practice.
The principal excused my behavior, saying that I was defending my best friend’s sister. But the incident was hard on Dee, and I haven’t seen her in the cafeteria since.
Now, I point out to her, “J. T. and his friends are assholes. They say that kind of shit to make themselves feel better because they know how weak and pathetic they really are.”
Dee turns away from me and frowns up at the ceiling. “I never think of them as weak. When it happens, they seem to hold the power. I wish I didn’t care…sticks and stones and all that jazz…but it still gets to me. And then it gets to me more because I don’t fight back. That’s the worst of it—the not fighting back.”
“Yeah, I know.” The confession slips past my guard.
“You do ?” she asks. Setting the book aside and turning, she props herself up on one elbow to search my face. “You always come across as so strong and confident. I’ve never seen you back down from anyone.”
I’m not sure I can bluff my way out of this or that I even want to. If anyone can understand my suck-ass childhood, she can. But my answer is lodged somewhere between my heart and my throat.
“What did you mean when you said, ‘I know’ Mick?” she persists.
When I still don’t answer, Dee pokes me in the ribs with a finger, and I draw my breath in sharply.
She pulls her hand back and her eyes round. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. My side is just a little tender.”
“From the fall?”
I shrug because I don’t want to lie to her now.
“Could your ribs be broken?”
“No.”
Ignoring my protest, she lifts my shirt, and her eyes move with shock and concern across my torso.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her breath fanning the road map of bruises, old and new. “How did you get these? And tell me the truth this time.”
The truth. I sober at the thought. I haven’t told this to anyone. My mother took the secret to her grave. And I promised myself I’d bury my shame the same way. But it was Dee who pulled me out of the darkness after my father’s beating. And I think that maybe if I tell her it will unlock the shackles around my soul and free me in a way I’ve never imagined possible.
I move the ice pack out of the way and look into her eyes. They well with tears. She already knows the ending. She’s just waiting for the story. But tears freak me out. They remind me of my mother’s and make me feel helpless. “I can’t talk about this if you cry.”
“Okay.” She sniffles and knuckles the wetness away. “I can handle it.”
I don’t know if I can, but I’m going to try. “Today he came home at lunchtime drunk,” I say because I haven’t hidden my old man’s drinking from her or the Torreses. “I was writing my submission for NYU and he caught me. You know how he feels about my writing.”
“I’m so sorry,” she consoles me, her voice a soft caress. “How long has it been going on?”
I close my eyes for a moment, as the answer threatens to suffocate me. “For as long as I can remember. He hated that I was born. My mom was just another pretty girl he was set to toss away, but she was in love with him. Why, I could never understand, but she was. After she died, I read her journals. When she told him about her pregnancy, he told her to get rid of it…of me. He had North Carolina State and wasn’t going to be saddled with a wife and kid. My mom refused to have an abortion. She thought once I was born he would come to love us. That night she told him, he got stinking drunk and drove his motorcycle too fast around a bend. It jackknifed. He broke a few bones, but the worst of it was a busted tibia. Finding out he’d never play competitive basketball again because he’d fucked up his shinbone was like a death sentence to him.”
“And now he thinks you owe him NC State and the NBA?” she concludes.
“Something like that. But he knows basketball doesn’t drive me. My writing does, the way it drove my mother, and that
The principal excused my behavior, saying that I was defending my best friend’s sister. But the incident was hard on Dee, and I haven’t seen her in the cafeteria since.
Now, I point out to her, “J. T. and his friends are assholes. They say that kind of shit to make themselves feel better because they know how weak and pathetic they really are.”
Dee turns away from me and frowns up at the ceiling. “I never think of them as weak. When it happens, they seem to hold the power. I wish I didn’t care…sticks and stones and all that jazz…but it still gets to me. And then it gets to me more because I don’t fight back. That’s the worst of it—the not fighting back.”
“Yeah, I know.” The confession slips past my guard.
“You do ?” she asks. Setting the book aside and turning, she props herself up on one elbow to search my face. “You always come across as so strong and confident. I’ve never seen you back down from anyone.”
I’m not sure I can bluff my way out of this or that I even want to. If anyone can understand my suck-ass childhood, she can. But my answer is lodged somewhere between my heart and my throat.
“What did you mean when you said, ‘I know’ Mick?” she persists.
When I still don’t answer, Dee pokes me in the ribs with a finger, and I draw my breath in sharply.
She pulls her hand back and her eyes round. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. My side is just a little tender.”
“From the fall?”
I shrug because I don’t want to lie to her now.
“Could your ribs be broken?”
“No.”
Ignoring my protest, she lifts my shirt, and her eyes move with shock and concern across my torso.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her breath fanning the road map of bruises, old and new. “How did you get these? And tell me the truth this time.”
The truth. I sober at the thought. I haven’t told this to anyone. My mother took the secret to her grave. And I promised myself I’d bury my shame the same way. But it was Dee who pulled me out of the darkness after my father’s beating. And I think that maybe if I tell her it will unlock the shackles around my soul and free me in a way I’ve never imagined possible.
I move the ice pack out of the way and look into her eyes. They well with tears. She already knows the ending. She’s just waiting for the story. But tears freak me out. They remind me of my mother’s and make me feel helpless. “I can’t talk about this if you cry.”
“Okay.” She sniffles and knuckles the wetness away. “I can handle it.”
I don’t know if I can, but I’m going to try. “Today he came home at lunchtime drunk,” I say because I haven’t hidden my old man’s drinking from her or the Torreses. “I was writing my submission for NYU and he caught me. You know how he feels about my writing.”
“I’m so sorry,” she consoles me, her voice a soft caress. “How long has it been going on?”
I close my eyes for a moment, as the answer threatens to suffocate me. “For as long as I can remember. He hated that I was born. My mom was just another pretty girl he was set to toss away, but she was in love with him. Why, I could never understand, but she was. After she died, I read her journals. When she told him about her pregnancy, he told her to get rid of it…of me. He had North Carolina State and wasn’t going to be saddled with a wife and kid. My mom refused to have an abortion. She thought once I was born he would come to love us. That night she told him, he got stinking drunk and drove his motorcycle too fast around a bend. It jackknifed. He broke a few bones, but the worst of it was a busted tibia. Finding out he’d never play competitive basketball again because he’d fucked up his shinbone was like a death sentence to him.”
“And now he thinks you owe him NC State and the NBA?” she concludes.
“Something like that. But he knows basketball doesn’t drive me. My writing does, the way it drove my mother, and that
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