Toddle Until Totaled
“Any boo-boos to report?”
I shook my head wildly. “No boo-boos, sir.”
In truth, there were boo-boos to report: I had a skinned knee. It stung badly, but there wasno choice for me but to maintain my composure—if I admitted I was bleeding, I would no doubt be brought to my mommy, who would then pour hydrogen peroxide on the wound, bringing about unfathomable pain and suffering. She’d done it once before, about a year ago, when I tripped and cut my elbow open on the coffee table, and I vowed then to never let it happen again.
The officer squatted down so that we were eye level. He glanced down at my knee but did not call me on my bluff. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”
I obliged, though I was embarrassed for him to see my license. I’d recently gotten it from my local Chuck E. Cheese ID machine. It was a godsend that these were now accepted as a form of valid identification, thanks to legislation passed as part of the Child-Inclusive Employment Act, but there was one downside: due to the machine being designed for randomization, even big boys like me sometimes ended up with the Royal Princess ID variant. The tough guy face I made for the picture just looked silly with the clip art tiara positioned above it.
The cop chuckled when he saw it, and I had to turn my head away to hide my pout. I used to think policemen were cool, but now I think I understand what my big sister means when she says that all cops are bad. Never meet your heroes.
"Everything seems to be in order. Can you explain what happened here today?”
I looked past him at the Cybertruck up ahead. There wasn’t even a scratch on it. On the other hand, my brand-new Little Tikes Cozy Coupe had not fared so well and was capsized a little ways down the freeway. At this point, it was little more than scrap plastic. Disappointment welled up in my chest and nearly brought me to tears—I’d wasted so much of my allowance on a now-useless modification that made bubbles come out of the exhaust whenever I drove.
“I think she might’ve cut me off,” I told him once I was sure my voice would not quiver.
“You think she might’ve?”
“Yeah.”
“And this led to you rear-ending her?”
“Yeah.”
He shook his head disapprovingly and scribbled something on his notepad. I tried to get a good look at what he was writing, but it was all for naught: I didn’t know how to read. “Am I in Trouble?”
“Well, I don’t actually determine who’s at fault, but it’s usually the rear-ender. It doesn’t help that you aren’t certain what happened. You just think she might’ve cut you off.”
“Takebacks, then. I want a do-over. She definitely, certainly, one-hundred percent cut me off. I promise.”
“Not how this works.”
“But she’s the one who swerved into my lane.” I hoped this wouldn’t affect my car insurance. I’d already given up snack time and nap time so that I had enough shifts to cover my current premium. I didn’t want to have to give up play time, too. “It’s not fair!”
“This is why you kiddos shouldn’t be allowed to be doing these all grown up things. You think everything has to be fair.”
I stomped my foot. Kiddo was one of the words we preferred adults didn’t use. It wasn’t a slur by any means, but it was still almost always infantilizing and derogatory, on the same level as buddy and little dude. This wasn’t a hill I was willing to die on, though, so I focused instead on the hill I actually was willing to die on. “You don’t think everything has to be fair?”
“Nope. I’m a grown-up. I understand that some things are unfair and that’s the way it should be.”
“Well...what the frick!”
“Language, mister!”
Just as I was just about ready to throw a full-blown tantrum, I heard tires screech to a stop behind me. I whipped around just in time to see my mom getting out of her minivan, a stern look on her face. In the next moment, I was squirming as she picked me up, doing my best to lunge at the policeman and his stupid, smug face. “You called my mom?! I’ll sue you!” There were all kinds of laws about child confidentiality nowadays. Surely I could hit him with at least one of them. “Give me your badge number right this instant! Get me your supervisor! I have rights!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mommy pull a dark bottle out of her bag and quickly splash something onto my leg. Immediately, I shrieked as the searing heat of a thousand suns shot through my knee, burning down to the bone. Flesh bubbled and blood spewed, and I clutched at my heart in hopes that it would seize so that darkness could whisk me away from the mortal pain that I was being inflicted with. My mommy had seen my injury and was pouring hydrogen peroxide on it, violating my medical autonomy and subjecting me to torture both cruel and unusual.
This day was ravaged by betrayal. Nobody was on my side—not law enforcement, not the justice system, not my insurance company, and not even my own mommy.
I huffed, and I puffed, and I threw myself to the ground, flailing my arms and wailing so loud that I drowned out the sound of traffic zipping by. “No, no, no, no! No! It’s not fair!” I howled. I wanted my new car to be okay. I wanted my naps, snack time, and play time back. And, even though she was the main cause of my agony, I wanted my mommy. “I didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not fair!”
The policeman gestured to me and said something to Mommy, but I couldn’t hear him over my ear-splitting screams and the sound of my light-up Sketchers slamming against asphalt. My head was pounding and snot was now running down my lips and chin. The dried trails of tears on my cheeks were growing wet with new ones. Never had I felt anguish quite like this. I squeezed my eyes shut as I fought to take my heaving breaths.
In the next moment, a sweet taste spread across my tongue and I closed my mouth around a cotton candy Dum Dum, which was my favorite kind. I peeked an eye open to see my mommy moving down to place a Band-Aid on my knee. It had cartoon dinosaurs all over it. Slowly, my heartbeat began to stabilize and my muscles began to relax.
I’d forgotten about this part, the calm after the storm. A lollipop, a carefully selected bandaid, and—
“Come here, sweet boy.” She wrapped me in an embrace, gently lifting me off the ground. “Are you alright?"
Finally, I took a wet, stuttering breath and allowed my body to curl into hers. She was soft and warm, smelling of laundry detergent, box mac and cheese, and dry shampoo. I nuzzled my face into her neck, and her thick dark hair shielded me from the busy freeway. Gradually, her familiar heartbeat lulled me into the realm between sleeping and waking. I found the ultimate fairness in my mother’s comfort.
Tomorrow, I will take the trolley to work. I will notify my insurance company and report the accident to the DMV, and I will find an attorney to consult with. After skipping playtime to deal with all the documentation, I will be cranky and the workday will feel like an endless purgatory. My back will hurt and my eyes will be puffy from crying. Today, though, I will just be Mommy’s sweet boy.
Sarina Rexann Northway is an author most known for her editorial work at Activision Blizzard, where she writes content for games like World of Warcraft, Diablo, and Overwatch. Holding an M.A. in English from Arizona State University and a B.A. in English and psychology from the University of South Carolina, she is a writer both at hand and at heart. More of her work can be found on her Instagram, @rexannwrites.