He ignored my question, lifting his nose to sniff the air. “Why do you smell like horse shit?”
I’m surprised you can smell anything other than alcohol.
I rolled my eyes, but it wasn’t subtle enough, because he sprang up from his seat in his recliner and stomped over to me.
Digging his fingers into my forearm, he leaned in close to my face, his breath smelling of cheap booze. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, you little brat. Show some respect.”
Stand your ground. Don’t show any emotion.
“Don’t have anything to say for yourself?”
When I didn’t answer, he gripped my arm tighter and flung me out of the way.
My shoulder banged against the wall, and fiery pain shot down my arm, but I didn’t react. I couldn’t. It would just fuel him even more.
“You and your mother are so ungrateful.” He grabbed a beer bottle off the table next to his chair and paced back and forth, swinging it as he walked. “I doeverythingfor you,and what do I get in return? Nothing but piss-poor fucking attitude.”
The only thing we could do when he started to rant and ramble about how ungrateful and horrible we were was sit there and listen. Take the jabs like a goddamn punching bag.
“I’msickof it!” His voice rose to a shout, and he threw the bottle on the ground, the glass shattering and bouncing off the floor.
My eyes widened, darting between the glistening shards just inches away from me.
“You tell anyone, and I meananyone, about this?” He gestured to nothing in particular—or maybe everything. “You’ll fucking regret it. I will make your lifehell.”
I believed him.
And that was what I was most afraid of.
Not even for me. Not even for Mom.
But for Hayden.
What would he do if he found out my best friend was the son of a cop?
Grumbling nonsensical words to himself, he plopped back down into his chair, turning on the television to some sports broadcast that was playing. Soon enough, heavy snores filled the room. I got up from my position on the floor and quietly swept up the broken glass before retreating up to my room.
Later that week, during my lunch hour, I went to the library and printed out all of the forms I needed to fill out for membership in the MHSRA. The forms were simpleenough, asking for my basic information, what events I’d like to compete in—I only elected barrel racing—my school information, and signatures at the bottom.
Over the past few days, I studied different forms and paperwork my parents had lying around, practicing their signatures until I could perfectly forge them.
By the time I printed out the forms, the signatures were practically twins. The hardest part was getting a copy of my birth certificate, but I’d told my mom it was for a school project, and she didn’t really question it. I was convinced she’d let me do pretty much anything I wanted if it meant I stayed out of her way and didn’t cause her trouble with my dad.
I’d saved up enough money over the last six months to pay for the membership dues, too, doing odd jobs for neighbors and the Watkins family, so all I needed to do was get my transcripts and then submit the forms.
After folding up the papers neatly in my backpack, hiding them inside a book I knew my dad wouldn’t bother to look inside if he snooped, I headed toward the doors of the library.
My mind was so occupied with the forms and everything going on that I didn’t notice the person entering the library as I was exiting.
“Oof!”
“S-sorry,” I muttered before realizing who I’d bumped into.
Hayden laughed. “On a mission?”
My lips flattened into a straight line as my cheeks flushed. “Something like that. What are you doing?”
He gestured toward the bookshelves. “I had to come grab a book for Keenan. He keeps forgetting.”
