Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
By some inconceivable miscarriage of justice, my parent’s divorce results in joint custody.
More inconceivable, my mom is relegated the visiting parent, leaving my brothers and me trapped at our abusive father’s house to continue attending school and living here most of the time. Living is a generous statement.
Even though it freed my mother, it plunged her into an existence riddled with guilt and fear.
The four of us who’ve suffered at the hands of Bill Callahan—used to slap, punch, grip, throw, and terrify—can’t fathom his now ex-wife wasn’t awarded full custody or at the very least, acknowledged as the primary parent.
This is what happens when the husband controls the money and is the chief provider.
It’s almost as if he set up his marriage for this potential outcome, knowing that even if he can’t use Mom as his punching bag, he can still knock her down.
It’s been one month already, and the old man has been in rare form, probably because he thought my mother never had it in her to leave him. The shit he’s spewed…
Ungrateful bitch.
See what she left me with—three sons who can’t find their own asses with two hands.
She’d have nothing if it weren’t for me. She should be grateful.
Didn’t she teach you anything? You’re all worthless morons.
Hope the circus is hiring for freaks once you graduate.
Townshend is the lucky one. Eighteen and a high school senior, college is his get-out-of-jail-free card.
He’s also the favorite, one of the reasons my father picks on him the least. And now that he’s older and taller than the old man by three inches, I’m sure my brother could take him in a fight if push came to shove. Maybe my dad realizes that too.
Graham is a junior and I’m bringing up the rear as a sophomore. We’re still taking the brunt of his ire, fists, and hurled objects—and my liberation is years away.
I walk out to the garage, where Townshend’s got the hood up on his 1970 Chevelle. Dad lets him use one of the two bays, and even though he rides his ass about making a mess and calls him a “grease monkey,” I think he begrudgingly admires Townshend’s understanding of cars.
Our father lacks problem solving skills, relegated to hiring people for everything that breaks.
Personally, I dig knowing why things work—or don’t. Hanging around big bro the past few years, I’ve learned a ton about how engines, carburetors, and mechanical components make vehicles run.
I can’t wait to score my own ride but need to save a lot more bread before that happens—and get my license.
Once I complete Driver’s Ed this semester, I’ll be at the DMV obtaining my permit, and I’m counting the fucking days.
As soon as I turn sixteen, you better believe I’ll be back to take my driver’s test. I’ve longed for the day I score that little laminated rectangle giving me what equates to autonomy and freedom, if only while I’m in a car heading far away from this purgatory.
I’ll still need a hoopty of my own—and I seriously doubt the old man will cough up the dough for one despite buying Townshend the Chevelle.
“Want some help?” I ask.
Townshend angles his head from where he’s peering into the engine. “Good timing. I’m bleeding the brakes in a minute. You remember what to do?”
I nod.
“Good man.” He stands and whaps his fingers against the brim of my baseball hat.
Stowing my annoyance, I pull the hat back in place. “Go for a ride after?”
He grins. “Sure.”
His car hauls ass, and I dig going fast, especially in the twisty hills.
Townshend crawls under the car, calling out for me to pump the brakes.
I depress the pedal at his command several times until the air bubbles are out and resistance is firm.
While my brother moves to the other side, the sharp chemical odor from the brake fluid wafts through the window, but it’s a comforting smell.
We finish the job and once he’s cleaned up, we hit the road.
Fresh air ruffles my hair through the open windows as I tap my fingers against the door panel in time to “American Woman” blasting from his Pioneer stereo.
With quadraphonic sound, the music fills the cabin with a clarity that boggles the mind.
My brother’s a solid driver, downshifting before taking the curves with squealing tires and opening her up in the straights, hitting gnarly speeds.
He glances over. “Up for a stop?”
My eyebrows raise. Where?
“Cathy’s.” His girlfriend’s.
I shrug—but I’m not nearly as nonchalant as I pretend. She’s got a cute sister who’s in my grade.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into the driveway of a ranch style house, and I trail behind Townshend as he makes his way to the backyard, where we find Cathy, her sister Donna, and two other girls sunbathing.
