Ten years ago
Dean
"You're an embarrassment," Gio Calacoci hissed as we stepped out of the Kings County Criminal Court. His hands remained at his sides in clenched fists, and his dark eyes were glazed with anger, lack of sleep, and traces of his booze fest from last night.
I buried my fists deep in my hoodie pockets and squinted at the afternoon sun reflecting off the sidewalk.
The remnants of my hangover were beginning to fade, but I still felt like shit. I was arrested after being charged with car theft and underage drunk driving last night. At the time, it was tempting to debate that it wasn't theft if the owner had left the car unlocked and I had technically returned it. The parking attempt wasn't great, but they got it back.
I spent the rest of Thursday night and most of Friday in a holding cell, sobering up and nursing a headache before my arraignment in the afternoon.
Gio didn't appreciate getting that call on his day off and having to drive to Downtown Brooklyn to bail me out. He preferred I spend the rest of the weekend locked up, but somehow, Mom talked him out of it.
We rounded the corner of the large stone arches at the building's entrance before he grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop.
"Wait here. I need the bathroom." His accent was a blend of Italian and New Yorker, the latter of which he had picked up since we moved here.
We had lived in Brooklyn for the past six years. My English was decent enough that I could speak without pausing to find the right word and not worry about making a fool of myself when I said the wrong thing. My accent was changing too. Mom said I had developed a habit of dropping letters when I spoke. Maybe mimicking the speech habits of the locals was my brain's way of trying to fit in with the neighborhood.
Just like Dad…
"You didn't think to use the bathrooms when we passed 'em?" I muttered.
He glared and jabbed a finger at my face. "Don't be a fucking smartass, Deano—"
"Dean."
His nostrils flared. I only deadpanned back.
I could see him contemplating hitting me. The bruises on my ribs from the last time were beginning to turn yellow. It wouldn't surprise me if he refreshed the color again. But I knew he wouldn't hit me in public. The smack upside the head I received as we left the courtroom earlier hadn't counted by his punishment standards.
"Wait here," he repeated with a little more bite before trudging back inside.
I leaned against the exterior wall of the courthouse with a heavy sigh. The guilt of last night's events slowly began to wind through my insides, mixing with the anger and resentment I already had.
The judge had said I only did these things for attention, and I hated that it was partially true. Yes, I wanted my deadbeat father to notice, but only so he could understand how much pain he put us through. What I did was my way of getting back at him. The more he hit, the more I acted up. At least when he was focused on me, Mom was safe.
But I also genuinely enjoyed the thrill of the chase and doing something against the law. It's not like my life was getting better anytime soon, so I may as well enjoy it.
My fingertips skimmed over a lighter and a cigarette wedged in my pocket. The court officers confiscated them before I went to the holding cell, but returned them when I was released. Then Gio took them for himself. While he was busy flirting with the attractive desk clerk, signing me out, I stole them from his back pocket.
I brought the cigarette to my lips, cupping a hand over the end to light it as a breeze kicked up along the sidewalk. I drew back deep, and the smoke burned my lungs in a way that felt good until I coughed, spluttering into the crook of my elbow. I still had to work on my technique.
A city bus pulled up to the stop further to my left, and I watched lazily as several kids got off. Some were my age, others were younger, and all had backpacks and books tucked under their arms.
I forgot today was a school day, but junior year for me was beginning to look like a waste of time anyway. I spent most of my school life in the principal’s office, either for talking back, sleeping in class, or fighting other kids.
The latter was always done in defense, more often at the defense of someone else. I never started fights, but would finish them. It was just last month that I defended a kid from a jerk named Scotty Richards.
Scotty was a bully who picked on the weak to boost his ego. So, I bruised his ego and punched him hard enough that he fell back and split his head open on the wall.
He lived and received a half dozen stitches.
The kids getting off the bus looked like they had their lives sorted, or at least fat trust funds to rely on when they fucked up. They were the kind of people whose paths I stayed out of so long as they stayed out of mine. But even staying in my lane, they couldn't help but judge from afar.
Then again, I was also technically judging them.
As they got closer, they held onto their belongings a little tighter, sending sidelong, wary glances my way as they passed.
