Page 70 of Saving The Shortstop

The walk home might seem long to some kids, but for me, it isn’t long enough. I could walk for days, but knowing what’s waiting for me at the end of it, it still wouldn’t be long enough.

After getting a twenty-one percent on my reading test earlier—twenty-freaking-one—my teacher pulled me aside and said she had gotten in touch with my father, and that together, she hopes they could work to get me some help.

She doesn’t realize what she’s done, but I do. She looked so excited earlier—proud because she could never get ahold of my parents. My dad is only around when he comes home after days and weeks of being off doing drugs with his so-called friends, and my mom … well, she’s practically a permanent fixture in her bed these days.

It may seem sad to my teachers when they can’t reach my parents. To me, it’s always been a blessing.

Until today.

There are a lot of things that my dad will beat the crap out of me for. Most of which are things I can’t control because even breathing seems to piss him off the past six or so months. But the man has always hated how stupid I am. And now that he knows I got a terrible test score, I can’t imagine how angry he’s going to be.

I walk extra slow, knowing that any other day, it wouldn’t matter if I went home at all—no one would notice or care. But today? He’ll be waiting for me. And if I don’t go home, he’ll just take it out on my mother. Even though she seems numb to it now, I can’t stand watching him hurt her. Because she’s a woman, and a man should never lay a finger on a woman.

Then again, my father is no man. I’m old enough to know that.

Walking down the long gravel driveway, I see my father’s old truck, and my stomach sinks. I knew he’d be here, but I guess there was a tiny part of me that hoped I was wrong.

Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them away, turning slightly to brush them off my face just in case he’s watching. There’s nothing he hates more than when I cry. He always tells me to take the beatings like a man, but sometimes, I can’t stop my eyes from leaking.

When I get halfway to the house, the door creaks open and my father stands in the doorway wearing a dirty white tank top and jeans covered in filth. One look in his eyes and I know what’s going to happen next, causing my lip to tremble.

It’s almost like my feet are stuck in quicksand, and I need all my strength to force myself to keep walking. Running wouldn’t do anything right now besides make the punishment worse when he got to me. Besides, my mom would pay the price.

When I reach the bottom step, I look down at the broken, chipped wood.

“Get. Inside. Now,” my dad says, his teeth gritted.

I only make it up two broken stairs before he grabs me by my arm and forces me into the house.

“You dumb motherfucker.” He slurs the words in a growl. He’s high, but he’s probably starting to come down—which is why he’s so mad right now. Which means, this is going to be bad. Really bad. “A twenty-fucking-one percent on your test, boy?” He throws me down onto the ground, pushing his foot onto my chest as he towers over me. “You know why I don’t love you? Why no one will ever love you?” He’s growling, pulling me by my shirt upward so fast the fabric tears. “Because you’re fucking stupid, that’s why!”

He lands a blow to my stomach, and even though it takes every ounce of strength not to fall over—I don’t. Because if I do, he’ll only be more angry that I’m too weak to take it like a man.

At eleven years old, I’m the scrawniest kid in my class by far. And my father is about four of me, but still, I plant my feet, trying to take my punishment as tough as I can.

His fist hits lower on my stomach, and this time, I feel like I’m going to throw up. I cough a few times, trying to regain my composure and get this done faster, but when he lands another to the same spot, the pain is so intense that my brain grows fuzzy. I fall back, my vision closing in as he stands over me, reaching for my torn shirt again.

Just before his hand grabs for me, the loudest sound I’ve ever heard assaults my ear drums. I stare up at my father, wondering why he looks so stunned. And that’s when I see it, the gunshot to his chest.

He falls forward, but just before he lands on top of me, I move to my left—making his limp body miss me by a mere inch.

I’m too stunned to look around, but when my mom comes to my side, her lip quivers and her eyes are filled with tears. Her face is always pale, but now, it’s almost white. Her brown hair is a matted mess just like it always is.

“Run, Dallas.” She weeps. “Now.”

I stare in disbelief, not knowing what she’s even asking me to do or why. Her hand rests on my cheek, and a tear streams down her cheek.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t fit to be a mom,” she whispers sadly. “But you’re free now. So please … run.”

Shaking, I look from my mom to the man on the floor beside me. Blood pools onto the dirty tan carpet, but suddenly, my mom throws her arms around me, distracting me from how much blood is coming from my father’s body. She puts her forehead to mine. “I am so sorry.” She cries weakly. “Now, go. Please. Start running down the road.”

“When … when do I stop?” I choke out, unsure of what she wants from me.

She presses a kiss to my cheek. “You’ll know when.”

When she releases me, I scurry to my feet.

I take off, running down the road, heading back toward the school.