fighting is cool
It’s our second home visit from social services, our case file is still under review. Frank is showing Elvis his dance moves. I’m making dinner in the open kitchen of the flat — prawn and vegetable stir-fried rice — cursing myself for not moving the good skillet and the small wooden spoon from the house.
“Can you tell me something interesting about your Mum?” Elvis asks.
Frank giggles. It’s his coy-I’m-charming-strange-grown-up giggle. “What do you mean inter….resting?”
“Tell me something I don’t know about her.”
Frank stops. His arms fall limp like a an unloved marionette as a smile slowly butters itself across his face. I drop my gaze, narrowing and fixing it on the carrot I’m about to dice. Frank giggles again, mirth rising in him like bubbles.
“That she has a ‘gina?”
“Sorry what?”
“MUMMY HAS A VAGINA.”
Elvis says nothing. I wonder if he’s misheard. Frank slaps his belly, throws his head back and roars — hardyharhar! — a theatrical impression of a grown up who just got off a good line at cocktail party.
“He’s saying I’ve got a vagina,” I explain. “It’s kind of a joke. Except obviously, it’s true.”
Elvis nods. Makes a note in his book.
“Okay Frank,” he continues. “What is your favourite thing about your Mummy then?”
Frank looks at me, eyes glittering. The chopping knife in my hand hovers above the block. I try to keep my features even. I do not glare. Glaring, I know, will only make it worse. Frank’s lips begin to wiggle. They press themselves into each other like he’s sucking on a stolen sweet. When he speaks his voice rises to a playful crescendo.
“My favourite thing about Mummeee?”
“Yes.”
He closes his eyes and cocks his head. Slowly, he lifts a hand to his face, places his thumb under his chin and with his index finger taps his cheek — once, twice, thrice — as he pretends to ponder the question. Finally, his eyes spring open.
“Her vagina of course!”
My heart plummets, shoulders tense