I park at the pump farthest from Brett. It doesn’t keep him from spotting me.
Brett’s the new running back. He should be grateful I’m no longer playing, but for some reason he hates me. I suspect it has something to do with Sheila.
Brett shakes his blond hair out of his eyes and greets me with a raised middle finger. Then he bends to say something to the passenger or passengers—his windows are so tinted, you can never tell who’s inside—before throwing his head back and making a face like he’s having an orgasm. Apparently this is him laughing. What is it about BMWs? Do they make you an asshole or are you already an asshole and that’s why you have a BMW?
The back door on the driver’s side flies open and Sheila sprints toward me at full speed.
I really don’t have the energy.
I rub my hand across the back of my neck and wait for the attack.
“Ty, baby!” She launches herself into my arms, and I turn my head just before her lips assault mine; they land at my ear instead. I pretend to be distracted by something on the pump screen as I slide her off of me.
She traces her finger over the letters of my stupid Subway hat. “Did you just get off?”
I nod.
“Wanna do it again?” she says suggestively.
I manage a small smile.
“That’s better.” She nuzzles into me, gently scratching the back of my neck with her acrylic nails. It doesn’t feel as good as it used to. “You smell yummy,” she says. “I haven’t had bread in forever.”
“Perks of the job,” I say, probably a little too sarcastically. I used to love the smell of freshly baked bread. At this point, let’s just say it’s lost its appeal.
“Sheila!” Cara, one of the other cheerleaders, calls.
“Hang on, bitch.” Sheila flips her brown hair all dramatically. “Say the word and I’m yours.”
The gas pump clicks, so I turn to finish my business. “Sorry. It’s just . . . It’s been a long day.”
“Your loss.” She grabs my ass and snakes under my arm, shoving her tongue in my mouth while I attempt to tear off the receipt. Then she bounces back to her friends. “See you tomorrow, baby!” she sings as she climbs back into the Beemer. There’s a symphony of giggling from inside. I wonder just how many girls are actually in there.
Brett grins at me like he’s beaten me at something as they drive past. I hate that guy.
It takes my car three tries before finally starting, and then it dies again. It doesn’t want to go home either. I halfheartedly pound the steering wheel and try again. It finally starts.
A giant pickup honks angrily as it passes me on the way home. I’m going ten under the speed limit. I’m in no hurry. If I get there after 10:30, there’s a good chance my dad’ll be locked away in his room. Hopefully passed out. He’s always been an asshole, but it’s gotten exponentially worse since Mom. It’s the nights he’s in that in-between state that I have to worry about—where he’s not sober enough to be depressed, and not drunk enough to be numb. I just never know what I’ll get. He’s like Schr?dinger’s cat. Except instead of both dead and alive, he’s both passed-out drunk and not drunk enough until I open the front door and find out for myself.
? ? ?
I sit in the car staring up at the window above the garage. The light is on in the guest room. As if we need a guest room. Mom was an only child, and Dad’s alienated everyone who’d ever want to visit. It’s also the room Mom used as her office. There’s a crappy rolltop desk that she squeezed between the bed and the window. She had to push the bed out of the way to get a chair back there when she used it. I’m surprised my dad hasn’t hawked the thing yet. He got rid of its contents along with everything else as soon as he could. People think it’s because he couldn’t handle the reminders, but I’m convinced he just wanted extra cash for booze.
There’s no movement in the window—maybe he passed out and forgot to turn the light off.
I strangle the steering wheel and let out a silent scream. Then I go in.
Captain comes running to the door the second he hears my feet hit the porch. At least someone’s happy to see me.
“Hey, buddy.” I lean down and let Captain lick my chin while I give him some pats. If you didn’t know him, you might think he was threatening me, baring his teeth and all, but his tail’s wagging so fast, he almost throws himself off balance. His teeth are just too big for his mouth, so he looks like he’s aggressive when he’s excited. I like to think he’s smiling.
“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”