Page 5

I relished the hiss of the released carbonation as I lifted the drink to my lips. Then, after I took a sip, I held it in my mouth for a moment, savoring the sweetness and letting the sugar coat my teeth and tongue.

Ricky laughed as he plopped down next to me on the cafeteria bench. “You are so weird,” he said lightheartedly.

I laughed with him, even as embarrassment warmed my cheeks.

“So, Molly and I are gonna go hang out at McDonald’s after school,” he said.

Molly was Ricky’s girlfriend. She was a sophomore and thought she was a real big shot for dating a guy a whole year older than her. I didn’t care for her much, to be honest, but Ricky seemed to like her enough.

I guessed that was how it went when a girl wanted to stare at you all googly-eyed in the hallway.

You settled for whatever you could get.

And I guessed I was a little jealous .

I was jealous of Ricky often … but I didn’t hold that against him.

“Okay,” I said, taking another sip of Coke.

I had already finished my measly peanut butter sandwich, and my stomach growled at the sight of the turkey and cheese sandwich Ricky had pulled out of his backpack, along with two apples, a bag of pretzels, and another can of Coke.

“She’s bringing Laura,” he went on slyly, like he was onto something here.

I slid my gaze over to stare at the side of his head. “Okay,” I drawled again, unsure of where he was going with this.

“And you know what Laura told Molly?”

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

He turned to meet my gaze with a huge grin. “She has a little crush on you.”

I didn’t know why, but I hadn’t expected that. Girls didn’t like me. They didn’t notice me. I was invisible next to the football players and guys with cars.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a smug nod. “Molly said she talks about you all the time .”

“About me ? Why?” And why was my voice so damn high all of a sudden?

“ Why ?” Ricky mocked with a snort. “God, Max, you know, for such a smart guy, you’re pretty freakin’ dumb sometimes.”

I didn’t say anything to that because, right now, I agreed .

“So …” He smirked and lifted a shoulder in a carefree shrug. “You wanna come?”

Whatever boost my ego had just experienced from knowing a girl liked me wilted on the spot.

I couldn’t go anywhere. I didn’t go anywhere ever, not anymore.

Not since I had started cooking dinner every night last year.

Not even the library. Sometimes, on the weekends, I managed to sneak over to Ricky’s house before walking to the grocery store, but apart from that …

“I can’t,” I said quickly with a shake of my head.

Ricky eyed me with suspicion. We were good friends.

He was my only real friend, outside of the half-dozen kids who would call my name and wave before or after class.

We ate lunch together every day, shared a class or two every year since we had been fourteen, hung out on the rare occasion.

Sometimes, I forgot all that time spent together was enough for him to know me.

And he did . He paid attention—he always had.

He might not be the smartest guy—he was failing Science and Math miserably—but he was observant.

“Why not?” he asked, unwrapping his sandwich while keeping his eyes on me.

“Because I can’t. I have to cook dinner.”

“You can’t run home and tell your mom you wanna go out tonight?”

I almost laughed. My mom cared about my social life even less than she cared if Dad slapped me around—and she didn’t care at all about that.

“No,” I said.

Ricky stared at me, almost disbelievingly, for a moment longer. Then he turned away and lifted his sandwich to his mouth. “All right,” he said, dropping the topic more easily than I’d thought he would. “Maybe another day.”

***

He asked again the next week and then the next.

Each time, I said no.

I told him the truth—that I had to cook dinner. It was hard enough, balancing my chores and homework to the extent of Dad’s minimal satisfaction. I didn’t have the freedom to sneak in a date with a girl, and I couldn’t begin to imagine how much it would anger my father if he found out.

To my relief, Ricky settled for a no when he asked those first couple of times. A week went by without him asking at all, and I thought, with triumph, that maybe he’d given up.

But then, one day, he caught up to me on my walk home. I panicked internally. Ricky never walked with me in this direction, and even though my father wouldn’t be out of work for another couple of hours, I worried that he’d see me. Worried he’d beat me for having a friend .

“What do you want?” I asked hurriedly, hoping to brush him off before I neared my block.

He narrowed his eyes at my harsh tone. “What the heck is going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, bullshit, Max. You never come over anymore. You never wanna hang out with Molly and Laura. You don’t even go to the library now. ”

My jaw shifted and tensed. “I wasn’t aware you were keeping tabs on me.”

“Hard not to when your best friend doesn’t wanna spend time with you.”

Best friend? I’m his best friend? A lump so big swelled in my throat as I trained my gaze on the sidewalk beneath my feet. I never cried, not about anything, and I certainly wasn’t going to cry about this. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard to fight back the tears.

“I’m just busy,” I finally muttered when I was sure I wouldn’t sound choked up.

“With what?”

I blinked rapidly. The wave of emotions was back with a vengeance, and now it was tainted with a bit of panic.

Oh my God, my life was becoming such a mess of lies and excuses to protect my little slivers of self-preservation from my father.

Bringing someone else into the mix would make things even more complicated.

Why couldn’t he just shut up and go away?

“Homework.”

“It’s Friday. We don’t have homework.”

“But I have to study.”

He was staring at me with something close to anger now. “You’re full of shit.”

“No, I’m not.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I huffed, hurrying my pace.

Ricky grabbed my arm, pulling me back and keeping me from going farther. “What the hell is going on with you?! ”

I held the straps of my backpack in a tightened grip as I stared at him. I kept my jaw locked tight, my teeth clamped together.

Ricky dropped his arms to his sides and laughed humorlessly. “Jesus, Max. I mean, you’ve always been kinda weird—no offense—but this is a whole other level of bizarre.”

