3. CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 3
ARI
I shift in the back seat, the backs of my legs sticky and sweaty against the torn, fake leather of Papa’s car. The one that actually runs. The muffler is loud and the driver’s side back door is a different color from the rest of the car, but Papa says it runs just fine. Hot air swirls in from the open windows, blowing my hair around my face in a knotted mess.
Papa’s looking at me in the rearview mirror and smiling. “What are you so happy about, girl?”
“I’m excited for the carnival.” I gather my hair and pull it to the side, but the wind keeps twirling it out of my hands.
“What?” he says over the roar of the muffler and the whoosh of the wind through the open windows.
“I said …” I shout louder, “I’m excited for the carnival!”
“You’re excited?” He’s still looking at me through the mirror, smiling. I nod repeatedly. “Good!” After a moment, he adds, “I think things are going to start looking up. My disability got approved for another six months, so we’ve got some more money coming in.”
I’m not sure why Papa gets money for a disability when he doesn’t actually have one, but I know better than to question it.
The past year has had its ups and downs when it comes to Papa’s moods. I managed to avoid him many times when I knew he was cranky, but other times, I took a lickin’ and had to miss a day or two of school so no one would know.
Well, no one except Ethan. He always knows. Even when I don’t tell him, he knows.
Then summer returned, and I managed to keep Papa happy by making sure dinner was ready every night and the house was kept clean. But school starts again soon, and I won’t have as much time for all that.
As we enter the carnival, music that sounds like it’s coming from a cartoon fills the air. There’s the tsk-tsk of drum symbols and the various tings of a xylophone. It’s coming from a giant carousel in the middle of the festivities. There are also random sounds of horns and buzzers coming from all the games lined up along the outer edge of the space.
The smell of oil from the fried Oreos and pickles and a certain sweetness swirls around as I see a worker at a booth twirling cotton candy around a cone-shaped piece of paper. Lights flash where people can spray water out of guns to make wooden horses move across a fake raceway, or toss rings into a sea of empty bottles and somehow win a giant stuffed animal.
Papa tugs me toward a booth, slides a bill to the woman inside, and she hands over a rope of tickets. He stalks off, yelling “Come on” over his shoulder as I scramble to keep up. “Now, I don’t have too many tickets, so I’ll just show you how it’s done.” We approach a booth that has a pyramid of old milk bottles stacked up in the center.
Throughout the night, Papa plays several games without winning any prizes, and I watch his good mood slowly chip away.
We enter a tent with a sign for “Cold Beer” and he holds two fingers up. He takes the first cup that’s placed in front of him and drains it in one gulp, then picks up the second and turns around to look at me, but something catches his attention over my shoulder.
I turn and see some girls from my school snickering and pointing our way. “Those friends of yours?” He takes another sip.
I shake my head. “No.”
“They sure seem to know you.”
“No, Papa. I go to school with them, but we aren’t friends.” I risk a glance and see Chloe, Jessica, Elena, and another girl whose name I don’t remember giggle and talk with their hands over their mouths.
“Go talk to them.”
“Oh, no, that’s OK. Can I go look at the other games? I won’t ask for tickets to play them. I just want to see what they are.”
I start to walk away but feel Papa’s hand at the back of my neck, grabbing me by the scruff like I’m a dog, and he steers me toward the girls, instead. “I said …” he grits out, breath smelling like cheap beer, “go talk to your friends.” He gives me a little push and I stumble forward.
The girls all stare at me as I slowly step toward them, twisting my fingers in front of me. They’re laughing but go quiet as I approach. I feel like the last person picked for T-ball, when slowly everyone around me is called to be part of a team and I’m left standing there all alone.
“What are you doing?” asks the girl whose name I can’t remember.
“Yeah,” adds Jessica. “Do you think we want you to hang out with us?”
I shake my head, then glance back to see Papa’s back to us as he drinks another beer.
“What are you even wearing?” asks Elena, and I smooth my tie-dye T-shirt over myself. All four girls start laughing, and Jessica even reaches out and pokes my shoulder. “Run along, trailer trash.”
“Is that your dad?”
“He looks like he belongs in jail.”
They all start cackling.
But suddenly they stop, and I can feel why.
“Hello, ladies,” Papa’s voice sounds from beside me before I feel his hand on my neck again. “I’ve always wanted to meet some of Arlene’s friends.”
They burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Papa asks, looking each of them in the eye.
