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Well, not really depressing, thugh it's that too. More...violent.

And I've decided something, but it won't happen for awhile.

To ch 10: this one was freaking awesome because that change is starting to really show up: "Shut up, I snapped at him mentally. Shut up, shut the f— up…." I think we were all rooting for him there, and the factor with the cookies when the dad wouldn't move over; that was played perfectly when the dad purposely tripped him to have a reason to beat on him. Evan is like a lightning rod for his dads suffering. The dad suffers as much as Evan with the drinking and all and hes using Evan as a lightning rod. You gotta loathe a character just for that, and omg I loved the ending with “When do I get to meet your dad?” that just was brilliantly played out.

thats what really sucks and regardless it still doesn't excuse him from beating up on helpless little children....thats what sucks...

Both me and Kirb's browsers are acting up tonight but fortunitly I'm able to post for her heres chap 11

11

When, indeed.

Let’s not forget that I was a coward. I may have imagined a thousand times asking my dad, casually, if I could have a friend over, but I never did it. I never wanted him near Kahmè. What if he didn’t like her, what if he hurt her? Would he treat her like he did me, shout at her for every little thing she did wrong? How could I live with myself if that happened to her?

I was also a bit selfish. Nothing would happen to her, nothing; she was my luck, I needed her. I protected her for her own good, but also for mine; and also, frankly, because I could, I finally had something TO protect.

Another week passed, in which Kahmè made herself at home when no one was there, following my rules religiously, or at least the ones she could remember. I found her, when I came home, napping on the sofa, munching on cereal straight from the box, swimming around in the bathtub (at least that’s what it sounded like she was doing), playing with my toys, dressing up in my clothes, or watching TV. Once she figured out how to work it, or at least how to turn it on and change channels, she picked the brightest cartoons she could find and stared at it for hours at a time. After I’d warned her to stay out of the attic and Dad’s room, I didn’t worry about her much. She put everything back as best as she could, and she did small little things around the house as well, things she knew how to do, like cleaning off dishes and soaking them in the sink, wiping crumbs off of the counter, moving clothes from the washer to the dryer. I couldn’t thank her enough for it, even if she didn’t do a lot of things right.

She never asked me if she could meet Dad again, not after I put her off with some excuse about how he was tired all the time, he’d be in a better mood some other day. She believed me. Neither of us ever breached the subject again.

But I remembered. It haunted my thoughts, my dreams. Once I woke up screaming; in my nightmare Dad had hated Kahmè, hurt her, she was screaming and there was nothing I could do…he’d killed her, I saw her fall to the floor and never get up, I saw her ghost following me around like Mom’s in that damn house, crying and asking me why, why, why…?

I didn’t know what to do.

Another week passed. Kahmè spent the night on Saturday again, only this time she didn’t fall asleep. Sunday wasn’t as bad as before, not bad at all; she gave me luck. I didn’t know what I’d do without her. I couldn’t imagine the way life had once been; it seemed like a bad memory now, a ghost that joined Mom in the attic, in my room.

She had already fallen into the habit of calling her mom once a week. On Wednesdays or Thursdays she’d run around the house, chattering to her mom for hours before wearing herself out. It made her happy, to hear what was going on, and her mother was pleased with the change of events. I decided that I would never want to get on the wrong side of Kahmè’s mother again.

Kahmè belonged in my house, just like the furniture, like the bricks coating the outside, like Mom and her ghost; she belonged a lot better than I did, for sure. She didn’t scurry about like me, cleaning nervously like a maltreated housemaid; she enjoyed herself, she played, she yelled, she slid down the banister, she explored, she filled it with happiness. I actually wanted to go home now, see her, bring her whatever I might have gotten from the vending machine, the ice cream parlor, a bake sale. I loved seeing her happy, it filled me with happiness myself, like drinking hot chocolate on a snowy day.

Time started passing in a different way. Instead of plodding on like a tired runner, it now dragged during school, flew with Kahmè, and night was gone in a blink. I had very few nightmares; often I felt like I’d cheated, somehow, when I woke up what felt like minutes after I’d gone to sleep—I felt rested, yes, but wasn’t something missing?

Still, I can’t say I missed them. No more dreams of little children being piled in a van in Iraq, sold to the suicide bombers. No more visions of prison cells, insane asylums from the 1800s, starved hands reaching through the bars, high, tortured voices keening. If I got any at all, they were more low-key—ghosts drifting around, Mom’s voice calling me in my sleep.

Only two bad things had happened to me, aside from the inevitable beating once in awhile, in those days—days that felt so right, so normal to me that I felt like Kahmè had been born just for the purpose of being my best friend. The first was the phone bill.

I’d told Kahmè that we had unlimited phone service, we paid a monthly price and did what we wanted, and it was true; but I’d forgotten about the phone bill. They still sent one, a reminder I guess, and on it was every call Dad had made—and this month, all five of Kahmè’s showed up too.

Dad had shouted for me to come downstairs, RIGHT THIS MINUTE; I’d come, my stomach heavy with dread. He’d jabbed a finger at the number, and for a moment I was paralyzed with fear.

“What the f—is this?” he demanded.

“Phone bill, sir?” I said politely. He smacked me hard across the head.

“Not that, idiot. THIS. This number.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“ARE YOU F—ING RETARDED, EVAN?” he yelled, hitting me again. “I DIDN’T CALL IT, YOU DID, WHO THE F—TOLD YOU THAT YOU COULD TOUCH THAT PHONE?”

I knew why he was getting so worked up. He thought I had called the Child Protective Services, the police station. After all, who else would I have to talk to? Nana didn’t have a phone, I’d never spoken to Mom’s parents, I didn’t know any other relatives; I didn’t have any friends, certainly. I was twelve; it was hardly a business call.

“Dad, I was just talking to my friend—”

“Friend?” he spat. “Since when do you have friends?”

“Well, um….”

“Spineless little retard,” he snapped at me. “And what is THIS?”

His finger circled the area code. It wasn’t ours. s**t. Why did he have to be so observant?

“Area code.” He glared at me, about to hit me again; I immediately added, “I know it’s not ours, he doesn’t live here, Dad—”

“Then where the f—does he live?”

No use lying about it now. “Arizona.”

“And why the hell would you need to talk to someone in Arizona?”

“Well, Dad, I…he used to live here,” I explained. “But he moved. He gave me his phone number a couple of weeks ago. They didn’t charge you, did they?” I asked carefully.

“No.” Dad scowled. “And why did you call him?”

“’Cause, I like talking to him. Sir,” I added hastily.

“What the f—would he talk to YOU about?”

I turned away, moving my foot in a small circle on the kitchen tile. “Football,” I said casually. “And girls.”

My dad gave me a look of utter loathing, and I wondered if that had been the right answer. I didn’t think he believed me; I was sure when he stood up, grabbed the phone, sat down, and started punching in numbers like the phone had personally offended him.

“Dad, you’re not calling him, are you?”

“What’s it to you?” he snapped. “You don’t have anything to lie about.”

“Why don’t you just believe me?” I demanded. “Aren’t I allowed to—?”

He smacked me hard until I shut up. I backed a good distance away, watching fearfully and listening hard for the sound of another voice.

I had heard that man speak before, knew what he was saying. Indian gibberish to me, then “Reservation.”

My dad covered the mouthpiece and turned to give me a look so piercing that I flinched. “Reservation? The kid’s a f—ing—”

“Dad, you’re still on the phone!” That would have been a little rude, just a little. He remembered himself, spoke again.

“Hello,” he said in his business voice. “Can I speak to—?”

He glared at me. “Tommy,” I replied pathetically.

He rolled his eyes. “Wonder what that’s short for,” he muttered, then repeated, “Tommy?”

The man on the other end said something; it sounded like, “Which one?” Odd. There was more than one?

“Which one, Evan?” my dad asked me casually.

“Dad, you can’t call now, he’s asleep!”

“It’s eight o’clock, f—ing moron,” he told me acidly.