I dropped my gaze and poked the inside of my cheek with my tongue.

“Look, if you don't want to hang out anymore, just—"

"That's not what it is," I murmured beneath my breath.

"Then what the hell is it?"

I swallowed against my shame and said, "My dad."

I flicked my gaze to Ricky's for a split second, in time to see his brow furrow with confusion.

"Your dad ?"

Ricky's parents had been happily married until his dad died when he was a little kid. His mom didn’t dictate his entire life, so of course he didn't understand. I didn't expect him to.

"Yeah, my dad," I muttered, leaving it at that.

"What do you mean?"

I huffed, impatient and aggravated. I didn't want to talk about this—I never wanted to talk about this—but Ricky wasn't walking away. I could've left, could've stormed off, but he was already worried that I didn't like him. I didn't want to solidify his assumptions .

"My dad gets pissed off if I'm not home," I grumbled, feeling more and more humiliated. Feeling like a little kid.

"So …" He lifted his shoulders, confusion on his face. "Just go home before your cur—"

"It's not a curfew . He just wants me home right after school."

He tipped his head, looking directly in my eyes as he asked, "And what if you aren't?"

I pretended to glance at my watch and turned on my heel. "I have to go. See you tom—"

"Max, what the hell happens if you aren't home?"

"Don't worry about it," I said, breaking out into a jog. "See you at lunch tomorrow."

***

All weekend, I stressed over what Ricky would say to me on Monday at lunchtime, and I didn’t feel much better by Monday morning.

I knew he would want to pick up the conversation where we’d left off, and I struggled my way through English and History while trying to come up with answers to every possible question he might ask.

By the time I walked into the cafeteria, he was already at our usual table.

I sighed and slogged my way over, praying he had forgotten while knowing he hadn't.

He didn't say anything at first. He just glanced at me through the corner of his eye while opening his sandwich. My mouth watered at the smell of tuna. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten tuna .

I held my sad-looking sandwich of wilted lettuce and a bruised tomato and tried to will myself to take a bite when Ricky's sandwich looked gourmet in comparison. I needed to go to the grocery store, but Mom had forgotten to give me money over the weekend. So, I’d been resigned to choke down whatever was left in the house.

"Here."

I looked over at the proffered half of the tuna fish sandwich with much nicer, healthier-looking lettuce on a sesame seed roll.

"W-what?" I asked, bringing my eyes to his.

"Take it. Don't eat that shit."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded insistently, thrusting the sandwich toward me. "Max, just take the damn sandwich."

So, without another protest, I did. "Thanks."

"Yeah," he grunted, then lifted his half and took a bite. "So, um …"

I brought the sandwich to my mouth. "I really don't wanna talk about it," I said with a rueful sigh, then took a bite.

Flavor burst on my tongue like fireworks, and I closed my eyes, struggling to bite back a moan. It might've been the most delicious sandwich I'd ever eaten in my life.

"Oh, really? I didn’t notice," he muttered sarcastically, his mouth full. "It's fine. Whatever. I'll drop it."

"Okay."

It was very obviously not fine, judging by the awkward silence that immediately fell between us, and I chewed, knowing damn well he wasn't going to just drop it.

Ten seconds later, he nudged my arm with the back of his hand. "But …"

"Here we go."

"Are you okay?"

My chest constricted around the question. Oh my God, nobody had ever asked me that before. Nobody had ever known to.

I forced a chuckle. "Yeah, I'm—"

"No, really." He turned and pinned me with an accusing glare. "Are you okay ?"

I lowered the tuna fish sandwich to lie on the brown paper bag, right beside the crappy concoction I had felt guilty for sending my sisters to school with.

Me, I could handle, but they didn't deserve that. They deserved good food. They deserved this tuna. They deserved a mom who remembered to give me money for groceries. They deserved a father who remembered when she didn’t.

They deserved more … and there was nothing I could do about it.

"No," I finally answered, and my shoulders sagged with the relief of telling the truth for maybe the first time in my entire life.

Ricky studied my face for a few moments longer than I would've liked. The accusatory glare quickly turned to one of concern.

Then he asked, "What can I do?"

I laughed at that, even as I wanted to cry. "Nobody can do anything. It’s just … the way it is," I said with a shrug .

He looked dubious. "You say that like this"—he gestured toward me—"is normal."

"Isn't it?" I huffed a short, mirthless chuckle.

"I don't know anybody in our grade who's not allowed to do anything ," he muttered, keeping his voice low. "You act like you're a prisoner or something."

Well, wasn't I? But I didn't say as much.

"You act like … I don’t know …” He pursed his lips and moved them from side to side, almost like he was unsure of what he wanted to say. “Scared.”

“I’m not scared,” I replied before taking another bite.

It was obvious Ricky didn’t believe me. And it was also obvious he didn’t know what to say.

I had made him uncomfortable, talking about how not okay I was.

And I could understand why he didn’t think I was telling the truth.

I acted scared; I probably looked scared.

But I meant it. I wasn’t scared, not for myself.

What I was scared of was what my father would do to Lucy and Grace in my absence.

If I wasn’t there, if I didn’t cook dinner and they were there to face his wrath, I wasn’t sure they could take it when I could.

I was bigger, I was stronger, and my skin was so much thicker.

It was only five years until Lucy and Grace were eighteen. Five years, and maybe we could get out of there. Maybe, by then, I’d have a job to support us all. Maybe, by then, I’d stand up to my father and tell him how I really felt.

I hate you.

And I did.

I hated him.

But it wasn’t forever.

That was what I kept telling myself anyway.