“Oh, nothing,” says Jessica. “We’re super friends, aren’t we, Arlene?”
“Yeah, Arlene,” adds the other girl with a grin. “By the way, I just love your name.”
Papa takes another drink of the beer in his hand and swallows hard. “Something wrong, girls?” He pushes me forward by my neck. “Because it seems like you’re laughing at my girl, here, and I’m sure she’s never been anything but nice to you. Ain’t that right, Arlene?”
I swallow and nod. Just as Papa’s lips start to form more words, an older girl approaches and I recognize her as Chloe’s older sister, Catherine. “Everything alright over here?”
Papa’s hand tightens around my neck as he begins to steer me away from the crowd, but not before I hear a familiar voice. “There you are,” Ethan says. He’s saddling up next to Catherine, and he follows her line of sight over to me and Papa. “Oh, hey!” he says, this time to me, unaware of the scene we just caused. “I didn’t know you were coming, Ari. We could have ridden the carousel together!”
As much as that warms my heart, I’m too aware of Papa’s hand on my neck. “We were just leaving.” I swivel under Papa’s hand and start to walk away.
“Hey, wait!” Ethan comes up behind us, and Papa and I both stop. “You, uh …” Ethan darts his eyes toward Papa, then back to me. “You OK?”
I give a tight smile, and then Papa and I make our way around Ethan and toward the car.
When we get home, Papa pulls into the driveway, turns the engine off, and opens his door. Before he shuts it, he pokes his head inside and looks at me in the back seat. “Come with me, girl. I want to teach you something.”
I follow him around to the detached garage out back. The motion light is shining down on the gravel in front of the garage as I approach and see Papa pull the cord to turn on the light bulb inside, illuminating the small, crowded space.
The concrete floor is grease-stained and cracked. An uneven workbench rests along the side wall and is topped with random tools, screws, batteries and other junk. An old refrigerator hums against the opposite wall, which is next to stacked boxes of Christmas decorations that we didn’t even take out last year. The entire garage smells like gasoline.
“Now, listen,” Papa starts in, heading to the refrigerator and pulling out a beer. “Everyone—not just boys—needs to know how to stand up to bullies.” He pulls the tab on the top of the beer can and cracks it open, then takes a long drink. “And them girls, the ones we saw tonight, they’re bullies. And I know those girls are bigger than you, but you’re scrappy. OK? You’re quick and you just gotta be one step ahead of them. Here, put your fists up, like this.” Papa makes a fighting stance.
I clench my fists at my sides and shuffle my feet against the stained concrete. “Umm …” I hesitate and look out through the open garage door. The motion light has gone off, and I can barely see the wheat field beyond the darkness.
Against the chirping of crickets, Papa speaks up. “Don’t ‘umm’ me, kid. Put your hands up, like this.” He shakes his fists in front of me. I try to copy him, but he rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, girl.” Standing straight up and grabbing one of my hands, he moves the thumb from the side of my fist so that it’s in front of my curled fingers.
“OK, now”—he puts his fists back up in front of him—“hands like this.”
I copy him, putting my closed hands in front of my face in a pathetic attempt to look tough.
“Good, now bend your knees.” Papa crouches down, bouncing a bit.
I do the same.
“Good!” I feel a sense of pride at his praise. “Now, come at me!” he says, waving me toward him with his fists.
“I, um … I don’t know how.”
“Come on, just take a swing at me. Just, pull back and come at me!”
I lunge at him lamely, stumbling forward but managing to keep my feet under me.
“Good grief, kid,” Papa grumbles. “You can do better than that. Try and hit me. Come on!” He lunges at me and hurls a fist right at my face. It connects, but it’s not enough to really hurt me. I take a few steps back from the shock of it, but quickly recover.
Papa comes back toward me, batting my fists with his. “Come on, girl. Hit me! Come on!”
He’s knocking my fists away and swatting his open palms against the sides of my head, making it jerk this way and that. It’s starting to hurt, and I don’t like it. I want it to stop.
“What’s wrong, Arlene? You scared?” Papa lands a punch to my shoulder, causing me to stumble to the side—and right into his fist. I fall back onto my butt and pain lances through my lip as I hold a hand up to it and I begin to taste blood.
Papa stands in front of me with his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. “What? You want me to take it easy on you? You want me to let those bullies pick on you? Huh? Well, I ain’t letting no little bitches disgrace this household. So, get your ass back up and show me you know how to fight before I knock some sense into you!”