“Yeah, well, they go to bed when it gets dark, Jesus, Dad!”

He thought about that for a second. He was a business man, after all; tact was how he made a living.

The man on the other end said, “Hello? Sir?”

Dad blinked, replied, “I’m sorry, never mind,” and hung up.

The silence echoed in the kitchen. I felt an almost irresistible need to back away, like one would from a sleeping bear, or a swaying cobra.

“Find some friends that live in your own f—ing state,” Dad finally spat at me.

“He helps me with my homework,” I said lamely, my voice devoid of volume.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a f—ing retard you could do it yourself,” he snapped, then pointed to the living room, ordering me away. I went without hesitation. At least he hadn’t forbidden me. That was good, right? There was really nothing he could complain about.

The second thing was again phone-related: a teacher called. That may not seem bad to anyone else, but to me….

I was doing my homework after dinner when the phone rang. Of course I wasn’t allowed to answer; Dad liked to pretend that I didn’t exist a lot of the time. He got up and answered himself, though he still glared at me like it was my fault that I wouldn’t do it myself.

The conversation sounded normal. My dad didn’t talk a lot; he just exchanged trivialities, explained that he would not be able to go to something, apologized insincerely, and then listened for a very long time. Then he thanked the woman on the other end and hung up.

I should have noticed the ominous silence that followed. But I was lost in a myriad of numbers and variables; math problems swallowed me whole, absorbed me entirely. I didn’t like them, though; who did? But they were distracting enough to delay my doom sensors by about ten seconds—sadly, that was nine and a half too many.

Before I could blink, my dad had pulled me up from the chair and grabbed the collar of my shirt, punching me hard before I could even catch my breath. “WHAT—THE—F—IS—WRONG—WITH—YOU—USE—LESS—CHILD?” he roared at me between blows. I struggled, fought, but fought, but no one was stronger than my dad; he worked out three times a week, pummeling me, his punching bag.

“What?” I screamed, desperately trying to writhe away like a hooked fish. “What did I do? DAD!”

“SHUT UP!” he yelled, throwing me to the ground. “I TOLD YOU, IF ONE MORE F—ING TEACHER—”

“It was a teacher?” I paled. Teachers sucked to every degree.

Dad ignored me. “—TAKING TIME OUT OF MY F—ING SCHEDULE TO TALK ABOUT YOU, I DON’T F—ING CARE, YOU TELL THEM NEVER TO CONTACT ME AGAIN, DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU WORTHLESS CHILD? I—DO—NOT—CARE—ABOUT—YOUR—F—ING—SOCIAL—LIFE!”

He punctuated each word with a kick; I tried to crawl away, but he grabbed me back and punched me again. I cowered, covered my head with my arms. “Wh-what’d they say?” I whimpered.

Dad rolled his eyes, threw me away from him; he put on a high, squeaky voice as he mocked my teacher. “Just called to talk about Evan, great student, so quiet and smart and such a f—ing p***y that he can’t even defend himself, oh what a pity—”

“Wh-what?” I stammered. Dad smacked me again; I backed further away.

“Some f—ing teacher from your f—ing school telling me what I already f—ing know, his grades have been improving so much in the last couple of weeks,” he mimicked again. “Whatever you’re doing, stick with it—well, they f—ing better be, you stupid child,” he snarled at me. “Whoever that f—ing teacher is, don’t think anyone’s told her that you’re not all that great. What the f—should she care if you come to school with your face burned off? You tell her, every one of those braindead old ladies to mind their own f—ing business, you hear me?”

I nodded, still cowering against the wall.

“And I don’t EVER want to hear another f—ing person complaining about getting their a** kicked, Evan,” he snapped, glaring at me; it was a double warning. The teacher had, most likely, been telling Dad about my frequent gang run-ins, but that wasn’t all of what he was talking about.

“I won’t, Dad,” I promised shakily.

He didn’t believe me; his eyes narrowed, spilling hatred into the air around me. I was quivering as I pressed myself against the wall, waiting for him to do something.

“So you can’t keep your f—ing self out of trouble at school?” he threw at me. I shook my head, wishing I could disappear into the paint of the walls.

“Well,” he said slowly, as if talking to someone very dense, “What do you want ME to do about it?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what he was doing, but it wasn’t good for me.

“Well, what do THEY want me to do about it?” he snapped.

This, I could tell, he wanted me to answer. “Umm…” I stammered, “teach me…self-defense?”

He moved too fast for me; he grabbed the back of my shirt, threw me to the ground, started kicking me over and over. “Teach you f—ing self defense,” he growled at me as I yelped and curled into a ball. “LEARN TO TAKE A F—ING PUNCH, YOU USELESS LITTLE b***h! NO ONE IS GOING TO BABY YOU ANYMORE LIKE YOUR F—ING MOTHER DID! GROW—UP—!”

I kept my mouth shut, biting my lip until it bled. Blood trickled onto the sleeve of my shirt as I pressed it to my mouth, waiting for him to kick me again. He did, once, then marched away.

His words hurt me. He wanted me to be stronger, that was all he wanted, stronger and a little smarter; why couldn’t I be? What was stopping me?

And how did Mom baby me? Was treating me like that hurting me, not helping me?

I didn’t know how to figure it out, so I asked Kahmè, “What’s your mom like? How’s she treat you?”

She looked surprised that I even had to ask. “Mama’s my bestest friend! ‘Side you, ‘course,” she amended. I flushed. “We talk about ev-er-y-thing, Mama always knows what to do and she’s real funny. And sometimes, we play ‘round, get all messy and go runnin’ in the woods; and sometimes we just sit, and she shows me how to read tea leaves an’ stuff. An’ we share a bed an’ all, and we talk real, real late…we do everything t’gether! Except the boring grownup stuff, like taxes.”

“Everything?” I frowned.

“Yeah, everything!”

“What about stuff like taking a bath? Don’t you want to be by yourself?”

“Well, that’s no fun,” Kahmè commented. “Who’d scrub my back for me?”

“What d’you do here then?”

“Well, that’s just hard.” She shrugged. “But Mama’ll be back soon enough.”

I didn’t say anything. Would she, though? And Kahmè had been “babied”…did that mean she would never grow up, be responsible? Well, of course she wouldn’t; she couldn’t even read. I saw what my dad meant now, even though there was nothing wrong with Kahmè, she was sweet and generous and fun….

“What ‘bout you?” she demanded when I was quiet too long. “Doncha do all that stuff with your dad?”

I snorted involuntarily. “No.”

She blinked wide-eyed at me. “Not even baths? Baths are so fun!”

“No.” I sat back on the couch, taking a break from scrubbing the coffee table. “But me and my mom did,” I said quietly.

“Ah, see?” She smiled at me. “It IS fun, right?”

“It was definitely fun,” I agreed, staring into the distance. I remembered all of that, still…. I had been five or six, small and skinny. Mom would slip on her swimsuit and sweatpants—I splashed around and made a mess when I was hyperactive and having a good time—and fill her bathtub with warm water and bubbles. I’d jump in, swim around, enjoying the acoustics of my parent’s bathroom, huge and white-tiled and full of echoes. No toys, just me and my mom playing around, laughing with each other; after I’d been scrubbed thoroughly all over, I would beg her to come in with me; she’d ditch her sweatpants and slide in, as skinny as me in her simple black one-piece, more angular; I felt her ribs when I hugged her. My mom, to me, was beautiful; her face was lined, aged, but when she smiled she shone like an angel. Her hair was dark and curly and long, I liked to tug on the curls and watch them spring back into place. After we had worn ourselves out playing around, she would settle in the corner of the bathtub and sit me in her lap, holding me close. I’d rest against her shoulder, between the protruding bones, feeling her breathe as she gently hummed to me until I was sleepy and ready for bed. I remembered her wrapping me in a huge towel, helping me into my pajamas, tucking me into the huge bed beside her. Back then, I’d hardly ever touched my room; it was just there for decoration, I never wanted to leave my mom’s side….

