He gives me a sly smile. “Which part?”
I knew it. “Sneaking in and out of rooms.” I wave my hand, not sure whether I should be pissed that he baited me or flustered that he teased me. It’s a first from him.
“Can I take a pass?”
“Why bring it up, then? You could’ve left that part out.” I poke him, like he’s a slumbering bear and I have a death wish over my head.
Trace has the nerve to clap. “Bravo, little mouse. Anger and jealousy are great emotions to have, aren’t they?”
“You did that on purpose!”
“Guilty.”
I can hear the smirk in his voice. Seething, I bring my knees to my chest, hug them, and glare at the moon.
Since moving into the house, I’ve been quiet, unsure of what to do, how to act, and what to say to the Saints’s brooding son. I even stripped myself of any emotions he could use against me, like I did with my father, and haven’t fought back when Trace pokes at me with his jabs from left field.
No two days are the same with him. Some days, I don’t exist. Other days, I’m in his way, and my existence annoys him. I never know what I will get with Trace Saints, but I’ve never engaged until now.
I wonder whether my mom is proud or disappointed in me up in heaven on her perch. What does my father think, watching over me, sitting next to Mom?
My mother taught me to stand up for myself, especially when dealing with my father. He had a dominant personality. But she cowered when he so much as looked at her cross-eyed.
What was worse was when he yelled at her, something about how everything was her fault, and she cried until her eyes were puffy. I wanted to comfort her so badly, but my father would lock me in the basement and wouldn’t unlock the door until the next morning.
By then, it was too late. Shame set in, and my mother didn’t want to see or talk to me.
Then she took her own life, and my dad blamed all the bad shit that happened to him on me. It was a vicious cycle I couldn’t free myself from, so I did what my mother had done. I took the blame, avoided my father when he was drunk, and was grateful and spent time with him when he wasn’t.
Why didn’t my mom tell her depression to fuck off? Why did she allow it to destroy her will to live? Why did she abandon me? Was I not worth living for?
I sigh, forgetting that living life was a first for my mom, too, as for everyone. Who raised her? My parents never spoke about their parents, siblings, or other family members. It was just the three of us. No one ever came over. I thought it was normal until the house burned down, my father burned with it, and I was suddenly thrust into a world I only knew about from my books and the television in the basement.
“What about you? What’d you do?” Trace’s question catches me off guard.
No one’s asked before. My thoughts and the emotions I’ve attached to them—anger, sadness, and regret—disappear, replaced with a different emotion I can’t put my finger on. I’ll revisit it later when I’m in my bed, thinking back over our conversation.
It’s hard to figure out what I feel these days because I’ve been either numb, scared, or nervous. Those emotions were how I lived with Dad, with a little bit of happiness here and there. Dad was more often drunk than sober.
I hug my knees tighter. “I read a lot. Binged shows. Did a lot of homework. Grew flowers using seeds my father gave me for my birthdays. I’d put the pots on the windowsill so they’d get some sun.”
His gifts were never extravagant. We didn’t have money. I was always grateful for any gift. It was the thought that counted.
“I was homeschooled, and when my mom . . .” My throat tightens. “When my mom couldn’t do it anymore, my dad took over. He gave me an F in math. When I saw that fat F, I couldn’t believe my own father flunked me.” I laugh into my knees, muffling the sound of my sadness. I miss my parents so much.
“I take it you didn’t have a cell phone or a computer?”
“No outside communication.”
“You must’ve been lonely.” There’s pity in his voice.
Pity isn’t new to me. Everyone who hears my story pities me. “I was at first, but I got used to it.”
“Three years is a long time.”
Counting homeschooling, it was longer than that. “Can we change the subject?”
My parents thought they were giving me an advantage by homeschooling me, but I’m at a disadvantage compared to my peers.
