“Ryan, sweetheart, what happened?”
“I was dodging a throw.”
“Your pants are all wet too, Ryan,” Mrs. Stevenson said as she assessed me. “When we get inside, I’ll send you up to the nurse. She can clean the knee and bandage you up.”
“Can I just go to the bathroom and fix it myself?”
“Okay, you can try that. I’ll send you with a few bandages. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the nurse?”
“I’m sure. It’s just a little cut.”
After school, I decided to go straight home so I could hide the pants. They were hand-me-downs from Chad that he sometimes wore around the house and I wore to school. I buried them in the laundry hamper in the bathroom and pretended nothing had happened. Mom and Dad argued through dinner, and they both smelled like alcohol. I hated the smell of alcohol because things were much worse when they had it to drink.
After dinner, I had been sitting on the floor in the living room doing homework and watching TV with Chad. Sitting next to my math book was the small package of Skittles that I’d won in class today for finishing the math drill first with all the problems right. I was going to eat them after I finished my homework.
Mom had been rambling as she went about the house, doing odds and ends. Dad sat in his chair, drinking beer. My stomach was still killing me. I thought it was nerves about worrying about the pants, though. I also had the sharp pain like I had during kickball off and on.
Hours later, the pants were discovered.
“What the hell is this?” Mom yelled as she stormed into the living room.
My mouth went dry as she stood in front of the TV holding up the navy sweatpants that I’d wore to school today.
“Turn the TV off!” she screamed as she turned around and slammed her hand against the few small buttons. Chad started to laugh as Mom went into a fit over the pants.
“Christ, Elizabeth! Move out of the way!” Dad yelled.
“Look at these pants!” Mom walked toward Dad with them, holding up the leg with the massive hole. “Do you like working to clothe them and have them do this shit?”
Dad screamed at her for interrupting his TV show. Mom was irate that Dad didn’t seem to care about the pants, and she stormed back to the TV and tried turning it off.
“Damn, Mom, there are only three buttons on the TV. Can’t you figure out how to shut it off?” Chad laughed. He was making this worse.
Dad tried to stand too fast and then fell back into his chair. He was too drunk to even stand. He reached for the closest object, his can of beer, and threw it across the room at Mom. The can hit the wall and fell to the carpet, sending splatters of beer all over the wall and TV. My heart pounded so hard that I could swear they’d be able to hear it. Mom and Dad continued to scream at one another. Dad was finally able to stand and grabbed the remote control and hurled it at Mom, hitting her in the face.
“I work all damn day and have to come home to your shit and these fucking boys! Is it too much to ask for a meal and to be left alone for one TV show?” Dad yelled as he grabbed Mom’s hair and slapped her in the face and head.
“I work too!” she screamed.
I wanted to hide and disappear. I hated seeing this. I hated hearing it. This stuff made my stomach hurt worse.
As the yelling and hitting went on around me, I stared at my homework of long division. There were fifteen math problems for homework. I was on number seven. I also had spelling to practice.
“Goddammit!” Mom screamed. “You never discipline these boys! You never give a damn!”
I should own up to the pants.
Over the sounds of Dad hurting Mom and the arguing, I pulled out my spelling words from my tattered folder. I set my paper on top of the folder and tried hard to memorize the first word.
Continent.
“Like hell! I discipline them all the time!”
Continent.
C—
“Your job is to raise these boys while I bring home money!” Dad yelled. I looked up when I heard skin being slapped. Dad was slapping Mom in the face and head. I squeezed my eyes shut.