I pulled myself out of the memories and reminded myself that that was the past now. I was twelve years old, too old for being babied and depending on Mom to watch my back, catch me when I fell. I had to be independent now; I didn’t have a choice.

It was May before long, there was only a month and a half left of school. I was both excited and afraid; vacations were filled with mix feelings for me. On one hand, I didn’t have to deal with any of the gangs and bullies if I didn’t want to; if I stayed in my neighborhood or at least my house, nothing bad would happen to me, really. No homework, no schoolwork, no meddling grownups. But on the other hand, I now had almost twelve hours to clean the house, and if one thing, ONE THING was wrong, my dad gave me hell for it. It annoyed him that I got more time off than he did. He took July off more often than not, which led to more hell for me; he usually wasn’t home, but when he was, I had to stay away from him to avoid annoying him. It was a balancing act, pleasing my dad; he liked me out of sight, but he liked everything to be neat and tidy as well, so I had to be careful, thorough, and fast when scrubbing the room he was in. Usually, I failed to please him. Actually that was all the time, who was I kidding?

But summer wasn’t there yet. And I knew a good way to make it more bearable, though more perilous at the same time; but I had to work up the courage, and that was something I had never attempted before. I just had to spit it out, I decided; and somehow, some way, I managed to do it over dinner one night.

Dad was…well, he was never in a good mood. But he wasn’t yelling. That was good. And he hadn’t started drinking yet. I hadn’t been hit in a few days, and I felt braver, stronger; or maybe I was just insane. Either way, about halfway through the steak-and-potatoes meal, I practically shouted it in the silence.

“Dad, can I please have a friend over?”

Dad stiffened, lowering his loaded fork. “You CAN do anything you want,” he said to his steak. “The question is: will I kick your a** if you do?”

He had a point. That was usually the question. Not “Would that be okay with you, Dad?” but “Are you going to beat me up for it?”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured to my glass of tea. “Would….” Would you kick my a** if I brought a friend home? No, Dad yelled at me when I swore; ironic, wasn’t it? “Would you MIND if I had a friend over, sir?”

“Yes, I would mind,” he said with a sort of casual sarcasm; it meant he was in a better mood, at least he wasn’t yelling. “Because this house is never f—ing clean enough for anyone to see it, isn’t it, Evan?”

I didn’t know what to say; so therefore, I said nothing.

“And you could always go over there, couldn’t you? But that wouldn’t work, because you have chores to do, isn’t that right.” He rolled his eyes, turned back to his steak, still stiff, stressed.

“I’ll get everything done, Dad, honest,” I promised him. “I’ll clean everything twice. And they can come over after…can’t they? Just for dinner?” I was begging now. I just really, really wanted this…if Dad could get used to seeing Kahmè around, then….

“Since when have you had enough time for friends after cleaning everything twice?” he snapped at me.

“Well…I don’t know, Dad…maybe on Saturdays—”

“No,” he interrupted, and I agreed. “Not on the weekends. You invite people over on your own time.”

“Does that mean I can?” I asked eagerly.

He raised his head slowly, fixed me with one eye in a look that could slay dragons. “Excuse me?”

I paled, stared at him, frozen like a mouse before a snake. “Sorry, sir,” I whispered.

“You’d better watch yourself, Evan,” he said dangerously, his venom-tone; I couldn’t free myself from the fear, from the deadlock he had me in. “You will not talk to me like that, ever again. Understand me?”

I nodded, too frightened to speak.

“And you have a duty to me and to your home before anything else. You do what I say, when I say it, and you’ll like it. I don’t owe you anything, Evan. You’ll earn your keep here, or leave. It’s not my fault if you can’t work fast enough to have time left over.”

I flushed, my heart pumping, my blood burning at his words. I’M YOUR SON! I wanted to scream. I’m your son, you owe me SOMETHING, don’t treat me like your f—ing housemaid! PLEASE, Dad, just try to care for ONCE in my life!

He couldn’t hear my thoughts; he went on. “Just to be perfectly clear, Evan,” he said slowly, “what exactly is expected of you?”

I swallowed, forcibly tore myself away from his basilisk glare. “Good grades,” I whispered. “A’s. Clean house, every day…being respectful….”

I couldn’t remember anything general after that. Mostly it was, don’t make Dad angry, which pretty much everything fell under in retrospect.

“And?” Dad prompted. He was being too calm. He was going to blow up eventually; I could feel it, it petrified me.

I couldn’t answer. I stammered something, but I took too long—

Still casual, still deliberate, my dad picked up his steak knife and tapped it slowly against his plate, c***k, c***k, c***k, keeping his eyes directly on me. I was shaking now, almost convulsing; I had been wrong, yelling was better than this, anything was.

“Wrong anyway, Evan,” he said calmly. My heart clenched, started fibrillating. “You’re missing the entire point.” c***k, c***k, c***k, stop it, Dad, you’re scaring me, please…. “I think you’ve been trying harder lately, Evan, but you’re slipping; I think it’s very important for you to remember the rules of this house.” He stopped tapping the knife against the plate, turning it over and inspecting the blade, covered in gravy and juices from the meat.

Suddenly he turned it over, reached across the table, and slammed it down, hard; then he pulled it out of the table and cleaned it off like nothing had happened. It took half a second; I noticed that his knife was bloody before I saw the cut on my shivering arm, and then the pain hit. I gasped, quickly brought the cut to my mouth to stifle it. The taste of blood made my stomach turn. I stared at him; yes, it hurt, but that wasn’t what scared me—what frightened me was how he could do it so quickly, so coldly, just sit there and clean his son’s blood from a steak knife without a qualm…. How easily he could hurt me, how little he would regret it even if he had injured me much, much more…!

“The rules—no, the only rule in this house,” he told me seriously, coolly, as he continued to rub the red blood from the knife to the crimson-blotched napkin, “is that you do whatever I say. However much we both may wish it was different, that’s the way things are; and the way things are is that I am your father, and whatever I say goes. You understand me?”

I nodded frantically, my bleeding arm still in my mouth. My dad gave me one disdainful look before turning away; I watched in absolute horror as he used that same knife to cut his steak and calmly eat another bite. How could he treat me this way? Didn’t he feel just a little bit sorry, just a little remorseful, to see me in pain, horrified, afraid to even move? Was this the way that normal grownups had been raised; were nice, caring parents merely a recipe for disaster, and people like Dad the key to success?

Mom, help me, I whispered, wishing her ghost would come near my dad, scare him away. But she never did; she never went near either of us. She was scared. And so was I.

I don’t know how many minutes passed, but eventually I stopped swallowing blood; eventually the saliva in my mouth naturally started to heal the wound. I could taste the pollutants in it, the gravy and juices on the knife; it was going to become infected if I didn’t do something soon. I realized a need to do something, to say something; I had to let loose just a tiny part of the turmoil inside. If I hadn’t been so upset, I might not have made that mistake.

“But you told me to get some friends, Dad,” I reminded him, struggling to keep my voice steady. “And I did.”

Dad didn’t pause. “Who would want to be friends with you?”

I flushed. I didn’t see the attraction, myself. “Well, obviously she likes me well eno--”

“SHE?” My dad dropped his fork onto his plate. Now he was angry, palpably so; I couldn’t remember if it was better or worse now. “A GIRL?”

I flinched. “Yes, Dad….”

“You got a f—ing girlfriend?” he snapped, glaring at me.

I flushed again. “No, she’s not my girlfriend—”

“Of course she isn’t,” Dad agreed disdainfully. “Why would she be?”

I felt my chest fill with a heavy, clenching emotion; my face, my eyes grew hot. What was that wrong with me? Why would he say something like that? “No. She’s just my friend, Dad.”

“And WHY did she want to come here?”

“Because I asked her to, Dad.” I frowned, still hot with shame.

“What the f—would there be to do?”

“Well, I thought we would play outside…she could stay for dinner….”

“No, I’m not f—ing talking to this…girl,” he sneered. “If she’s that messed up, to talk to someone like you….”

