I swallow hard. “I know. Sorry.”
Evan sniffles, still not showing his face. I hate myself.
“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing his backpack from the floor. “These other kids have to get home.”
He’s quiet and then mutters, “No.”
“Evan,” I warn, not wanting to get into it here. I wish I could just grab his arm and drag him off; it would be easier. But I don’t put my hands on him like that. “Look,” I say in a softer voice. “I’m sorry, okay? I fucked up. But if you come with me now, I’ll make us dogs ’n’ cheese. I promise.”
“Really?” he asks quietly.
My lips flinch with a smile. “Yeah. But you’ll have to help. You know how much I hate doing the dishes.”
Evan finally drops his hands and looks up at me. His pale blond hair is wet where it’s grown long near his eyes, and peanut butter from his school-provided lunch has crusted in the corners of his mouth.
He deserves better than me.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll help you.”
“We can even color,” I tell him, taking his hand. I keep my voice light, trying to make it sound like there’s something fun waiting for him inside our crappy house. There isn’t. But I think he forgets that. It’s like every day he starts new.
I wish I could do that.
***
It’s too early for dinner, but I make Evan hot dogs mixed with mac ’n’ cheese anyway. I don’t ask him to help with the dishes, but he dries the plates. When we’re done, we go into the living room and I give him his crayons and the backside of an assignment sheet I got at school.
Evan lies on his stomach across the worn carpet and spreads out his crayons in front of him. He draws a picture, occasionally looking up to make sure I’m still here. For a moment it’s peaceful. Normal.
The front door opens, and my heart pounds faster.
My father’s heavy boots clop through the hall until I feel his presence in the doorway behind me.
“Is there dinner?” he asks, his raspy voice shattering the contentment in the room.
“Yeah,” I respond. “It’s on the stove.” I don’t turn, hoping he’ll get it for himself. Evan colors the sky purple.
“Come on, Savannah,” my father says. “Can’t you go plate it up for me? I just got home from work.”
And I’ve gone to school, cooked dinner, and washed the dishes already, but I don’t remind him of that. I lean closer to Evan and tap his paper. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper. “Paint the house pink.”
He looks up at me wide-eyed, as if a pink house is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. He laughs.
“No,” he says. “The house is white.”
“Yeah, but I want mine pink.” I ruffle his hair and stand up. Evan reaches for the pink crayon.
My father stomps into the kitchen and pulls out his chair, scraping it along the scuffed linoleum floor. He exhales loudly, sounding tired. I understand the feeling.
I go to the stove and use the wooden spoon with the broken handle to stir the now-stiff macaroni before slapping a glob of it on a freshly washed plate. I set it on the table in front of my father.
He stares at the mac ’n’ cheese with bits of hot dogs in it for a long moment before poking through it with his fork, looking disgusted. “Again?” he asks me.
I lean my hip against the sink and meet his eyes. “It’s his favorite.”
“Not mine.”
I’d tell him that he’s an adult and perfectly capable of fixing his own dinner, but I don’t want to argue tonight. Not when Evan will be leaving soon. I look away, biting my lip.
