23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Jake
“ Y ou better get in here, boy,” my dad calls from the living room the second I enter the front door.
By the time I’d gotten to work, the man had already left for the day.
It should’ve been a relief, but the only reason he’s taken to knocking off early on Fridays is to get a head start on his weekend benders.
I take my time shedding my coat and dirty work boots, giving myself an extra few minutes to work up the courage to face him.
He sits on the couch like a king; legs spread wide, half-empty beer bottle resting on his thigh while he feigns interest in some college football game I know he doesn’t give a shit about.
It’s his idea of a mind fuck. He’ll let me stand here, gradually amping up my anxiety until I’m beginning to sweat, or he decides he’s ready to acknowledge my lowly presence.
Sometimes, he ignores me for so long that my feet start to protest. I made the mistake of trying to slink away only once, thinking he may have forgotten about me.
Never again. So I wait in awkward silence until he finally drags his attention away from the screen long enough to look at me.
“Is there anything you might like to tell me? ”
I meet his stern gaze and will myself to remain calm, even though every fiber of my being is screaming for me to get the hell out of dodge while I still can.
“I guess you got a call from the school,” I mumble.
“Well, gold star for you. Seems like there are times when your guesses are hitting the mark.” I immediately notice the slurred speech, which doesn’t bode well for me.
“So?” he barks when I don’t respond, the word cutting through the air like a bullet.
“I was told that it’s imperative to improve my grades if I want to graduate at the end of the year.”
“And how on earth have you let it get to this point?”
Now, how to best answer that? I know damn well that nothing I say from here on out will please him. The question is which answer will cause me the least amount of pain.
“Stop staring at your goddamn feet and look at me like a man.”
Cheeks burning with humiliation, I lift my gaze.
“I guess … I—erm.”
“I—I—I,” he mimics, making me grind my molars so hard my jaw aches.
“No wonder you’re failing. You can’t even string a coherent sentence together without sounding like an imbecile.
What is it this time, son? Are the books written in Chinese?
Are the teachers speaking too fast for your peanut brain to keep up?
Tell me. What reason could you possibly have to be such an embarrassment?
I mean, it’s not fucking Harvard now, is it? ”
“I guess I just haven’t had much time to study with everything else going on,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Oh, I suppose it’s my fault for wanting to instill some work ethic in you.
Or are you blaming your brother and sister for your stupidity?
Excuse me for expecting my grown son to take on some responsibility and start learning the trade.
I’m handing you your future on a silver platter, and all you have to do is sit in that classroom and not be a fuckup. ”
I want to scream at him. Tell him I never asked for the future he’s shoving down my throat.
That I never wanted to work for him and take over his stupid business.
But, as usual, I keep my mouth shut and take the verbal lashing.
It’s better than the alternative. When I don’t answer, he gives an exasperated sigh and sinks back into the cushions.
“So, what do you suggest we do about this? What do you need to graduate, son? Because there is no way in hell you are repeating senior year. I need you at work.”
“I guess it’d be nice to get a tutor or something.”
“You want me to fork out hundreds of dollars so someone can hold your hand and repeat what they taught you at school because you’re too dense to get it the first time? Does that sound about right?”
I glare at him then but force myself to swallow the smart-ass remark sitting at the tip of my tongue when I notice the mean glint in his eye. The amount of empties on the table let me know it wouldn’t be smart to challenge him, and, despite my father’s beliefs, I’m not an idiot.
“Tell you what,” my old man drawls, taking a generous sip while he looks at me like I’m a splattered bug on his freshly cleaned windshield.
“I’ll pay for a tutor, but I need you to understand that laziness has consequences in this house.
If there’s one thing I despise, it’s wasting the money I busted my ass to earn.
So, let me show you what happens when you let this family down. Take off your shirt.”
“Dad, please,” I beg, my whole body tensing with apprehension when he pushes to his feet and calmly unbuckles his leather belt. My heart hammers against my rib cage as my palms begin to sweat.
“Now, Jake,” he shouts, making me jump. I blow out a jittery breath and grab the hem of my shirt before pulling it over my head.
“You know the drill.”
I meet his stony gaze and silently beg him not to do this, but I know it’s pointless.
He never blinks while he waits for me to work up the courage to get on with it.
To him, this is some kind of sick test. Proof that his offspring is man enough to take his deranged form of punishment without being reduced to a sniveling mess.
He doesn’t do this often, preferring his own fists over objects.
I guess it’s more personal that way. But when he goes for the belt, I always try my best to get through it as quietly as possible.
It’s over quicker if I don’t make a sound, and he always looks strangely proud afterward.
I shuffle over to the sofa with heavy feet and lower myself to my knees.
Fisting my shirt in my trembling hands, I close my eyes and prepare myself for the shock of the first lash.