The heat intensified; I couldn’t help lashing out in return. “You’re the one that told me to get friends! Why can’t you just be happy with that—?”

Dad stood up, very slowly, and took a step toward me; my animalistic reflexes kicked in, and I managed to stumble up and back away a few steps before he grabbed my wrist and twisted it ninety degrees. I cried out, trying to pull away; he squeezed my arm harder. “Don’t f—ing talk to me like that,” he spat.

“Let go, please let go, Dad!” I begged him. I was scared of him, he still had the knife in his hand….

“You can have your little friend over. She will not break anything, she will not ruin anything, she will not be allowed upstairs, she will not stay past eight, she will not annoy me, she will not have any reason at all to complain about anything to anybody, or you will answer to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, Dad, please—”

“Thank you, sir,” he tutored me, twisting until I screamed.

“Thank you, sir!” I shouted.

He released me; I stumbled, grabbed my wrist, took a step back. He slapped me hard; I whimpered, tried to shrink inside myself, be invisible.

“This changes absolutely nothing, Evan,” my dad warned me. “She or anyone else will not interfere with our personal life. You still have your responsibilities, and nothing is going to change that.”

I nodded, trying so incredibly hard not to cry.

“Monday,” he warned me. “After chores. She leaves at eight.”

I nodded. He pushed me away from him, went back to his dinner, leaving two words hanging like a guillotine in the air: “Or else.”



Kahmè was overjoyed when I told her the simple version: Dad had said she could stay for dinner on Monday. I didn’t tell her what it had cost me, how badly my dad had hurt me, terrorized me, how afraid I had been. She was too innocent, too naïve to know any of that. I tried to reflect her happiness as she bounced and danced around excitedly, babbling about how much fun we would have.

I only had two warnings to give her. “Try to behave,” I told her gently, trying not to sound like a dictator. “Just be calm and real polite, okay? And don’t talk to my dad much, he’s always tired after work. Just be nice…you can do that.”

She’d agree to anything then. She was so thrilled, her emotions so entirely the opposite of my own. I was so worried that I couldn’t sleep; I stressed over it whenever I let my mind stray. How would Dad act? Would he torture her like he had done to me? Would he tell her that she was worthless, would he insult her—would he hurt her? I’d keep them away from each other, I decided; and if it came to the worst, I’d stand between them. Kahmè would never be hurt if I had any say in it.

But as it happened, I didn’t need to worry at all. Kahmè and Dad both behaved perfectly.

I had cleaned and double-cleaned the house, working hard all day Sunday; I’d requested politely to Kahmè that if she would like to wear her American clothes, that would be lovely. I helped her look neat and clean, filed down her fingernails, brushed her hair back into a ponytail. My dad would find nothing to object to about her…except, perhaps, her skin color. It would be okay. I wouldn’t let anything bad happen.

Kahmè had helped me make a special dinner, a recipe called cowboy stew (ground beef, beans, corn, potatoes, and various other vegetables all stewed together) with a sort of coffee drink and red beans and rice to go with it. It was just the sort of thing my dad would like. I used our nicer bowls, porcelain with designs around the edges, and our blue glasses. Nothing bad would happen, I reminded myself again and again.

My dad had come home as sober as a judge, thank God. To my utter surprise, he was NICE to her; he smiled and greeted her politely, mentioning nothing about her obviously foreign appearance, and she was an angel; she introduced herself, set a plate in front of him, and never spoke to him again. Dad was very quiet, as usual, but Kahmè chattered to me throughout the meal. I let her go; silence for her was unnatural, indecent.

Then we played in my backyard until it grew dark; the days were growing longer, it was warm and twilight stretched on for twice as long as usual. My dad did nothing suspicious except pull up the blinds on the huge windows of our living room; I’m watching you, Evan, he was telling me. It send shivers down my spine, but I tried my very best to act normal. My theory was that if Dad could handle Kahmè now, then slowly she’d be able to come over during the summer, every day, I’d show him that I could handle it….

Kahmè “went home” at eight on the dot, waving a cheerful goodbye to me and thanking my dad with all the politeness of a Southern girl from the 20s, without the accent. My dad stood behind me as I watched her from the window, skipping down the street. When she turned the corner, the silence started to press down, electrify the air between us.

Dad didn’t say anything. I knew from experience how open I was right now, how easily he could hurt me from this angle. He had me in a corner; I couldn’t escape. I had to speak first.

“You were nice to her.” My voice showed my surprise.

“I could care less about her,” he said calmly. “She isn’t my problem.”

“You were….” I couldn’t find the words to express my astonishment. “You were NICE.”

“I just said, Evan,” he snapped, smacking my head hard. “I have no responsibility to her. If she wants to be a feather-wearing little weirdo, it’s not my problem. I’m not obliged to discipline her.”

Discipline. The word made me flinch. “I didn’t know you could act like that.” I just couldn’t get over it.

Dad reached out one hand and pressed it to my hair, pushing my head until my temple was resting against the wall. It wouldn’t have been a threatening gesture, just an odd one, to any outsider; but I knew how strong he was, knew he could crush my skull like an egg with one simple move of his wrist. I clenched my eyes shut, trying not to be sick with fear. “You want me to treat you like that,” he said mockingly, shaking my head from side to side, scraping it against the wall. “You wish I was that nice to you. Well let me remind you, Evan, I’m not your mother; and that girl isn’t my child. Her stupidity I can tolerate, but not yours. You will listen to me, and I will punish you when you fail. End of story.” He pressed harder; his thumb dug into the hollow behind my ear, and I felt my senses failing. “If you want me to treat you like that, SON, then I will—when you manage to live up to my expectations and finally do what I tell you to do.”

He laughed; a harsh, bitter sound. “But let’s be serious now."

To ch 11: ...........................................................freaking awesome. My jaw literally dropped when I read how he cut his own son with the steak knife and kept eating. First thought barbaric, then second thought ....why??? Then I concluded myself to thinking on this later. However! just when I think the story doesn't get any weirder, the dad can actually tolerate company??? I guess thats how he gets around in public, but that last comment “If you want me to treat you like that, SON, then I will—when you manage to live up to my expectations and finally do what I tell you to do.”

He laughed; a harsh, bitter sound. “But let’s be serious now."
That just proved he just enjoys seeing another's misery. Amazing Chapter!!!

heres next chapter.... I gots a feeling I'll be doing this more often razz

12

“Why don’t you invite someone smarter than you over for once?” my dad snapped at me. “C’mon, it can’t be that hard, and at least then the stupidity won’t escalate.”

I frowned. “Kahmè isn’t stupid, Dad,” I objected quietly.

“Whatever.”

“You didn’t even talk to her! She’s really smart,” I insisted. “She’s Indian, remember?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, Indians are always medical students, valedictorians…they’re just smart.”

My dad’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t say anything. He knew that, of course he did; he just didn’t know which kind of Indians.

“Please, Dad? Nothing bad happened last week!”

“Shut the f—up,” he snapped, kicking at me; I dodged and skittered away.

It was the Saturday after Kahmè had come over. Dad was reading the paper, not yet ready to run errands. I had decided to ask him again, despite my better instincts; I didn’t like the cold, shrewd, snakelike way he behaved when I mentioned her. It was almost like he hated me more, or at least in a different way, when he found out that I was not as much of a failure as he had thought. Or was I more so? I couldn’t tell. Either way, he was scaring me.

And yet, here I was, asking; and I asked again on Sunday. This time, after watching me for a long, long time, he waited for me to ask again, then gave me the same warnings as before.

Kahmè came over again, and everything went just as it had the previous week, with one tiny exception: right after dinner, my dad knocked back two straight glasses of whiskey, taking a third into the living room, where the usual football game or political show was blaring. Kahmè noticed my nervousness, but when I saw Dad watching me, I couldn’t shake it off; I just told her I was feeling bad, and did my best to play my best regardless.

