I sat in the back of the car with my head bowed to hide the tears as Dad reached over as Mum drove. The vehicle jolted before smoothing back out when he shoved the award in Mum’s face. “Are you proud of this?” he bellowed. “What is this going to teach her? Art? Fuck off.”
Dad tossed the award out of the jammed window and scolded me for wasting his time. He wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss if it were an English or Maths award. Something he would havedeemeda worthy prize to be proud of. But when they discovered it was an art award…
I shake my head, removing myself from those memories.
As Mum washes the dishes, she points to the pasta. I lean toward the repetitive pasta she makes every night for Dad. I wouldn’t hesitate if she made the sauce instead of dumping a tin and mixing it around after cooking the pasta. Not that pasta is horrible, but I want something different after eating it my entire life.
“Could you make a pork roast?” I ask her.
Her shoulder jerks when I talk to her. It is as if she wasn’t expecting it.
I thought about leaving the kitchen without another word, but Conner’s favourite meal came to mind, and I thought it was worth a shot, even if that shot is fifty yards away.
“Your dad doesn’t like…” She bites her bottom lip and cannot finish her sentence as I push away from the bench. Everything she does is for him, and I’ve seen parents and their adoration for each other. The love that never fades. They always have each other’s backs, but this isn’t it. Mum does it out of fear that she’s trying to mask as love, and I don’t understand.
If she can just tell me. Make me know, or even make me?—
I sigh and sit on my bed.Does it matter?
I clean my room before Dad enters. He isn’t overly drunk. If he were, I’d have heard the door slam against the wall and his loud thumping footsteps as he slurred his words. Instead, the door closes and locks, and the TV switches on.
Sitting on my bed, I look out the doorframe and watch his shadow move past my room and towards his chair. If anything, I expected him to barge into my room and demand to know why my friend had sent him the message. Is he too drunk?
With the impending worry weighing over my head, I don’t listen to music. I can’t even lie down in case I need to jump to my feet and defend myself. So, I sit, eye the door, and wait for the shadow to stretch across the living room to move, increasingly becoming a monster of my nightmares.
My hands tighten on the flannel pyjama pants, and my fingers poke through the hole until it tears wider. With a bite of my lip, I taste the iron lead and glare at the pile of clothes I must wash before the weekend. The weekend. I’m counting on not being here if things go my way.
“Noya,” Dad calls.
My body reacts. Prickles of hair rise on end, and a chill sweeps across my bones like dust in the wind. Yet, I rise because I know too well what will happen if I linger long enough for his patience to run thin.
Dad’s on his couch, a beer is in his hand, and he fixates his gaze on the television screen, watching a basketball game. Istand off to the side, far enough so that if he rises, I’m too far away for him to grab me. My form is rigid, and I glare down at my feet and at the redness around my ankle from where Sarah Jane shoved me.
“I’m speaking to you,” he grumbles.
“Yes, Dad,” I whisper, my hands tightening across my pants, and I bite the inside of my right cheek.
“Samantha, that friend of yours, sent me a message today while I was at work.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” I look up, just a quick look, but as I notice him looking at me, I suck in a breath and glare at my feet. Then, I close my eyes and silently pray for him not to stand…for me not to hurt.
“Did you tell her to send me a message? Did you force your friend to ask me if I can go on a school excursion?”
My eyes widen, and I step forward defensively and shout, “No! No, I didn’t!”
He eyes me with those poised brown eyes. My breaths sharpen, becoming more erratic—the beat of my heart becomes a symphony of drums orchestrated at a school band lesson.
He grimaces and turns away. “I believe you. You’re too stupid to think of that.”
With my hands balled into fists, I murmur, “I will talk to her tomorrow and tell her not to disturb you.”
“Do you play me for a fool, Noya?” he drawls. “Say a fucking word, and I’ll make sure that smart mouth of yours doesn’t move for a week.”
“Sorry,” I breathe.
He rises, and I drop, cowering with my head between my legs and my hands over me protectively. I screw my eyes shut, and hot tears leak out. “Get the fuck up, Noya.”
“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” I breathe.