Read Online The Obstacle Course by JF Freedman - Free Book Online

gone back into the kitchen to gossip with my mom, so she was safely out of earshot.
    “Okay,” I whispered, “’bye.” I hung up.
    “Who was that?” my mom asked as she passed through on her way to her bedroom.
    “Burt. He forgot the history assignment.”
    “Someone’s calling you to ask about homework?” Ruthie butted in. “That’s a first.”
    I ignored her. With her, that’s usually the best tactic.
    “I’m pretty tired,” I announced. “I’m going to bed.”
    “Okay, sweetie,” my mom told me. She still treats me like a little kid sometimes, like she wishes I was, not back-talking and being a general pain in the ass. She gave me a peck on the cheek. “See you in the morning.”
    “See you.” I stuck my head into the living room. “’Night, dad.”
    My old man grunted a response. He was watching TV, “Strike It Rich,” one of his favorite shows. He’s always on the outlook for a get-rich-quick scheme. If some asshole can win all that money for doing nothing except come out with some sob story on television, he’ll say, why can’t I?
    “Jesus, look at it,” he bitched. “That is pathetic. How can people be so stupid?”
    He wasn’t talking to me, he was just bitching, probably his favorite thing in the world after drinking and screwing. He never talks to me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m not even there. We don’t have any real conversations, about the best we ever do is exchange information, like pass the salt. About the only time we’re ever actually talking to each other is when we’re fighting with each other, which is a hell of a lot more than I wish it was. I can’t remember me and my old man ever having a normal father-son relationship. We probably never did, even when I was little. He’s never come to one Boys Club baseball or football game I’ve ever played, even though I’m one of the stars. He’s never heard me sing in the choir at school, never looked over my schoolwork. Not once. He pays the bills, that’s about it for him as far as being a family man goes.
    I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, leaving the bathroom door open so everyone could see and hear me. I called out “good night” one more time for good measure, closed and locked my door behind me, and turned off the light.
    After waiting a couple minutes to make sure they all thought I was asleep, I slithered out of my pajamas, pulled my clothes back on, and slid open my bedroom window. The incoming air was cold and clean. I took a deep drag. It was frosty but it felt good, jolting me awake after the hot, still air inside my room had half knocked me out.
    I put on my new jacket, slipped a long-necked screwdriver into a pocket, and climbed out the window, quietly sliding it shut behind me. I oil it regularly to keep it from squeaking. My parents don’t know I do this—my old man would blister my ass into ribbons if he ever found out. There are a lot of things my parents don’t know about me, a whole other life.
    I worked my way to the edge of the roof, dropped like a cat to the ground, tiptoed around to the side of the house, and snuck a look in one of the windows. No one had heard anything, they were all zombied out in front of the TV. Silent as an Indian warrior, I moved through our yard and took off down the street, sliding down the fresh ice, grinning like a nut. Sometimes something simple like sliding down fresh-frozen ice can be the most fun in the world.
    Burt and Joe met me at the bottom of the hill. I met Joe the first day of first grade, back in Ravensburg Elementary School. Burt made it a trio when he moved here two years ago, when the D.C. schools integrated and the niggers took over. His older brother and sister had graduated Eastern High and Burt had always dreamed of it—his older brother’s a really cool guy. But after Washington integrated, Eastern, like every other white school (except in northwest D.C, where the rich people live) went from one-hundred-percent white to about