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“Yo Steven, c’mere.” The drawl of Lars’ voice, deeper than his own, pulls Steven’s attention toward the alleyway behind the Big Donut. His sandaled feet follow—flip-flop, flip-flop.
He greets his best friend cheerfully. Lars is a cool, older kid; being invited to hang out with him fills Steven with excitement.
He approaches curiously. “What’cha doin?”
“Check this out.” He sees Lars’ lanky frame, hunched over a furry creature, long stick clenched in one hand.
“Umm… what’s that?”
Lars mumbles something, grinning and chuckling downward. The animal he’s poking at is… eerily still. Steven’s smile from before is somewhere else entirely, far out of his reach.
“Dumb squirrel became roadkill.” Lars cackles softly while he prods and stirs. Steven can’t help but feel a little scared watching this.
Tiny black ants, like crawling watermelon seeds, cover the squirrel in a writhing mass. Its head, once likely cute and fluffy, is oddly shaped and matted with stinking, sticky red. Lars’ tool wears the blood thickly; if Steven squints, it almost looks like a paintbrush.
“What’s… wrong with it?” he whispers. Steven feels like he’s walked in on a private moment. Something… bad, somehow. But Lars had invited him in. He doesn’t understand.
“What, are you stupid or something? It’s dead, obviously.”
…Dead?
Lars looks up at him with an annoyed grimace. He’s clearly not having fun anymore. Steven must’ve done something wrong. Head down, he turns silently and flip-flops away.
~*~
“Hey, Dad?”
“What’s up, Shtu-ball?”
After a long walk along the shore, then a slice at Fish Stew Pizza, Steven arrives home several hours later to find Dad and Pearl working on the van. They’re up to their elbows in motor oil and grease, and talking to one another with friendly voices. Steven smiles; it feels refreshing to see them getting along.
But he has a question, one that’s been bugging him since this morning. He has to ask.
“Why—” the question sits heavy on his tongue, choking him a little. It feels important. So important, nobody’s ever explained it to him.
The wrench stills. “What is it, buddy?”
He forces it out. “Why isn’t Mom here?”
Dad’s face falls as soon as he begins asking. Steven continues. “What… happened to her?”
A pause, a heavy sigh. “She gave up her physical form… to bring you into the world,” Dad explains, voice quiet. Steven can’t hear his usual smile anymore, and guilt twists his stomach, making him feel strange and lost.
There it is. The answer that’s never quite made sense. They’re just words, but somehow, hearing them makes his gem feel impossibly heavy.
He knows people are supposed to have moms. He thinks so, anyway. His friend Lars has the nicest mom in the world. Connie’s mom is strict, but she cares. Sadie, Kofi—even Onion has a mom.
Of course, there are some people who don’t—like Kiki, and Buck, and Peedee—but Steven’s mom is different. Everyone but Steven seems to have known her, loved her.
Rose Quartz.
So… where did she go?
Steven feels terrible, somehow responsible for Dad’s bad mood. But selfishly, he presses. “What does that mean, though? Where is she?”
Dad glances over at Pearl, who hasn’t said a thing. Her hands clasp tightly over her mouth, eyes distant and glistening with unspilled emotion.
“Hey, dudes,” Amethyst waves, hauling in some ingredients from the fridge that Steven can’t fathom going together very well. She stops short when she sees Dad’s bowed head. “Whoa. Whatsamatter, Greg? You got a hairball or something?” she teases.
Normally, Steven would laugh along. But he’s frustrated. At everybody. At nobody. At himself.
“Is she dead, then?” he blurts. He thinks of the squirrel, being slowly eaten by ants. He feels sick.
That gets a reaction: all three heads snap up, wide eyes meet each other’s, then his own.
Dad rubs an elbow. “I don’t know if it’s quite like that…”
“Her gem lives on… with you,” Pearl interjects sadly.
Amethyst groans and leaves the room. Steven wishes he could follow, yearns to emulate Amethyst’s boldness. But he has the familiar, sinking sense that he should stay instead.
He’s prepared to deal with the disappointment, the resignation that rears its ugly head whenever he dares to ask an uncomfortable question.
It surprises him, then, to feel Dad’s hand resting on his shoulder. To look up and find him kneeling in front of Steven, the eye contact soothing.
Like he’s actually listening, for once.
“I don’t have a good answer for you, kiddo,” Dad begins, eyes wet, voice thick. “But I do know she’s not comin’ back.”
“Oh,” Steven whispers. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s confusing.”
He rubs Steven’s back; but it feels like Dad’s trying to comfort himself, too.