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He shakes his head. “She feels like all women would feel if they found out their husband had a kid around the same time that she had a child with him, devastated. Betrayed. Confused. Ashamed. Guilty.” He wipes his hand over his face. “I can’t believe her. She actually feels bad for the chick.”
I shake my head in disbelief. If I had a choice to choose a mother, it would be Tyler’s mother Caroline. She’s an excellent mother any kid would die to have. I hope she can survive this. I hope Tyler can survive this. His father had a secret child who popped up out of nowhere—well, we know where, obviously. He doesn’t deserve this right now. I mean, we are about to graduate and go off to college.
“It’s supposed to be our year,” Chris says, standing up and placing the white towel around his neck. He looks between us, his brown eyes trying to understand. “Don’t let some female wannabe thug who is trying to get one over on your Pops mess up your life. Fuck her. Don’t let this shit get to you. It’s not your mom’s or your problem. Besides, it happened before he got together with your mom. If what he says is true, he didn’t cheat on your mom.”
Tyler nods. “You’re right. Fuck her. If she wants a free ride, we’ll make sure she pays for it.”
It’s then that I realize he’s right…fucking shit up is what I do best.
Rubi
I WATCH ASthe trees pass by through a neighborhood I had no idea I would ever visit. Every kid on the other side of town knows where the rich neighborhood is now that I’m back in my old stomping ground. They can see the tops of the nice roofs and trees that surround lush landscapes, and what every poor kid can’t imagine is how much nicer it would look once inside one of those massive homes. Who would have thought my biological father lived in that same neighborhood with his posh family. The closest I got was to walk through a yard that belonged inside a magazine spread showcasing the rich and famous.
I never went inside his house for fear that I would be kicked out. We kept to the edge of the property where there were many trees that blocked the view from the back of his house. I always wondered what the inside of Ky’s house looked like. Now apparently, I would get the chance to live in my own dream home…but I have a feeling it’ll be more like a nightmare.
Judging by the car my sperm donor drives, it is the nicest vehicle I have ever been in, so the interior of his home must be equally as luxurious, I’m sure. The leather inside the car is the color of vanilla, and the smell is nothing I have ever experienced. It can only be described as rich and sophisticated.
My mother didn’t even own a car. The only vehicle I have ever been in was my stepfather’s beat-up old Ford that smelled of death and cigarettes. The smell of death is best described as the smell of methamphetamine and heroine when smoked from a pipe. It smells awful. There were times I couldn’t get it out of my nose. I’m almost positive it clung to my clothes. I was so embarrassed I would visit the store and spray whatever tester they had over my clothes every chance I could. Especially before I would visit Ky. He always smelled good. Not that I would put my nose to his skin or shirt—even though the thought crossed my mind from time to time. I never attempted to do it out of fear he would think I was being weird and would stop being my friend.
“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Rubi,” my father, speaking to me awkwardly, pulls me from my own thoughts. I’m still pretty angry. I get that he didn’t’ know where I was or how I was raised, but he also knew a child he helped create possibly existed. A child he never cared enough to look for or find out for sure that I was aborted. He took my mother Mariana’s word for it after she lied to him. If he only knew I was closer than he thought.
I roll my eyes and cup my hands together, pressing my short nails into my hand making little half-moons in the skin of my palm. “It’s Rubiana,” I respond dryly.
“What was that?”
I know he heard me. Only people who know me call me Rubi, and those few are the friends I have made along the way who have helped me survive in juvenile detention and foster care. Kids like me who have shit parents and no opportunity. Kids like me who have mothers and fathers who know they exist and don’t give a shit about them. The fathers who don’t care to look for them and prefer for them to be terminated. A man like the one next to me who was content to erase me like a mistake written in pencil.
“I said my name is Rubiana.”
“The social worker said that you like when people call you Rubi.”
“That’s reserved for people who care about me. To you, I’m Rubiana.”
I hear him expel an audible breath. I never asked him to acknowledge my existence. I didn’t ask him to respond to the court summons, although legally he probably had to, so he did that on his own. I was accepting of the idea that I didn’t have a father, and now I have to accept the fact that he exists and is right next to me.
“My wife Caroline is excited to meet you. I understand you’re angry with me, but all I ask is that you do not take it out on my wife or my son,” he says, almost as a warning. At least that’s how I take it, but I’m a little bitter and everything he’s saying makes me see red.
I smirk sarcastically. There it is. I was wondering when he would break down the rules and regulations of living under his roof. What an asshole. I thought my mother was a piece of work, but my father, he is in a category all on his own.
I turn my head to look at his side profile while he steers the car down the street. “Why don’t you do all of us a favor and take me back.”
He glances at me briefly. “What?”
“I said, take me back to social services and leave me there, or you could just let me out right here. You can tell them I ran away. And you won’t have to deal with me another minute.”
My eyes sting with tears of anger. I wonder why he even bothered to take me in. I’m almost eighteen, anyway, and I would prefer to serve my sentence literally in any other capacity. Why does he even care what happens to me when he never cared for the last seventeen years?
“I’m sorry, Rubiana. I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You don’t have to take me in, you know. The government has taken great care of me for years.”
He snorts. “I doubt that since we were just dealing with judges and court sentences.” He looks at me, scrutinizing my baggy pants and black faded hoodie that I found in a box of clothes left for the homeless.
Clothes that no one would wear because they have outlived their usefulness and are riddled with wear and tear. But they are good enough for the rejects in the system. I stopped caring about the colors or the holes in the clothes I would get. But I draw the line if it doesn’t fit. And if I’m going to steal––borrow—it might as well be something nice enough to not look like I’m a complete charity case.
“It would be for the best. You don’t have to show up to your house with your perfect wife and son with a daughter you clearly never wanted. I could be like one of those dogs you leave at the shelter when the owners no longer have a use for them. I mean, I wouldn’t think any less of you than I already do.”
I touched a nerve because he glares at me, gripping the leather steering wheel and watching it turn while his expensive gold watch gleams. I turn my head and see him pull into the driveway of an impressive home. White exterior walls, black trim around the windows, green lush lawns, and beautiful square carriage lights that must sparkle when the lights turn on. The driveway is white concrete with green artificial grass dividing the squares evenly. There is a Mercedes SUV parked to the left, and a late-model lifted Dodge Ram truck to the right with a black paint job and big tires.