When she left, I got beaten, hard; Dad was drunk, started yelling at me, threatening me; Kahmè had seen him drinking, so what? Was she going to go home and tell her mommy? Was I going to make her report him, or grow some balls and stand up to him myself? He’d shoved me, and I’d cowered; he’d started to hit me, and there was nothing I could have done. I didn’t know how to react to him like this; he wasn’t the bearlike Dad of April, he wasn’t the snakelike Dad of yesterday; he was acting like…like a really drunk, really stupid man. I didn’t understand; I avoided him for another week.

It was June; two more weeks of school. That last week I worked hard, denied any temptations to ask Kahmè over again; the episodes were just stressful, though I hoped it would pay off later. I concentrated on my schoolwork, doing my absolute best; then on Friday, when the grades stopped counting, I studied all weekend for the finals. It was my last week in the seventh grade. I wouldn’t miss it, I had no sentiments toward this particular school year; I just wanted the summer to come, so fewer people were around to annoy me on a regular basis.

My studying paid off. I had no idea how I had done, but I could answer most of the questions, and I felt optimistic about my scores. And thank God, the fever I knew I was going to get soon held off until the last exam, which was extremely easy anyway (Basic Computer Science). When I was done, I put my head down and fell asleep; I woke up when everyone was leaving and dragged myself home, then fell asleep again.

When I woke up, it was very early on Saturday—or maybe very late on Friday. Nope, it was Saturday, said my clock. 2 a.m. I groaned and fell asleep again; when I glanced at the clock this time, it said 6 a.m. Better…but I still felt as shitty as before. I didn’t know what I had, or at least what the name was; it felt like a headache, nausea, the shivers, and a fever all rolled into one. I stumbled downstairs and, too queasy to eat, sipped at a glass of Sprite and watched the sun come up until I got bored and fell asleep on my book.

A loud thud and a sharp flash of pain woke me up. Something had smacked me on the head—oh, Dad was up. That explained things. I picked my book up from where it had fallen and set it down again, pulling out eggs and bacon for breakfast.

“What the f—is that?” Dad demanded.

I glanced up, blinking sleepily; he was pointing at my book: today it was Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident. “Book, Dad,” I yawned.

“And where did you get that?”

I was too sleepy to sense the danger. I didn’t think there was any; it was just a book. “Library….”

“What the f—is wrong with you?” he demanded.

Exhaustion made me stupid, like it did anyone else. “I think ‘m sick,” I murmured.

SMACK! I flinched, managed to catch the paperback before it landed in the eggs. “I don’t care!” Dad snapped at me. “I meant, why the f— would you need to read that s**t?”

“Just like to, sir,” I objected, cowering by the stove.

“So that’s what you do when you’re supposed to be cleaning the f—ing house?” I could feel his eyes glaring at me. I sighed. Did the house not LOOK clean?

“I just read before I go to bed.”

“And now, when you’ve got work to do?”

“It’s summer, Dad….”

I could feel his overwhelming urge to hit me poison the air in the room. Good thing it was so early, and a Saturday, or he would have.

“I don’t f—ing care. Get your s**t together before you decide to be retarded—”

“Reading makes you smarter, Dad, seriously!”

“No one ever got anything done by sticking their nose into a f—ing book,” he snapped.

I didn’t answer, went back to breakfast. I’d have to find my library card, I thought to distract myself from the ever-increasing headache. And I’d have to return that last book to the school library as soon as possible. I only used the public one in the summer or during holidays, as it was so poorly stocked.

But the indignant part of me wouldn’t be silenced. Who was he kidding? EVERYONE that had ever done ANYTHING worthwhile had read books. HE was the stupid one. He hadn’t even noticed that I had been bringing home a stack of books from the library every two weeks for the past seven years. They had a special corner in my room, within easy reach of my bed. Depending on the size, sometimes I’d bring home seven or eight at a time. My record was fifteen; I was proud of myself for reading them all and still turning them in on time.

I made him his breakfast, sat across from him as always, stared dopily out of the window. It was a nice day. The first day of summer.

I just wanted to go back to sleep.

But instead, a brilliant idea came. I said nothing of it, nodding to my dad’s demands that everything be clean when he went out the door. As soon as his car was out of sight, I stood, dragged myself outside, up the playhouse’s ladder.

Kahmè was still asleep. I let her go, yawning and curling up in the corner; I had joined her in seconds. It was the best idea I’d ever had; it was warm outside, quiet, peaceful, and the smell of the first day of summer—fresh cut crass, flowers, sunlight, warm earth—filled my head and helped lull me into pleasant dreams.



“Evan, wake up,” said Kahmè’s voice.

“Mmmmm…?” I opened my eyes. She handed me a glass of something iffy and green. “What’s this?” I mumbled as I took it.

“Tea. You’re sick.” She felt my forehead, frowned at me. “Why’re you sick again?”

“Always sick,” I muttered, sipping at the tea. I made a face. “Can I put sugar in this?”

“Sugar?” She smacked herself in the forehead; I winced—it looked painful, in my current state. “Oh, I forgot! Sugar WOULD help—!”

She scampered away before I could manage to blink. I leaned against the wall, stared at the tea, completely unaware of where I was and what was going on.

Kahmè returned with the bag of sugar and a spoon. “Make sure to put a whole lot into there, Evan,” she told me sternly. I shrugged and did as she said. The tea tasted more like sugar water than anything, but I drained it, my throat dry and scratchy and my stomach empty.

“Good.” Kahmè smiled at me. “Now lay down and rest, ‘kay, Evan? It’ll start working in a minute.”

I flopped down onto her bed, at her insistence, and let her cover me up. I closed my eyes; my head was spinning, I started drifting.

“It’s summer for ya, right, Evan?” Kahmè asked me. I nodded. To my surprise, she started laughing hysterically, making me jump.

“What?” I demanded.

“Spirits, Evan,” she giggled, holding her stomach as the laughter refused to cease. “We are gonna have sooooo much fun.”



Summer was Kahmè’s favorite season. She was a person who enjoyed simple pleasures; she loved to roll in the springy new grass, pick all of the flowers, blow the seeds off dandelions, swim in sun-warmed waters, race with a friend beneath a burning sun and a bright blue sky.

I had never done much of that, even as a kid. My idea of fun was a little more sedentary, a little calmer: reading a book, sitting in my mom’s lap, watching snow fall from inside. Roasting marshmallows, biscuits, apples. Winter was my favorite season, just because of the quiet.

But Kahmè was in the process of showing me how I could insert adventure into every hour of my daily life. She absolutely would not tolerate a minute inside when I had the entire day to myself; she would come in and wake me up herself if she needed to. And after my dad had gone to work, she usually did; she shrieked and jumped on my bed until I woke up and poked me until I got dressed and brushed my teeth. Then she’d pull me downstairs and into the summer sun, and we’d begin the new day.

A schedule of some sort developed, the loosest kind: the wake-up call, breakfast for both of us, then our journeys outside. Whatever Kahmè decided to do, she eventually got hungry around eleven or twelve, and we could go home and eat or use some of my money to buy some cheap food from wherever was nearby. Then we took an afternoon nap, watching the clouds; and then it was back to playing, running around as much as my pathetic stamina would allow, doing everything, being everywhere. Then dinner; then we went our separate ways.

After a week of this my dad noticed that I hadn’t been cleaning the house and yelled at me for ages; I’d had to start counting again for the first time in a while. I knew, then, that something had to give; responsibility had to fit into my schedule somewhere.

So I told Kahmè that we were moving too fast, we’d run out of things to do soon. I convinced her (or rather, arguing with her convinced me) that I had to clean the house every other day, and we’d do something inside then; but when we weren’t, we could do whatever she designated.

And that worked beautifully. One day we’d sleep in, I’d clean, then she’d watch TV as I read or we’d play with her toys in my bathtub or something like that; the next day we’d exploit all the wonders that a small Nevada town had to offer. We’d explore, we’d shop, we’d roll down hills, we’d race, we’d tumble around, we’d balance on fences, we’d take walks, we’d climb trees. Once we found a huge plain with nothing in it but grass, dandelions, and wildflowers, and played hide-and-seek; once we’d explored miles of a concrete canal at a time; once we’d gone to the park in the rain and played on everything, gotten soaking wet.

