First attempt at MG

[NickB]

Hi everyone. I haven't been posting (or writing much) lately, but I hope to get back into the swing of things around here. If I left anyone hanging...on feedback, I mean...I apologize. It truly could not be helped. So this is me, trying to get back into the swing of things. Onward and upward.

I've started an MG. If anyone has any genre pointers, I'd appreciate any and all feedback.

This was meant to open the book, but lacks snap. If anyone has any thoughts on voice, whether or not they pertain to this excerpt, please feel free to throw those out as well. Thanks everyone.

And I'm thinking to CUT the Album paragraph...maybe later in the book...or not.

Eleven-year-old Arthur Wallace closed the front door behind him just as something—probably a tube of improperly-squeezed toothpaste—hit and slid down the other side.

Oh no! He dug in both pockets then jiggled the pack on his back. No jingle. He’d forgotten his lunch money again. He leaned forward and rolled it side to side over his spine, feeling for a baseball-sized lump: Nope, not even his organic fruit snack. Just like yesterday.

Arthur’s dubious gaze skimmed the door. Though the dental hygiene projectile had not been meant for him, there was no way he was going back in there.

At 6:42 this morning, he’d innocently walked into the bathroom to pee and found his mother staring at a tube of toothpaste she held aloft like a dead baby sparrow: Sad but also disgusting. “Why…why?” she mumbled. When Arthur politely inquired whether she was done and whether now might be a good time for her to let him use the toilet, she called, “Aaron!”
“Is something wrong with the toothpaste, Mom?”
“See?” She held it two inches from his eyes so that all he saw was a lumpy white blur.
“Uh-huh.”
His dad walked in. She held it to his dad, Aaron’s, face in the aforementioned manner. “Even Artie can see. Even your eleven-year-old son knows better.”

Ah yes, now Artie really could see: it had been squozen in the middle. Artie rubbed sleep from his eyes and wondered aloud why they didn’t just buy two tubes of toothpaste at the grocery, which offended his mother’s whole way of thinking. He crossed his legs.
“Separate toothpastes? Why not separate cars?” Because his mom was very pregnant, neither Artie nor his dad was about to point out that they already possessed separate vehicles. “Or separate kitchens or separate houses?” Nevermind that, Dad said, didn’t he have the right to squeeze his toothpaste in his house anyway he pleased? “It’s a free country, isn’t it?” Artie gazed longingly at the commode, hoping his dad had finished. “Well, isn’t it?” But Aaron was looking to him for support. “I forget,” he’d replied, “American History was last year.” His dad had frowned down at him, so he amended, “Yes I believe this is a free country; can I have a sportscar?”
His mother huffed out of the room followed by his dad; so, Arthur shut the door, locked it and took the longest pee of his life. He stood there an extra 120 Mississippi’s just to make sure before he shook and tucked.

He came out to find his mother waiting at the door with…The Album: Grandma Sally burning her bra. Mom and Sally and Great Aunt Larry sweaty, floppy and arm-in-arm at a workplace discrimination protest. He bowed his head over the book as though he were paying extra special attention and closed his eyes.
His dad approached and Artie felt a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him aside; but Arthur didn’t open his eyes until he heard the electric shaver going behind the closed door. “…so you see,” said his mother, “I know all about personal freedoms. And being insensitive to the person with whom you share your toothpaste…” she said “toothpaste” rather loudly to the bathroom door “…is NOT one of them,” she finished.
Artie nodded, scooting from beneath her winged-out arm. The electric shaver went off. Artie jetted to his room and hurriedly loaded his books. Checking the door. One glance for each book.
Last year was pretty bad, with these weirdo fights discussions; but ever since Mom found out she was gonna have a baby right at the beginning of the school year, it never stopped. One thing after another—he checked the door again—toothpaste, dirty underwear, jelly on the counter, HAIR in the SINK! Aaaaagh, the horror! Arthur was a nervous wreck.
“Ow!” yelled his dad. Oh no, she’s assaulted him. Artie hefted his pack and sailed toward the commotion. “Did you use my razor again?” his dad called. Artie peeked in and saw his dad stick toilet paper to his bleeding face. He’s okay; he just nicked himself. But then Mom blew past and into the bathroom. “That’s my razor.”

Artie slipped from the doorway… Dad: “No I’m black, you’re white”…down the hall… Mom: “No, I’m black. What? I can’t have black because I’m a woman? Black’s not feminine enough for you? You like it when I’m not pregnant.”…tiptoed through the living room…Dad again: “Well, maybe you’d like black toothpaste, too!”…and out the front door. Thump, sliiiiP. (That one was probably Mom.)
Lunchless, Artie leaned against his front door. Phew! He was exhausted.