Read Online Teaching Willow: Session Three by Paige James - Free Book Online Page A

brown and green.  A few pieces here and there are rotted away, like missing teeth in a grotesque smile.  There’s a big blue tarp covering one half of the roof.  My guess is that there’s a hole beneath it.  That sounds like the kind of logic that my mother would use to fix a problem rather than simply calling a roofer.
    The thing is, unless a lot has changed, lack of money isn’t the issue.  If they’re still dealing in the kinds of things that they were when I was growing up, money is probably plentiful.  But just as they did then, they never put any into their life, only into their body.  I think their business model was to put a third of their income up their nose, a third back into the business and a third into a safe buried in the back yard.  They would consider creature comforts, like a roof without a hole in it, a waste of money.  I guess that’s what happens when what time you do spend at home you’re jacked out of your skull.
    It wasn’t always quite this bad when I was growing up.  They did a better job of hiding it from me before I hit high school.  But still, I knew.  We lived in a part of town where you could find anything you wanted just by walking down our street—drugs, hookers, places to gamble, enforcers to make people pay if they screwed you over.  For the right price, you could buy anything.  Anything except dignity and decency.
    For the most part, my family wasn’t that much different than a lot of the kids at my school.  It wasn’t until shit went down with Talia that I realized where my situation departed from the “norm”—scruples.  Most people have them.  My parents do not.
    I swallow the dread that burns in my throat like battery acid.  Reaching forward, I hand the cabby fare plus tip and turn to get out. 
    “Want me to wait?” he asks.
    My first inclination is to tell him no, but then I think better of it.
    “Would you mind?”
    He shrugs.
    “I won’t be more than fifteen minutes,” I tell him, getting out and closing the door behind me.  “And if I am, call the cops.”  I don’t say the last loud enough for him to hear.  He’d bolt for sure.  As it is, he’s probably uncomfortable enough in this neighborhood.  This isn’t the kind of place where you just hang around outside or the kind of place where you can walk to a pay phone if you get a flat tire.  Well, not unless you’re concealing a weapon, that is.
    I make my way up the barely-discernible sidewalk to the front door.  A square of plywood is nailed to the outside, presumably to cover a hole. Or holes , maybe. Plural.  Like bullet holes.  Knowing my parents, who the hell can tell?
    I knock.  Not too hard. I don’t want the whole damn thing falling off the hinges.
    I wait, but I get no answer, so I knock again.  Still no answer.
    He can’t be far.  He’s not stupid enough to flee. 
    At this time of day, he’s probably still sleeping off his drunk. Or high. Or whatever.  It’s an endless cycle of getting wasted every night and sleeping it off all day.  At least it was and, according to his colorful arrest record, it doubt much has changed.
    I raise my hand and bang harder, this time with the side of my fist.  Finally, I hear a scuffling sound followed by the rattle of a can, like someone kicked any empty across the floor. 
    Nearly a full minute later, I hear a thump and then the throwing of a completely pointless lock (what the hell do you need a lock for if you’ve got a hole in your roof?) before the door is jerked open.  There, standing before me, bare-chested and bleary-eyed, is a man I haven’t seen or heard from in twelve years.  One that I never intended to see again.
    Jeffrey Snell.  My father. 
    He blinks and holds up his hand to shield his eyes from the light as though he hasn’t seen the sun in days.  And, honestly, it’s quite possible that he hasn’t.
    “Who the hell ar—”
    He stops suddenly. I’m guessing that his vision has adjusted enough that he