“Mama!”

“Who is this? Bastion?”

“No, Mama. It’s Jet.”

“Bastion, where’s your father?” asks my mother on the phone. She sounds more confused than usual today, but at least she’s talking over the phone and not trying to use it as a weapon like the nurses say she does sometimes. Combative behavior, I’m told, is a common side effect of dementia and Alzheimer’s.

I don’t answer her question; I don’t want to tell her again that her husband—my father, passed away.

“Mama, I have a problem.”

“Bastion, where is your brother, Gunner? Is he spying on Mrs. Martinez again?”

I laugh.

“And where’s Jet?”

“Mama, I’m Jet. You’re talking to me right now.”

“That little boy, I tell you, Bastion. You’d better keep an eye on him. If I get another phone call about Jet and his antics, it’s going to break my heart. I really wish I could spank that boy, but your daddy and I swore we’d never lay a hand on any of you; you’d all been through enough abuse to last a few lifetimes. If Jet keeps up with hurtin’ neighbors’ kids,” she sighs, “somebody is going to hurt him back real bad and I fear for him. He’s the baby, Bastion. You need to do what you need to do to keep him safe, even if that means from himself.”

I swallow my pride for a minute. It hurts to hear my mother talk about me like this. We made things hard on them—always in trouble, always tearing up the neighborhood, and probably making them look bad to the neighbors in the process. But they never spanked us. I had no idea they thought about it, but they never laid a finger on us, unlike any of our biological parents.

My real parents. They’re how I learned to hit and take hits. I was a punching bag when I was little before I got adopted. I really thought that was how families were supposed to behave until the state took custody of me. They made me go through all these intervention programs telling me the beatings were wrong and I shouldn’t do it to others.

But I did. I beat bullies with my fists and my brothers, Bastion and Gunner, were always there. Sometimes they held me back; other times, they had my back, cheering me on. I hated my adoptive brothers at first, but we soon learned to look out for one another. We learned to support each other, trust each other, work in unison to accomplish things together. It was a lot like being in the military. Over time, we became the neighborhood police. We kept kids in line, the neighborhood at peace, and dogs on a leash.

There was one time, unfortunately, my brothers did not have my back and rightfully so. Peyton Lock, the blue-eyed curly blonde girl from next door, found a baby squirrel and I wanted to see it, but she wouldn’t show it to me. She kept the squirrel wrapped in a white towel and spoke softly and cooed at it.

I’d never seen a girl, other than my adoptive mother, look so genuinely in love with something so small, like it was something really special. My adoptive mother made me feel very special and I was a little envious of the squirrel. A little spark inside of me made me wonder if Peyton, who was the prettiest girl and supposedly nicest girl in the neighborhood, might coo at me.

I asked her again if she would show me the little animal, but Peyton refused, saying I was “not a nice boy.” I grew irritated and she asked me to go away. So, I did the most natural thing I could think of—I reached over the fence and I tried to grab the squirrel from her, but she started running. So, I picked up a rock and threw it. It hit her right on the cheek where it made a small gash and she bled.

Bastion and Gunner came quickly when they heard Peyton crying and my brothers picked me up and dragged me in the house and did the one unthinkable thing I thought they’d never do...they told on me.

Within a few months, Peyton and her family moved. I felt bad; I knew I was the cause. But I felt worse knowing I had disappointed my father—someone I already respected.

My mother, on the other hand, told me every day thereafter, to always come to her. She said if I ever had a problem with a girl, no matter what it was, I should always come to her to talk about it.

But this is the first time I’ve ever chosen to take her up on the offer. I feel a little guilty for calling my mother, knowing not one of her sons has taken her in to live with them and allow her to live out her days in a nursing home. But she made us promise when she first found out her mind was deteriorating we would fulfill our father’s dream to continue his legacy as soldiers and proud sons with the hope we would become loving husbands and fathers one day.

Our mother picked out her own nursing home—complete with a regular monthly disco night and an outdoor lanai near a river bend, which she said looked much like the one where our father first kissed her decades ago. My mother’s only request was we would never forget who we were before we were adopted. She wanted us to remember our abuse. She even encouraged Bastion to hold onto the steel rod that had been used to break his bones. She wanted us to remember so we would know we always have a choice. We always have options on how we choose to love—preferably with our hearts and not with our fists.

“Bastion, are you listening to me?” asks my mother.

“Mama, this is Jet,” I repeat.

“Jet? Oh no, is he all red-in-the-face? Bastion, you do know what that means, don’t you?”

I know I get red, but it’s rare and I’m curious to hear my mother talk about it. “What does it mean when Jet gets red, Mama?”

“Well, it doesn’t mean that he’s upset. I know that’s what the rest of you boys think, and you’re all fearful of it, but I know what it really means.”

Wait, what?

I’m confused. “Mama, what are you talking about?”

“Jet doesn’t get mad when he’s angry, Bastion.”

“So, what does Jet’s turning red mean, Mama?”

“Whoops, I think I just tinkled in my pants. Yoo-hoo, little lady,” my mama sings. I can only guess she’s calling for the nurse.

“Mama, what does it mean when I’m red-in-the-face?”

“Bastion, I have to go to go to the restroom. Remember, you are second in command—right after me. Your father thinks he’s in charge, but we both know better. Make sure Gunner brushes his teeth and pay attention if Jet’s cheeks should ever flush remotely pink then report that back to me asap.”

“Mama, this is Jet. What does it mean when I get red?”

“Love you, dear.” My mother hangs up and, although I’m more confused on whether I should act on my feelings about Keiko, I do feel a little bit better.

My brothers and I knew how afraid my mother was when she was diagnosed; we could see it on her face, although she tried hard not to show it. We could see her desperate to hold back tears, trying to be strong for the three of us—afraid to burden and leave us after we’d just lost our father to a heart attack. It was at that moment I knew my mother was the strongest of all of us. My father was a kick-ass, proud, righteous Badass. But my mother—she was the pillar, the strength, and the foundation behind the muscle. My mother was the ideal behind everything my father stood for.

My shoulders shake as I laugh to myself and think about the conversation I had with Bleau and Vollmer the other day. It’s ridiculous to consider the thought, but it’s probably true—my mother is a sexy chick. She’s the reason a Badass, like my father, and men, like me, go to war.

I stop laughing when I recognize I am warring with myself. I’m in love with a girl who’s truly a stranger to me; plus, she doesn’t really know me either. The differences between us—it feels like being among my unit after we’ve been dropped in a foreign hostile zone. I’m trained to be there, I know my mission, but the territory is still unfamiliar, so we rely on each other—the unit, to persevere through the unknown. But with Keiko, I have no one to rely on, not even my brothers.

Gunner is a trustworthy straight-shooter, but he also puts fear in people, as a gunman should. Once he’s got his aim on something, he won’t back down until he’s able to pull the trigger. He would tell me to get a fix on my target and keep going.

Bastion seems cool on the outside, but internally he harbors explosive devices. Bastion would say to get behind him as he took the lead.

As for me, I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do. Should I stay confined to my dorm room since I’m about to get demoted? I’m also supposed to stay away from the girl I’m in love with—a girl who hours earlier left crying with some other guy.

I feel hot. I know my cheeks are red and damn it! I wish Mama would’ve told me what it means.

Fuck it.

Deep down, I know exactly what I’m supposed to. I’ve just been fighting with myself about it. I need to fix my aim, take the lead, and keep going. Maybe, Keiko will eventually get behind me and love me. But then again, she’s also a soldier. Maybe, I need to get behind her. Be her pillar. Love her.

Either way, I know one thing for sure—that woman is a sexy chick and I’m going to fight for her.