer.

"How come yours never cries?"

"She senses my calm confidence."

The girl takes my money, looking at both of us like we're crazy. Patrick Mahomes just keeps getting louder and more frantic. I can tell it's stressing her out.

"Maybe I should play him some soothing music," I suggest.

"Just what we need," she says over the wails, "more noise."

We drive towards her house with the shrieking robot baby pushing her to the edge.

I open up my phone and select some Willie Nelson. Nothing more soothing than a little Willie and Waylon.

The song starts playing, and she bursts out laughing.

I sing along. "Mamma don't let your homies grow up to be Cowboys.  Don't let 'em cheat Lions or grab they own nuts. Let 'em be Niners and Seahawks and such. Mamma don't let your homies grow up to be Cowboys, they'll always suck bad and make you so sad." 

By the time I finally pull into her driveway, she practically hurls herself out of the vehicle while it's still moving. I mean, it seems the babies like Willie and Waylon. Homie got a little quieter. I put it in park, get out, go to the passenger side cab door, and take Patrick Mahomes out of the seat, shushing and bouncing him once again.

I look at Peyton over the tiny little head and whisper, "Can you get Lil' Peyton? Just keep her in her seat so you don't wake her up."

"Jack, I don't think they can actually hear."

"This is the most sophisticated simulator on the market. Who knows what they're capable of?"

She takes Good Baby and heads into the kitchen. I follow with Bad Baby. We've been hanging out here a little more now, just so her mom feels better about me dating her daughter. She sets Good Baby's carrier on the table, and I place the bags of food down next to her.

"Can you grab the diaper bags from the car?" I ask her. "I think we need to feed Homeslice here before he has another meltdown."

When she returns, both babies are crying, so I have one on each arm, shushing and swaying like a madman.

She sticks the bottle in Homeboy's mouth, which magically silences him. She gingerly transfers him from my arms to the carrier, the bottle still in his mouth. Then I do the same for Good Baby. We sit there with the terrible twosome at her kitchen table, feeding them with one hand and ourselves with the other. Just then, her mom walks in from the family room.

"I thought I heard crying," she says, peering into the carriers. "What's this?"

"It's our Home Ec assignment," Peyton mutters.

Mrs. Thomas smiles. "They're giving me flashbacks to when you and Paxton were babies. I remember the days your dad and I sat at that same table eating dinner one-handed." Her face turns a little sad then. 

"They're a total pain in the ass," Peyton says. "I can't believe you did this three times."

"You start to like them when they're yours," she says. "Jack, you look like a real natural over there."

"Yes ma'am. My oldest brother has a couple of little girls, so I have some practice."

I pick up Lil' Peyton and burp her over my shoulder.

"Show-off," Peyton mumbles.

Good Baby has now fallen asleep, so I tuck her into the carrier. Patrick Mahomes starts screaming again. Peyton jams the bottle in his mouth a little more firmly, but he just keeps screeching. She glares at her mom, shaking her head. "He got the good baby."

"If I remember correctly, you insisted on having the boy. Said girls were too much drama." I cross my arms over my chest.

"I was obviously wrong," she admits.

Her mom laughs.

"This isn't funny! Somebody help me with this thing."

"Homeboy's got gas," I say. "You need to burp him."

"Seriously? Robots don't get gas."

"These do. They're very sophisticated." I wink at her, taking Bad Baby from his carrier and doing the whole shushing, bouncing, burping routine. Homeslice falls silent within seconds.

Peyton sighs in relief. "Let's shove them in a closet and go watch Netflix." 

"Peyton," her mom says, "you can just put them in your room where it's quiet."

"Where it's quiet..." she mutters. "Why does everyone but me seem to think these are actual babies?"

We secure the dynamic duo in her room and go back downstairs to watch Stranger Things. The problem with hanging at her house instead of mine is there's a lot less privacy. So it's not like we're pretzeled up together like we do in Jesse's cabin.  Every once in a while, when her mom and sister aren't around, I'll nuzzle her ear or rub her leg. But mostly we just sit there not touching, the sexual tension building like pressure builds in the air before a storm.

The door in the kitchen slams shut. Since everyone is home except her dad, I'm assuming it means he finally came back.

"Please let him be sober," she says under her breath.

He walks into the dark room, instantly flipping on the lights. "Peyton, I'd better not find that football out in the driveway again. I almost ran over it. And the dome light is on in your car. Drains the battery. I swear, you girls were never taught to respect your possessions."

I stand up and extend an arm for a handshake. Her dad startles, like he's processing that there's a person standing there.

"Hello, sir. I'm Jack Chaplin. Peyton's friend."

Her dad finally puts his hand out, narrowing his bloodshot eyes trying to register that a stranger is in his home, and he apparently didn't even notice.

Nope. Not sober. 

"Chaplin. You play football?"

"Yessir."

"What position?"

"Fullback and Linebacker."

"You play both ways? You must be good."

"Not as talented as your daughter, sir," I say.

Peyton's dad looks her, nodding. "Alright, don't forget to turn the lights out when you go to bed," is all he says before he staggers down the hallway to his office.

"Peyton!" Emma shouts from the top of the staircase.

"What?"

"Your babies are crying again!"

We head for the stairs. I can hear both of them wailing like a couple of banshees. When we get to her door, she hesitates.

"Do we have to go in there?" she asks.

"Yes, it'll be okay. Probably just need fresh diapers."

She opens the door and conveniently remember the bottles we left on the table downstairs. "I'm going to get the bottles just in case they're hungry again."

"Chicken," I say.

Her eyes grow wide and she nods in agreement. "You want anything?"

"Yeah, I could use a snack too."

After she goes downstairs, I quickly lay the babies on the bed, strip off their onsies, and put fresh diapers on. Then I shush and bounce some more. When they're finally quiet, I ease myself down on the bed, and soothe them to sleep on my chest, belly to belly.

Babies like the sound of heartbeats. 

When she finally walks back in the room, I'm sprawled on her bed, both babies in nothing but diapers asleep on my chest. She tiptoes around with a bowl of popcorn and lies on the bed next to us resting the bowl on her stomach so I can reach it.

"You're really good at this," she whispers and nestles her head against mine on the pillow. We both stare down at the babies.

"Babies are so cute," I say. "Even robot babies."

"You're cute," she says.

"You're beautiful," I say back.

And I think I might love you. 

And somewhere, deep down under all her feelings of self-doubt, insecurity, and fear, I think she might love me too.