“And no devices for a month,” Enzo adds.
Nico nods. He clearly expected that. “Is that it? Can I go?”
“Yes,” Enzo says.
Nico doesn’t waste a second. He leaps off the couch and runs up the steps to his room. He slams the door behind him—a very angsty move for a nine-year-old boy.
Enzo is staring at the steps after him. His expression is unreadable. But he doesn’t look happy.
“I think,” I say, “we might want to consider getting him in for therapy.”
He looks at me blankly. “Therapy?”
“A talking therapist,” I clarify.
His eyes widen like I’ve suggested we toss our son off the roof to see if he could fly. “No. No. That is ridiculous. He does not need that.”
“It might help.”
“For what?” Enzo throws up his arms. “He is just acting like a normal boy. It is all your uptight American rules. Nico is fine. He is fine.”
I can’t argue with him when he’s acting like this, but he’s wrong. I’m afraid there’s something wrong with Nico that won’t get better without professional help. I’m afraid that between me and my husband, Nico has inherited a combination of genes that has given him a propensity for violence much stronger than other kids his age.
So when dinner is over and the kids have gone upstairs for the night and I’ve got a moment to myself, the first thing I google is: Is my child a psychopath?
Amazingly, there are quite a few posts about it. Apparently I’m not the only woman whose child is having issues. One website has a list of common characteristics found in kids with psychopathic tendencies. I skim the list, growing increasingly concerned.
A lack of guilt after misbehaving. Nico barely apologized after punching either of those two boys. He didn’t seem at all upset over what he did.
Constant lying. He used to tell us when he broke something around the house. But he didn’t say a word about breaking that vase until we confronted him. And I get the feeling there’s more he’s not telling us.
Cruelty to animals. What happened to that praying mantis? After claiming he loved that pet, all of a sudden, he flushed it down the toilet.
Selfish and aggressive behavior. Well, what’s more aggressive than punching a kid in the gut because you weren’t called safe on first base?
Enzo might not be worried, but I am. And it makes me feel even worse to imagine there’s a chance he might have inherited some of these tendencies from me. I mean, I don’t think I’m a psychopath, but I didn’t go to prison for picking daisies.
I’ll give the dust a chance to settle, but I refuse to do nothing. If my son needs saving from himself, I’m going to save him.
THIRTY-THREE
I’m walking back to my house from the bus stop when Suzette emerges from her front door to collect her mail.
She must be leaving for a house showing soon, because she is dressed to the nines in a skirt suit with red heels that are so high, I would fall on my face if I tried to walk in them. Her hair is so perfectly coiffed, it almost looks plastic. She waves to me, and it’s hard to smile when I wave back, but I force it. I’m not in the mood for Suzette, so when she comes down her steps to talk to me, I almost consider making a run for it. But she’s pretty quick, and before I can reach my front door, she has overtaken me.
“Millie!” she says. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. How are you?”
As Suzette smooths her hair, I notice a diamond-studded bracelet around her wrist that catches the sun. It looks a little like the necklace that Martha tried to steal from me, except I assume that hers is made from real diamonds. I hope Suzette is keeping that bracelet somewhere safe.
“Nice bracelet,” I comment.
“Thank you.” She gazes down at the bracelet. “It was a gift from someone very special. And I absolutely love your…” She rakes her gaze over me, clearly struggling to find something to compliment me on. “Have you lost some weight? Your face doesn’t look nearly as puffy.”
Apparently, that is the best she can do. Also, I don’t think I’ve lost any weight. I’m just as puffy as ever. “Maybe” is all I say.
“Anyway,” Suzette says, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”
“Um, sure. What’s up?”
She flashes me a blindingly white smile. I wonder if she has caps on her teeth. “So here’s the thing,” she says. “On the day before trash pickup, would you mind putting your trash out a little later in the evening?”
I stare at her. “What are you talking about? Nico doesn’t put it out until after dinner.”
“Right,” she says. “And you guys must eat dinner super early. Because when we are eating dinner, we can see your trash out in front of the house. And it’s there the entire evening. There’s trash sitting on the sidewalk from, like, seven in the evening until the next morning.” She sniffs. “Honestly, Millie, it’s unsightly.”
“Did you mention this to Enzo?” I ask. She seems to speak with him constantly, so I’m not sure why she’s telling me about all this.
“He just seems so busy. I wouldn’t want to bother him with something so trivial.”
“Okay…”
“Plus, Nico takes care of the trash, doesn’t he? The kids are more your domain, I assumed.”
Suzette somehow assumes I am a 1950s housewife. But I don’t feel like getting into it with her.
“Fine,” I grumble. “What time would you like him to take out the trash?”
