“Punk.”
“Loser.”
I scrub the tears from my eyes and steel my spine. “What did he say to him?” I ask, my voice considerably calmer than I feel. Then again, my hands are shaking so badly, I’m afraid to pick up my tea for fear I’ll spill it all over myself.
“He told him if he kept seeing you, he’d kick you out and take away your money for college.”
My eyes pop open, and I stand up so fast my chair tips and falls with a clatter to the floor. “He did what?”
“Father!” I shout and slam the front door behind me.
That, of course, has my mom running out of the kitchen like she’s got a bee under her skirt. “Charlie?” She scans the space as though whatever nefarious creature had her sweet girl yelling might be hiding in our living room. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t have the patience to field her questions right now. I need to keep my anger hot and pointed directly at my father, so I don’t wimp out. “Where’s Dad?”
She turns her head to glance down the hall, and I see my dad strolling along without a care in the world. It’s all an act. It’s all part of the way he keeps us in check. He stays all cool then acts like we’re being hysterical when we get upset and yell. If he thinks that shit is going to work on me now, he’s got another thing coming. The fact that my sister isn’t trailing him like a shadow means she must be sleeping over at a friend’s house. No way, she’d be missing this.
“What’s all this shouting about, Charlie?” My father leans a shoulder against the wall and folds his arms across his thick chest.
“I am sick and tired of your overbearing bullshit, that’s what.”
Mom gasps. “Charlie.”
“Language,” Dad says, a tinge of anger leaking into his voice.
“That’s what you’re focusing on in that statement? That I cursed?” Balling my hands into fists at my side, so I don’t punch him in his arrogant face, I glare at him and shout, “Fuckity, fuck,fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shitty ass fuck. Mother fuck fuckity.” I probably look like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but I don’t care. “Dick. Ass. Fuck. Fucking bull shit. Mother—”
“That’s enough,” my father bellows. He pushes off the wall and stalks toward me, his face a furious red. I could laugh at how easily I got a rise out of him if I wasn’t so pissed. My mom just remains standing in the entryway to the kitchen twisting a dish towel in her hands and crying—like she always does.
“I don’t think it is.” I jab a finger at his chest, relishing the way his nostrils flare. “Who the hell do you think you are threatening my boyfriend?”
He draws back, eyebrows so high, they’d have touched his hairline if he had one. “That boy is not your boyfriend.”
“That’s not your choice,” I retort. “I am a twenty-fucking-year-old woman and if I want to cuss, have sex or date a biker with a billion tattoos, I will.”
“As long as you live under my roof—”
“Fine,” I shout, interrupting him. I march into my bedroom, my dad hot on my heels. Snatching a suitcase from my closet, I throw it on my bed and start grabbing clothes out of my drawers. I’m not even paying attention to what I’m taking; I just shove whatever I grab into the bag and move on to the next drawer.
“What are you doing?” My dad races over to the bed and snatches up the suitcase, upending it and dumping the contents onto my bed. “You are not going anywhere.”
“I am a grown adult, and I will do whatever the fuck I please.” I ram my shoulder into his sternum, knocking him off balance and causing him to stumble back a few steps. Then, I drag my suitcase back to where it was and stuff whatever’s within easy reaching distance back inside. When I spin around to grab more clothes, I find my mom now watching from my doorway—still frigging crying. Thanks for the help Mom. “You know what the funny part is?” I say. “You didn’t ask me a single thing aboutRyan. You didn’t try to get to know him or even have a five-minute-long conversation with him before you decided he was a bad guy. You just saw a fucking motorcycle and tattoos.”
“Charlie,” my dad starts.
“No. I’m talking and you’re going to listen to me for once.” Surprisingly, he shuts his mouth and doesn’t argue. “You want to know why I was crying that first night Ryan brought me home? Hmm? Dad? Mom?” I glance back and forth between my parents, as though waiting for an answer to what was obviously a rhetorical question. “Because I was almost raped.”
My mom throws a hand over her mouth muffling a surprised gasp. My dad just continues silently staring at me, a slight widening of his eyes, the only indication that he even heard what I said. “A guy attacked me at a party and Ryan.Ryan,” I emphasize, “stopped him. Ryan pulled that guy off of me and hit him so hard, he broke his nose. He called the police and sat with me the whole time while I told them what had happened and then took me home. Does that sound like a bad guy to you?”
Both my parents stare at me, dumbfounded.
“I… I didn’t know,” my father says.
“You didn’t ask.” I cross the room to my dresser and continue gathering clothes. “Did you also know that he’s a kicker for the football team and at school on a partial football and academic scholarship?”
My parents share a look, I can’t even begin to decipher, nor do I care to. I just want out of this stupid house now.
“He’s a straight-A student,” I continue. “A business major. But he’s trouble, right?” I close my bag and zip it shut.
