Chapter 8
Dad’s on a rampage. I’m doing my best to ignore him. It’s after nine at night and I’m lying in bed, my earbuds in while I listen to music. But Dad’s deep, angry voice reverberates through the walls, and although I can’t tell what he’s ranting about, I know he’s still yelling.
Mom is home too, because it’s her day off work, and I really hate that he’s ruining it by being an ass. But she’s not yelling back, so I don’t think he’s mad at her. He’s probably just mad at the world, like always.
Another half an hour goes by and I’m still trying to ignore it, but even the loudest music I’ve got doesn’t drown out the sound. I am so freaking exhausted from endless drills at soccer practice and then delivering pizzas on my days off. I just want to sleep.
I want to stop fearing that at any minute, I’ll be caught for what I did. I’m sure it’ll blow over, but Coach sure isn’t making it easy on us.
I turn off my music and walk to my door, listening to see exactly what it is that has my dad all pissed off. But now he’s no longer yelling, and has instead decided to stomp through the kitchen and to the living room.
I open my door a crack and stick my head out. From my room, I can see down the hallway and partly into the kitchen. Mom is sitting at the table, using her old laptop that tends to freeze up more than it works. For Christmas, I hope to buy her a new one. The glow of the screen highlights the dark circles under her eyes.
“I found a shop that will do a free estimate,” she calls out to my dad.
A few seconds later, he storms into the kitchen. “I don’t need an estimate. I know what’s wrong with it. The fucking brakes don’t work.”
“Maybe they could tell you if it’ll really cost that much money,” Mom says, her voice soft. It’s the soothing tone she takes when he’s trying to calm him down.
“Doesn’t matter what it costs!” he shouts. Guess her calm voice didn’t help. Dad takes a long sip from his beer bottle. “It’s still a few hundred dollars at best. We don’t have that.”
I step into the hallway and the hardwood floor creaks beneath me. Both of my parents turn to look at me, Mom with her soft eyes and Dad with his glassy ones.
“The brakes went out on my truck,” Dad says without me needing to ask. “I damn near died on the highway today.”
“Wow, that sucks.”
Dad looks at me like I’m stupid. “You think?”
“What will it cost to fix?”
“Three hundred,” Mom says, which I barely hear because Dad talks over her.
“Too fucking much, that’s how much. I don’t have cash just lying around after I spend it all on this house and these bills.”
I know what happens if Dad can’t drive his own car to work every day. He’ll take mine.
And while I’m happy to help out, that’s just not going to work. I’ve poured my soul into my 2004 Chevy pickup truck and I’m not going to let him drive it the way he drives his.
I slip into my bedroom and pull open my sock drawer, taking out three hundred dollar bills from the envelope I stash under my boxers. When I go back to the kitchen, my parents are once again arguing as if I’d never been there just thirty seconds before. It’s giving me a headache.
“Here,” I say, tossing the cash to the table. “Get your brakes fixed.”
“What the hell is this?” Dad says, taking the money and staring at it as if he’s never seen such a thing. “You a drug dealer or something?”
“I have a job, Dad. I worked all summer and saved up.”
His eyes narrow. “How much cash do you have?”
“Not much more than that,” I lie. “But I want you to have it. Mom and I need you to be able to get to work.” It never hurts to stroke his ego, and plus, it’s true. Without Dad’s job, we’d be screwed.
Dad puts the cash in his back pocket. Mom gives me this quick look, thanking me with her eyes. I smile at her.
For just the slightest moment, it looks like Dad might actually thank me. But then he scowls. “Don’t expect to be paid back, boy. If anything,youowememuch more than this for putting a roof over your head and feeding you all these years.”
I could argue that taking care of your own child is kind of what the law requires and that he’s not a saint for it, but I don’t. I just nod because I’m exhausted and just want the damn yelling to stop. “Understood.”
Back in my room, I don’t need my earbuds anymore because Dad is finally content. I go to my sock drawer and pull out the envelope of cash, knowing that it needs a better hiding spot now that my dad knows I have some money. I look around my room, and finally settle on pulling up the corner of the carpet that’s under my bed. I shove the money under there and then toss some dirty clothes on top of it.