Needless to say, none of any of that was my idea. It was either my dad’s or Kahmè’s. The only thing I really ever wanted was to read or something; but I had a lot more fun than I had thought I would when trying all of Kahmè’s crazy and childish adventures. Rules were fragile, changeable in her hands; my dad let me roam during the summer, but only in Skyland, but Kahmè convinced me to go all the way into Zephyr Cove, adventure into the nothingness to the east, run and play on the shores of Lake Tahoe. We made a week-long adventure of the Zephyr Cove County Park, which had a playground, a library, picnic tables, and a beach; we knocked on the door of a fire station, a police station, and half a dozen shops and restaurants, and demanded a tour.

Kahmè could do, and did, everything that was in her power to do. I admired her tenacity, her courage. I wished, deep in my heart, that I could be like her. She was the sort of person that, even if she wasn’t smart or strong, could stand up to anyone.

June went by like that, in a haze of unpredictability and confusion. I absolutely loved it. For the first time in my life, I was living my own story, my own life instead of someone else’s.

July was different. My dad was home all month, sleeping in and watching football and doing whatever it is grownups do. Sometimes he’d go play golf, or go out to eat, or something else; he left me alone a lot, didn’t seem worried about me; he didn’t refrain himself to Saturdays to drink, he went out whenever he wanted to. He seemed more relaxed than usual, didn’t yell as much; summer just made everything better. Why this one was so much better than the ones before was clear to me: it all had something to do with Kahmè, every bit of it.

Like I had hoped, when I started asking to have Kahmè over more and more, it got to the point where she could come over every day, just within a set time frame. My dad didn’t like having her there, I could see it; mostly it didn’t bother him, but there were times when I really made him mad and he had to work hard to keep from shouting at me. It just made it much worse when he finally did let it out; but I took it without complaint. I wanted Kahmè to be part of my life; I didn’t want her to be a whole part, but part of a whole.

Dad eventually got used to her there. For five or six hours a day, I saw his civil side, the side that didn’t hurt me, didn’t appear to hate me. The masquerading side. Kahmè actually liked him, though she thought he was boring. Of course, she only saw the outside of him, the part everyone beyond my family saw. I dwelled on the mystery late at night: which personality was his true one? The angry, hatred-filled, abusive Dad that I knew? Or the polite, courteously detached businessman that everyone else saw every day?

I never did figure that out.

That summer set dozens of records for me. It felt shorter than any summer ever had before; adversely, it was the most fun I’d had in the latter half of my life. It was sunnier than I could ever remember—perhaps because I had never ventured outside of my room in summers before—and my skin grew the darkest it would ever get: a sort of transparent vanilla-mocha-pale-yellow. For the first time in my life, I had a best friend that wasn’t my mom. For the first time in years, my dad was actually something close to tolerant; he let me roam, didn’t care where I was as long as the house was clean and dinner was hot. I got beaten only a handful of times a month, a revolutionary record.

Kahmè discovered tons of records herself for me: how high I could climb (or rather WOULD climb), how far I could jump, how long I could hold my breath. She destroyed my sanity, dragging me along with her stunts whether I was scared or not, but I could laugh at myself for it later…I guess. I tolerated her, I did what she wanted, just like I did with Dad—because, I realized, I wanted to impress her too, and it was a hell of a lot easier than trying to crack my dad.

I discovered, with Kahmè, that I could be someone different for awhile; I didn’t have to cower and flinch, watch myself, I could scream and yell and play and laugh. I could be fearless, even though when night came I was myself again, Evan the scaredy-cat. In short, I could pretend to be normal, pretend that the part of me that was always screaming didn’t exist. I could tell my desperate, worrisome, always-frightened self to shut the f—up for a few hours. It was a freedom I had never had before.

That was my summer, in short: old Evan pushing himself out of the way to make room for the new; new Evan falling to the background when Dad walked into the room. Fear kept a constant little riff in the back of my mind, like static in the background, while wilder, uncontrolled emotions emerged and buried themselves again. It wasn’t so much the events as the rush of emotion that made it eventful; almost nothing of interest to any other normal kid had happened. All of the wildness, all of the adventures would have seemed dull and unexciting to the other kids my age, whose idea of fun was a tackle football game in the park, a movie with a girlfriend, getting drunk or high, dirt biking down the side streets. But to me, it was like being thrust into an Indiana Jones movie: snakes and heights and everything else I was afraid of crammed into one tiny space, with demons and darkness and threats literally over your head. Yet I could still come out laughing like all of it had just been a videogame level, a ride in an amusement park.

I say almost nothing happened, because something out of the ordinary did occur once, in July. One day, my dad was freaking me out of my skin; the next, we were going to see Nana.

My dad had gone drinking Tuesday night, or rather Wednesday morning; I’d waited for him, as it was best to do in the summer (apparently I had no reason to be asleep without school, though this was his theory, not mine), and reading at the foot of the stairs, but at 2:30, when the door opened and he came in, he didn’t go upstairs. Instead, he went over to the couch and sat down, and just stared at the coffee table, sat there and stared. I could tell from experience that he was absolutely sober. Strange, and even stranger was that though I stayed up and watched him for a long time, he never moved. In the morning, I found him in the same place, unshaven and fast asleep; it looked like he’d just flopped over sometime between 4:15 and 10.

I crept back upstairs, took my newest book and a blanket, and tiptoed over to him and covered him up. I couldn’t explain it, but he was my dad, and I still wanted him to accept me, love me; and somehow, when he was asleep, he didn’t scare me anymore. Just the opposite, in fact; I saw all the lines on his face, all the weariness, and I felt an insane urge to hug him. I resisted, shaking my head at myself; I really must be nuts, or suicidal perhaps. I sat at the kitchen table and read, alert and waiting for the smallest sign that he was waking up.

He started snoring a few minutes later, maybe in response to the blanket; by 11 I’d forgotten he was there, thoroughly absorbed in my book, and by 11:30, Kahmè had grown bored with sleeping in and knocked on the back door.

I let her in, shushed her, and pointed to my dad. She understood.

“Ohhhh. Why’s he sleeping there?” she whispered.

“I dunno,” I whispered back. “I just found him like that. Don’t wake him up, please, Kahmè—”

“I won’t,” she promised. “I’ll Indian-walk.”

And she made a huge show of tiptoeing, putting one foot exactly in front of the other, mock-fainting when she missed by a centimeter. I smiled at her antics, but quickly swallowed it, making her sit down out of sight.

“You should probably go,” I fretted. “He might be all crabby when he wakes up….”

“But Evan, why should he? I can come over now, it’s way past time!”

“Yeah, but….” How could I explain this to her without scaring her? My dad wouldn’t have a hangover, true, but who could tell what was making him act so oddly? Who knew how generous or otherwise he’d be to strangers when he awoke? I was scared now, if only for her. This could turn out to be really good…or really bad. “Will you, anyway?”

“Why?” Her lip stuck out, her eyes suddenly shone. “Don’t you want me?”

“No, no, of course I do! It’s just….” I didn’t know what to say. I glanced edgily at my dad. “I’ve gotta do a lot of stuff when Dad wakes up….”

“I’ll help you!”

“No, Kahmè…really….”

“But…but Evan!”

We argued like that in whispers for much longer than an argument without any specific points of discussion should be allowed to last. Finally, I groaned and gave in, letting her make strawberry pancakes for us, as long as she was QUIET. She bounced around like normal but surprisingly, made no noise whatsoever; it was as if God had hit her mute button for me. The aroma of pancakes and fresh strawberries filled the kitchen, and I returned to my book filled with relative peace of mind.

Dad woke up when Kahmè was tearing through her third pancake. I was alerted by the absence of snoring; I leapt up—I had seconds to act.

“Kahmè!” I hissed. “Go outside!”

