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8
BECK
Myfirst clearchildhood memory is from the final day of preschool.MyfriendSammy’sdad took us out for ice cream to celebrate the start of summer.Sammygot too excited about something, and ended up dropping his strawberry cone right on the floor of their shiny, expensive car.Icowered in my seat, waiting for the explosion and wondering ifI’dget punished too.
Sammy’sdad just pulled over, wrapped the glob of melting ice cream in a brown paper napkin, and gave him a hug. “Sorry, bud.Doyou want to go back and get another one?Iwon’t tell mom.”Theguy winked at me, then drove back to the ice cream parlor and bought us both a second round of cones.
That’sthe dayIrealized beating your family wasn’t a mandatory part of being a dad.Itblew my mind.Atfour years old,Ihad decidedIwould never have kids becauseIdidn’t know whatIwas supposed to do ifIdidn’t want to hit them.
Duringthe first intervention meeting, beforeIsnuck away, the leaders started talking about how they ended up in a gang.Theirstories had a beginning, a before.Aversion of them that could be saved without losing their entire identity.
I’venever had abefore.Evenin my very first memory,Iwas a twisted up kid in a twisted up world.Andit never got better.Ididn’t make it past fifth grade, andI’mas stupid as a fucking rock.Iget nervous looks everywhereIgo, and the only thingI’mgood at is stealing cars.
Withouta before, you can’t have an after.Scout,Rome, andDallasall have a future out there in the big world.Iwant that for them, becauseIlove them.Theonly thingI’veever expected from life is to have some fun beforeIdie young and get burned up in some police morgue where people are numbers instead of names.
SoIshould never have lied to my boys.AndIshould have told my bossIwould make the delivery tomorrow, instead of pullingDallasinto this fucking mess.ButIwas too selfish, too scared.Iwasn’t ready to find out what lies beyond the edges of myself.Thislife sucks, but it’s the only thingIhave.
Ishould feel guilt or relief asIdrive home from the scariest moment of my life, butIjust can’t.Myears ache deep inside from the sound of the gun, and my face throbs to the rhythm ofit hurts, it hurts, it hurts.Dallashas his back to me, his shoulders hunched.Partof me wishesIvanhadn’t decided to miss, because at leastIwouldn’t be sitting in my own piss knowingIjust lost the personIneed most in this world.
Iclear my throat in the silent car.I’min too much of a daze to know what’s going to come out of my mouth until it does. “Don’ttellScout.”
Dallasdoesn’t react for a long time, then turns toward me. “What?”
“Don’ttell him what happened.I’mfucking serious.”Scout’sbeen afraid of me dying since we met.Ican’t break any more people thatIlove today.
Everything’squiet for a minute asDallasstares at me.Thenhe grabs an empty fast food cup out of the center console and throws it against the side of my head as hard as he can.Ibrake abruptly, skidding on the gravel road, as he pelts me with pieces of trash, wadded up mail, and even my solar powered hula girl from the dashboard.
“Whatthe fuck?Stop!”Islow to a crawl and try to grab his throwing arm.
Heyanks his hand away, punches my shoulder–which was the only part of me that didn’t hurt yet–and throws open his door.Islam the brakes again. “Dallas!”
Foodwrappers and receipts tumble out around his feet and blow away in the breeze as he stumbles onto the dirt shoulder, almost falling in the ditch.Hekicks the door shut, then steps back with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. “Getthe fuck away from me,” he yells, his voice cracking in a way that usually makes him self-conscious.
“What’swrong with you?”Painjabs through my ribs asIlean over to roll down the passenger window. “Getin the damn car.”
“What’swrong withme?”Hisbitter laugh sounds like he’s crying.Maybehe is. “Ifucking hate you, you fucking liar.”Swipingroughly at his eyes, he turns his back on me and starts limping down the road. “Goaway!”
“I’mnot gonna leave you out here.”
Heflips me off, then picks up a fist-sized rock and hucks it at the car.Histhrowing arm sucks, but it’s enough to leave another dent in the paint. “Fuckoff.”Hestarts walking again, with his head down and his braid unraveling into messy strands.Theclothes he was so proud of are dirty and bloodstained.Hewas so happy an hour ago, running toward me in the parking lot.
Gunningthe engine,Ipull forward until my bumper is almost in the ditch.Withhis way forward blocked, he just stops and stands there blankly. “Youcan’t walk ten miles before dark,”Ipoint out.Hestares over the field, refusing to look at me. “I’llkeep driving in front of you until you get in.”
Ourstandoff lasts a full minute before he wrenches the door open and drops into the passenger seat.Hesits facing away from me asIpull back onto the road, and doesn’t move the rest of the way home.
Atthe end of the driveway,Ireach over and touch his arm to get his attention.Hejerks away and presses his forehead to the window. “Youcan’t tellScoutabout this,”Idemand. “That’snot a request.It’sbetween him and me.”
Dalscoffs harshly. “Right.”
“Tellme you won’t.”
Hisshoulders sag a little. “Whatever.Idon’t give a shit anymore.”
Iopen my mouth to saythank you, then change my mind.I’min enough pain without getting punched again.Theback door is open when we pull up to the house, which meansScoutandRomeare walking the dog.IfIget out and look,I’llbe able to see their tiny figures out across the fields.It’sa relief, because this gives me time to change and make up a story about why my face is smashed in.
BeforeIcan even open my door,Dallasjumps out and sprints inside.AsIdrag myself to my feet,Ialmost puke at the fucking nightmare pain in my head, the worstI’veever felt in my life.Myribs feel bruised, and my piss-soaked jeans are clinging to my thighs.Idon’t think we even have any ibuprofen in the house.
Ittakes me a couple of minutes to limp up the steps and into the kitchen, bent over like an old man.Ifill a plastic bag with ice cubes and stumble toward my room.Despiteeverything, my heart hopes thatDallaswill be there.AllIwant is for him to let me lie down in the quiet with his cool palm resting against my feverish forehead.Buthis door is shut tight.Thereare too many feelings inside me right now, shredding me to pieces, andI’mdesperate for anything to fix the pressure.Icope bydoingthings, andIhave absolutely no idea what to do now.