Before I even know what I’m doing, I scramble off the floor and run toward Papa. Since I’m coming from below and have momentum—and he's surprised—when I plunge into him he goes toppling over, and I fall right on top of him. I start rearing my arms back and flinging my fists at his face.
There’s a grunt, and then he pushes me off. I’m smiling as Papa and I sit next to each other on the cold, soiled concrete and catch our breath. He glances over with a look of satisfaction on his face, and that, in turn, makes me proud.
Chuckling, he uses a knuckle to wipe spit from the corner of his mouth. “That, right there, is what I’m talking about, kid.” He leans over toward the bench and pulls himself up to his knees, then his feet. “You attack them when they aren’t expecting it, and you never stop. You got it?”
I scramble up and reply with, “Yes, sir!”
I’m still smiling when Papa says, his back turned to me, “Oh, one more thing …”
Papa swings around and connects first his left fist, then his right to my face, causing it to jerk one way, then the other, before I go flying backward, stumbling over a pair of boots and landing on the hard floor, the back of my head bouncing off the concrete with a thud. The edges of my vision go blurry as pain erupts everywhere.
“Never let your guard down,” Papa says, stepping over me and exiting the garage, pulling the door down and leaving me inside.
I give into the darkness with one thought on my mind: no one has ever cared enough to teach me how to fight.
***
I feel the heat on my face and pry one eye open, only to slam it shut again. A ray of sunlight is streaming in through the window in the garage and cutting right across me as I roll over and sit up on the concrete floor. It’s completely light out, so I wonder what time it is.
I scramble to a standing position, but immediately have to reach out to the workbench to steady myself. Head pounding, hip throbbing, I don’t try the overhead garage door because I know the electronic opener is broken and I don’t have enough energy to lift it, so I head toward the regular door and crack it open before catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window. My right eye is swollen—no wonder it won’t open—and my lip is split, with dried blood smeared along my chin. Slowly licking my tongue along my bottom lip, I wince when it touches the cut. And then I do it again. And again.
Something comes into focus and I see Ethan headed straight toward me. Turning away just as he reaches the door, I hear him call inside. “Hello?”
The door slowly swings open. “Oh! Hey, Ari. I knew I saw the door crack open. Whatcha doing in here so early?”
I open my mouth to speak, but it’s dry and I have to clear it first. “Ethan. Hey,” I say sheepishly. “I was just, um, looking for the machine thing to put air in my bike tires, but I don’t think Papa has one.”
“An air compressor? We’ve got one. Here, let me grab your bike for you. I’ll take it over to our garage. Fonz and I were going to go for a ride this morning. Think you can come with us, or will Axel get pissed?”
I pivot as he comes around the side and grabs the bicycle and starts pulling it toward him. “Um, I can’t go today. Papa needs my help with something.”
Ethan pulls the bike closer toward the front of the garage, then turns and pushes the overhead door open, letting the daylight spill in. I feel it warm my back as Ethan drags the bike outside. “Yeah, he didn’t look so happy last night. I came around looking for you later, but I didn’t see you in the living room.”
It’s silent, and I wonder what he’s doing behind me. “Ari, are those the same clothes you wore … Wait, did you sleep in here last night?”
Ethan must be able to see the back of my head moving side to side as I shake it, and comes around the side of me, but I pivot again. “Well, when I looked in the window it was pretty late. Where were you?”
“Nowhere! God, it’s not like you care, anyway,” I snap at him.
“Of course I care, Ari! We’re friends.” He places a hand on my shoulder, and I shrug it off.
“I thought you were hanging out with Catherine ,” I say, biting out her name.
“What? I just ran into her there, is all. She’s friends with Fonz, and I met her the other day. Are you mad at me or something?”
“No.”
“Ari … Red? Why won’t you look at me?”
I don’t answer. My lip quivers but I hold back the tears. Don’t you cry … Don’t you dare cry.
“Look at me, Ari. Are you OK? Did Axel hurt you?”
I can’t answer. I don’t want to lie to Ethan, but I don’t want him to know the truth, either. That, yes, Papa hurt me, but he did it because he loves me. Ethan won’t understand. No one ever does.
Ethan lets out a sigh behind me as his hands grip my shoulders and he attempts to turn me to face him. “Ari, look at—”
But I pull free and break into a sprint. “Ari! Wait!” Ethan yells behind me. But he doesn’t even attempt to follow. He knows he can’t catch me if I don’t want him to.
And today, I don’t want him to.