“No!” she objected, poking her sticky tongue at me. I pulled at her, pushed her; she poked me and stubbornly—and loudly—informed me that she wasn’t going anywhere, she’d made breakfast and she was staying to eat it.

I would have fist-fought her for it, but then it was too late; Dad was up.

I quickly sat down, my heart racing, and hid my book beneath my leg, watching him carefully to judge his mood. He sat up, stared at the blanket across his lap, looked around.

“Morning, Dad,” I said as cheerfully as I could. Kahmè waved without looking up from her pancake.

Dad stared at us for a long, deafening minute; then he stood up and went away, trudging absently upstairs. I blinked after him; he’d never been like that before. Was this good, or bad…? I couldn’t decide.

I kicked Kahmè’s shin hard beneath the table. “Owww!” she complained, flinging her bare feet at me, but I had already moved away. “What was that for?”

“I told you to go outside!” I snapped at her. “Why couldn’t you just do it?”

“Why should I?” she said belligerently. “It’s my house too!”

“No it’s not!”

Her fork clattered to her plate. She stared at me, strawberry syrup all around her mouth; I realized my mistake and flushed, looked away, but it was too late.

“It’s not anymore?” she demanded, though her broken voice ruined the effect. “What’d I do?”

I didn’t know what to say. She considered this her HOUSE? She lived in the playhouse outside! THAT was her house, if anything! But no, maybe she meant her home…aww, that was just pathetic.

“I’m sorry, Kahmè,” I said lamely, feeling useless and inarticulate. “You can stay.”

“Why’d you say that?” she whimpered, almost crying now.

“I’m really sorry,” I insisted. “Just stressed…I’m sorry….”

“But why?”

I struggled to give her the simplest, least-violent answer. “Because people get all embarrassed when strangers see them in the morning. I thought my dad would get mad at you. That’s all.”

“Are you mad?” Her eyes were all wide and shiny again. I bit my lip.

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry.”

“Can I stay?”

“Yeah, sure.” What was the use of her leaving? She’d already been spotted. The deed was done. “Sorry.”

“That’s ‘kay,” she assured me, back to normal in about two and a half seconds. I sighed, relieved and very confused.

My dad came back downstairs freshly washed, shaved, brushed, and clothed. I was still getting used to the sight of him in a t-shirt and jeans, summer clothes instead of the usual suit or khaki-polo combo. I had fresh coffee (with cream and sugar this time) and a hot plate waiting for him; Kahmè had thought I was being abnormally generous, almost saintly, as she had no idea what would happen if I didn’t. I’d hidden my book in the spatula drawer, cleaned Kahmè and her place off, and given Dad his own half of the table; both of us were on our best behavior.

Dad didn’t answer either of our greetings, Kahmè’s bright and, well, Kahmè-ish, mine hesitant and quiet. He seemed dazed; he stared at his coffee before he drank it, at his food before he ate it. I had no clue what was wrong with him; I had no appetite, and my hands shook no matter what I did. Kahmè poked me, concerned, but I just shook my head at her, and she said nothing. Instead, she started talking about our plans for the day to fill the silence. I nudged her, but she didn’t see the problem; I didn’t want my dad to know we were doing any of that, especially if she mentioned somewhere that we were leaving Skyland. I wanted to be good today; I reminded her that I had to clean, and she never caught my lie—she accepted with good grace.

After breakfast I cleaned off the dishes while Dad poured himself a glass of whatever and went into the living room. I scrubbed down the kitchen, took my time—Kahmè enjoyed herself spinning around on her knees on the soapy floor—and when that was done, decided to get the living room out of the way.

Dad had the TV on, but it was a stupid sitcom, not something he would usually watch. And he wasn’t; I could tell he wasn’t watching at all, just staring into space in the direction of the TV. Every once in a while he reached for his glass and took a sip. I was so nervous that I almost, ALMOST dropped the picture frames onto the hearth of the fireplace, though thank God I caught myself just in time.

When I looked again after dusting the frames, I saw that Dad had shifted his attention. Instead of watching the TV, he was watching me.

My nervousness only doubled, tripled. I wanted to run, I wanted to scream; but I wouldn’t let myself. I cleaned everything in the usual order, or as best as I could remember, making sure to be slow and thorough—Dad was still watching me. His eyes bored into my back. I swore to myself as I realized that I had to vacuum before I could go on; and yet, he was right there. Noise would bother him.

I swallowed, turned to meet his eyes; he was still watching. “Dad? Do you mind if I vacuum?”

He didn’t answer. I took it for a yes after much deliberation and told Kahmè to pick her—well, my—toys off the rug. She did so without complaint, stuffing everything into her sweatshirt pocket and flopping onto the worst place she could be: right next to my dad. I tried to act normally, but it was hard; I kept screwing up, too preoccupied with worrying about Dad, about Kahmè, about myself. I glanced over there every few seconds; the hum of the vacuum deafened me, but I saw Kahmè’s head turn upward, toward my dad, and saw her lips move. Dad didn’t answer. When the vacuum turned off, Kahmè, who naïvely thought that he was ignoring her because he hadn’t heard her speak, tried again; but midsentence I shook my head at her, and she sighed but turned away from him. She had no idea…she was so naïve, so clueless….

Finally I was finished. I stuffed everything back into my cleaning bucket-thing and looked around for anything I had missed, any small detail that new totally-freaky-and-absolutely-terrifying Dad would notice and blow up over. The only thing I saw was that his glass wasn’t on a coaster. I crept over, lifted it up, wiped off the condensation and slid a coaster beneath it, trying my very best not to spill with my shaking. As I set it down, I noticed something strange: the glass was half-filled with water, plain ice water.

Strange. Eerie, apocalyptically strange. My dad was an alcoholic; what interest would water have to him? Yet I knew it wasn’t spiked, seasoned, or anything else. It was just water, and it had the same effect on him as it would anyone: absolutely nothing.

Maybe it had LSD in it or something. That would explain why he kept staring at me. Las must make a person look reaaaaaally strange….

I pulled Kahmè out of there as fast as I could, afraid to leave her alone. She griped a bit about how I was always pushing her around, but I let her play with Spiderman in the sink to make her happy. She was like a little kid; if I promised her cookies she’d do anything I wanted—except in our case she had to stop and double over laughing at the thought of my terrible cooking.

As I scrubbed the floor, I tried to stop myself from shaking, taking deep breaths laced with bleach fumes and making an effort to convince myself that everything was fine now. Dad couldn’t see me, he couldn’t hurt me from over there, we were safe…that, or trapped by that puny little door, enough to hold us in but not near enough to hold Dad out….

As if to echo my fears, though I knew she was never afraid, Kahmè said aloud, “Your dad was actin’ pretty weird today.” Then she giggled, and I wondered what was funny until she added, “Echoooo! ECHO!” Her voice reverberated around the bathroom; I’d left the rug and hand towel outside, leaving nothing to cushion the sound.

“I know.” I tried to sound casual, but failed. “I wonder if something’s wrong with him, I’m kinda worried….”

“He didn’t look sick,” she assured me, blowing a handful of bubbles into the air. “He just looked kinda…well, kinda thoughtful. Real thoughtful, that’s it.”

I swallowed. Thoughtful was not good for me. “What do you think’s got him like that?”

She shrugged carelessly. “I dunno, he kept starin’ at you…maybe he’s trying to think of a birthday present?”

I made a face, shook my head. My only birthday presents came from Nana now, whenever she remembered. When I turned nine I got an enlightening lecture about the subject: my dad thought that he gave me more than enough as it was. I had to agree, life could have been worse. His present was not hitting me for twenty-four hours and bringing home Chinese or something. It was a nice gesture, I thought; especially since no one else beside Nana had ever given me anything since Mom died.

“My birthday’s in September,” was my way of abridging this.

“Ohhh. What day in September?” she asked me curiously.

“The fourth. When’s yours?”

“Um.” She thought about it for a moment. “What calendar, now?”

“Uh, the American one?”

“Yeah, but who invented it, is it the Roman one or the Chinese one…?”

