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“Sit down—now,” he barks.
Sighing, I plant my ass back down. “What? You gonna expel me, sir? Expel me for standing up to your stepson, who terrorizes this entire fucking school day in and day out? I won’t apologize for standing up to him. Even if he is your stepson, he should be smarter than to fuck with kids like Dawson.”
“Aren’t you tired of looking at my face, O’Brien? I mean, hell, you were just in here last week. And to be honest, I’m tired of looking at yours.”
“And here I thought, you were enjoying our visits.” I smirk, but when he glares, I sigh. “I’m never going to sit back and watch shit that I don’t agree with happen right in front of me.”
He drags a hand down his face. “Son, this is your future. You can’t put it all on the line this way.” His face grows serious. “Brody, this is your way out. You know that, right? Your ticket is graduating high school and getting a scholarship and getting the hell away from here. But my hands are tied right now. I’ve always cut you some slack because, frankly, life hasn’t been fair to you, and I’ve watched the system overlook your case for years. But, Christ almighty, kid…I can only put my neck out so many times. You’ve gotta know when to take the help and get your act together.”
“I understand,” I say because I do.
He took one look at me freshman year and cut me so much extra slack that I could probably rig a thousand fishing poles. I was a punk. An asshole. But I also knew the reason why he kept letting those things slide was because he knew his stepson was a dick. And he needed someone to knock him down a notch…or ten.
“I should call your father.” He forces out the words while watching my expression. “How would you feel if I did?”
I know it’s a test. It always is. So, I grin, shrugging my shoulders. “Go for it.”
“How’d you get that scar above your eye, huh? Or the one on your chin?” His eyes narrow. “Guess Bentley got one on you, too, this time, didn’t he?”
He knows his stepson didn’t touch me. But again, it’s a test.
So, instead of telling him the truth, I just play along. “Sure did. Guess he isn’t so much of a pansy after all, is he? Or maybe his balls have finally dropped.”
Annoyed at how good I am at this game, he groans. “I’ve got to talk to the school board and your coaches. If they vote against you…you’ll be out. And, O’Brien? Eventually, they’re going to call your old man in. And when they do, I know it won’t be good for you. I want to avoid that.”
“Call him. I don’t give a fuck.”
Principal Jones has been around long enough to know that my father is an angry drunk and isn’t fit to be a parent. But I have heard the stories of foster care. No way am I going through that shit. Besides, I will be an adult soon. I can leave.
“This is your senior year, damn it. I’m trying to help you, Brody. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.” When he’s met with silence, he looks away. “Well, I guess that’s all for now. Get out of my office. And, Brody, keep your head down and just stay out of trouble.”
Standing, I grab my shit and walk out. Principal Jones might be trying to help, but I’m no stranger to my reality. My deepest scars aren’t visible. And my anger, well, it doesn’t come from nowhere.
There’s no fixing me.
I’m filthy. And I always will be.
2
Bria
Three Years Later
“You change colleges more than the average person changes their damn underwear,” my brother, Kye, says with a shake of his head. “First, New York. Then, your ass came back to Florida. Now—bam!—Brooks University in Georgia.”
“Third time’s a charm?” I shrug. “Besides, it’s grad school, and Brooks has one of the best art programs in the country.” I laugh. “You made fun of me for carrying around that camera when we were kids, but one day, maybe it’ll pay off.”
“Yep. And when it does, you can design me a big ol’ house on a private beach, where I can surf anytime I want.”
At the mention of surfing, I shift uncomfortably on my feet. The truth is, I haven’t been surfing since my father overdosed and died a year ago. One of the best yet last memories I have of him, Kye, and me is when we went surfing. It was the first time I could remember us doing something all together. Dad had been clean and sober for months, and after years of being angry with our father, Kye’s tough exterior was starting to crack. He was beginning to love and trust Dad again. I thought everything was only going to go up from there.
Turns out, I was wrong. Because after I spent months pushing Kye to let our father in again, he did. And not long after, he was the one who found him dead from overdosing on heroin.
And now, the ocean—my favorite place in the world—is tainted. And even though my brother thinks I’ve always been the one who has held it together, like I’m so strong, he’s wrong. Before my dad died, I was doing anything to numb the feelings of all he had put us through. And after he died, I did the same. Drinking until I blacked out. Snorting whatever substance was on the table at a party. Throwing myself at any guy who paid attention to me. And worst of all, losing my self-worth.
Somehow, by the grace of God, I graduated from Florida East last year after attending my first few years of college in New York City. I stopped partying. Found maybe half of myself again and then instantly applied to Brooks University’s graduate program for fine arts. I knew if I wanted to stay on the straight and narrow, I needed structure.
“I’m going to hit the road, if you’re all set.” Kye looks around my apartment. “But if you need anything else done or moved, I got you.”