“I think Roman. I dunno. Can’t you read a calendar?”

“Oh, you can read them?” She blinked at me, surprised. I rolled my eyes.

“Do you know what day?”

She counted in the air, her lips moving soundlessly. Then she frowned. “Nope, dunno what day it is. Sometime in August, I think…. I’ll know when it comes,” she decided, and her expression cleared.

I nodded, trying to look like I didn’t think this was weird at all. I continued cleaning, and she followed me upstairs, setting up a new playground in my parents’—well, my dad’s—gigantic bathtub. It took me ages to clean in here, and all the time I tried not to focus on anything; Mom’s presence was all over the place in here. Then I moved onto the rest of the house, finally stopping in my room. Compared to the rest of the house, it seemed shabby, unkempt; I never cleaned in here because Dad avoided it like the plague, there was no need.

I sighed and sprawled onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow. Kahmè mimicked me, exaggerating her movements and burrowing beneath my covers amidst a fit of giggles. I scowled at her.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are.”

I rolled my eyes and picked up my newest book, propping myself up on my elbows to read. Kahmè yawned, her eyes following the path of a dust mote against a crack in the curtain.

“Why’s it so dark in here?”

I reached up and turned on my lamp. “There you go.”

She scowled at the artificial lighting. “Why doncha just open the curtains?”

“Because we’re on the second floor.”

“So?”

I blinked; I thought I had been perfectly clear. It was too high, too far away from the safe clutter of walls and trees. I didn’t like seeing only sky outside; it made me feel like I was looking up at the surface of the ocean and gave me a weird feeling of upside-down vertigo. My window dominated that wall; when it was not covered, I felt like I was trapped in a fish bowl turned sideways.

I didn’t know how to explain it, so I went with my other reason, like I had to do often with Kahmè. “I forget to close the curtain,” I explained. “And at night it freaks me out, so I just leave it like that all the time.”

“How’s it freak you out?” she asked me thoughtfully, her head cocking to one side.

“It…I dunno,” I said feebly. “It’s just too open. There’s too much out there.”

She snickered. “You’re afraid of outside?”

I frowned at her. The way she said it, she made it sound completely unreasonable.

She burst out laughing at the look on my face. “I can’t believe you’re afraid of outside!”

“Shut up.”

“That’s so silly, though! It’s like being afraid of air!”

“I said shut up….”

She was laughing so hard that she lost her balance and fell to the floor; I smirked at that, and in retaliation she grabbed my curtain and flung it away from the window.

The bright sunlight seemed to poke me in both eyes; I yelled and buried my head beneath my blanket, my eyes watering from the sting.

“Stop that, stop it, put it back!”

She laughed hysterically, pulling at my sleeve, not understanding how scared I really was. “Come out, Evan, come on, come on, spirits, you are so funny—”

“It’s not funny, put the goddamn curtain back where it was!”

“No, I like it like this,” she said stubbornly, bouncing on my bed in an attempt to get me up. When I ignored her still, she paused for a minute, and then decided to flop down and sit on my back.

“GET OFF ME!” I screamed, writhing around to try and free myself. Startled by my reaction, she had an attack of clumsiness as she tried to do as I’d said, and my struggling dumped us both onto the floor. My head smacked against the nightstand; I pressed my palms to my temples and winced, glad that the shadow of my bed and the comforter protected me from the glare of the sun.

Kahmè sat up, then was very still for a long time, or at least it seemed that way to me. Then with a swift, effortless movement, she pulled the comforter away from my face and stared down at me.

When she didn’t say anything, I felt the need to defend myself. “Don’t do that,” I ordered her, still slightly breathless. “I can’t breathe.”

“I wan’t sitting on your lungs,” she said quietly.

“It’s not…I’m claustrophobic. If you sit on any part of me like that I feel all…trapped, and….” I couldn’t explain; I was no good with words.

She blinked at me for an even longer pause, then without a word freed me from the ensnaring comforter, dumped it on the bed, and helped me up. I automatically raised a forearm to shield my eyes; Kahmè grabbed it and stared at my transparent skin.

“Why’re you afraid of the sun?”

I looked away, trying weakly to tug my arm out of her grasp. Once again, I couldn’t find the words to bridge my thoughts and her question. The sun was bright, happy; it kind of reminded me of my mom, shedding light wherever she went. And it reminded me that there was a world outside, a cheerful summer world where twelve-year-old kids could run around without the responsibility or the fear I felt all the time. It chased away shadows that wanted nothing better than to keep their places and their secrets; it was cruel, ruthless, it burned whatever lay in its path for too long, it could save or it could kill. I feared it like sinners feared God.

“Too bright,” I said lamely. She seemed to know that I was holding out on her and pinched me. “What?” I mumbled. “Never said I was articulate….”

She blinked, but chose to ignore the long word. She turned over my hand, tracing her fingers lightly over my wrist. I had anorexic, anatomy-textbook wrists; you could see the veins and the tendons. The sunlight, instead of making me seem at least yellowish, only made me paler. “You don’t look very good, Evan,” Kahmè told me softly, thinking the same thing I was.

“I know that,” I snapped, pulling away. Did she really need to rub it in?

She frowned. “Are you sick?”

“No. Do I look sick?” She gave me a what-do-you-think? look, and I realized how stupid the question really was. “I’m fine.”

“I meant…well, I dunno. Like, long-term sick. What’s the word, now?” she asked herself, turning her eyes to my ceiling as she thought. “Malnutrition…something to do with that….”

“I am NOT anorexic!” I snarled. Like I didn’t get enough of that at school. “Skeleton Kid,” “Walking Death,” people knocking me over and sneering, “I thought only girls were anorexic, Lucas.” Ugh. It would be less annoying if they actually knew what my first name was.

“I didn’t mean that!” she objected, surprised. “Kinda sounds like it though. I mean, the word,” she added hastily. “Blood, something to do with….”

“Anemia?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“N-…oh. Are you sure?”

“I’m not,” I snapped, though I had no idea, really. I hadn’t seen a doctor in a while. That’s kind of what happens when your dad could care less about your general well-being. Although I saw his point with check-ups; I could have an aneurism or brain cancer or something like that, and they’d never see it, all they’d know was that I was alive, THEN, and hey, my reflexes were perfectly fine….

She dropped the subject, moving over to the window. I stayed away. When I chose to go downstairs, when I chose to venture outside, that was fine; but light didn’t belong in my room. It wasn’t my sanctuary, it was my prison; it lurked at the heart of my personal hell, it was small and bare, devoid of any memories of happiness.

Kahmè sat on my windowsill and looked out onto the street. She glanced briefly behind her, and I flushed; I could tell she didn’t like what she saw. “Your room’s scary,” she murmured to herself. “Like no one lives in it.”

I picked up my book again and, sighing, sat beside her, my back to the sun. I had to admit that I was human, and warmth felt nice; especially since I was so thin-skinned, and my dad always kept the house colder than I would have liked. I was always freezing, lately.

Kahmè nudged me, pointed. A bunch of little kids were tumbling around on the lawn across the street. “Those are the Timberlan kids,” I said dully.

“No, not them. Look.”

I followed her finger this time, and I finally saw what she saw. Mountains. Purplish in some places, orange-red in others, stark beauty, magnificent simplicity. The sun hit them straight-on, magnifying their blunt, asymmetrical perfection. Beyond them, the clear ocean that was the sky. The sun. Nevada. The world.

“There’s a whole ‘nuther world out there,” she told me, spreading her fingers across the window pane. “And a hundred thousand little ones inside it. All you gotta do is look.”

I knew she was right; I felt it every time I looked out of a window. Hope, timid faith mixed with fear, with spiteful jealousy, with remorse. “I know,” I told her, but as usual I left something out.

I know. That’s why I’m scared.

The dad scared me more than usual this chapter... eek I think that silence has more meaning to it than meets the eye... When one is silent you don't understand anything at all...

I also liked the thought of a world outside his room... Its something we all could consider...

Nice one kirb's wink