My heart rate picks up, perspiration slicking my armpits as I take in all the bikini-clad bodies slathered with suntan oil.
“Lola” plays from the transistor radio resting on the cement, and the sound is tinny compared to the Pioneer.
Cathy squeals upon spotting my brother, jumping up to greet him. I don’t miss the way his hand palms her ass as he kisses her.
My gaze flits back to the group. “Hey, Donna.”
“Hi, Mick. What are you guys up to?”
I shove my hand in my jeans pocket and try to stare at her face, not the obvious mound covered by her pink bottoms, not the way her breasts aren’t fully encased by the triangles of her top. “Out taking the Chevelle for a spin.”
“Beautiful day for a ride.”
Jesus, even that sounds sexual. I’m desperate to lose my virginity, tired of looking at pictures in magazines and jerking off in the shower. “You picked a good day for tanning.” I sound like an idiot.
“Who’s your friend?” the girl next to Donna asks. She looks older, with auburn hair and a pretty face. She’s tall and lean, and her pale skin’s starting to burn.
“I’m Mick,” I say, lunging forward to shake her hand.
She sits upright. “Stephanie,” she purrs. “The pleasure is all mine.”
My thoughts stutter because what?
Donna gestures to the friend on her other side. “You know Nancy, don’t you? She’s in our class.”
Nope, but I greet her and don’t let on that she’s unfamiliar. She’s riddled with acne and seems shy, but she’s busty, and it takes effort not to stare like a creep.
“Want a Coke?” Donna asks. I glance at Townshend, who’s clearly planning to stay a while.
“Sure, thanks.” I follow her into the house, scoping out her ass the entire time…because it’s heart shaped, sways hypnotically when she walks—and it’s right there.
She disappears behind the refrigerator door for a few seconds. After handing me a can, she leans against the counter, propping a foot on her shin. She’s pretty—long hair, light green eyes that remind me of the ocean, and rocking the hell out of that bikini.
“Where are your folks?” The aluminum emits a loud crack when I pop the top of my Coke, bubbles tickling my nose when I bring it to my lips.
“They’re away this weekend celebrating their anniversary. Thank God, they left us at home alone.”
I nearly choke, sputtering when my drink goes down the wrong pipe.
What is my problem? Do I think she’s going to lay down on the kitchen floor and let me stick my pecker in her?
I don’t even know what I’m doing. But I want to…
so much my dick twitches as my brain shifts into overdrive.
Can we stay here all afternoon? Come back? Is she into me?
Pounding my chest with my fist, I clear my throat. “That’s cool. Always nice to have the house to yourself, right?”
“You can say that again.”
“Are you having a party tonight then?” My eagerness is embarrassingly obvious.
She giggles. “Nothing formal. My parents would kill us. But you and Townshend are welcome to hang around now or later. If you want.”
“Yeah? I’d like that.” It comes out far cooler than the frenetic buzzing happening inside me.
Pink creeps up her neck and onto her cheeks. She’s blushing. I smile, and it’s genuine. “Me too. Do you, um, have a girlfriend or anything?”
I shake my head. “You have a boyfriend?”
“No,” she answers, and that hammer in my chest kicks into high gear, echoing in my ears. My eyes drift down her body and back up to her full lips, resting on them and thinking about what it would be like to kiss her.
We stay another hour, giving me a chance to talk more with Donna. She’s sweet, able to hold a conversation, and I want to spend more time with her—and not just the horndog part of me.
We promise to return that evening, and palpable excitement pulses through me the whole ride home.
But life has other plans.
Because when Townshend drops me off and leaves to fill up his tank and pick up some snacks for the party, my father lights into me over the mess in the garage. A mess that’s not even mine.
I duck from all the shit he’s throwing my way, trapped among the minefield of debris strewn on the floor, toolboxes with half-open drawers, and all the brake bleeding components still out.
He chucks a dirty carpet at me next, the volume of dust momentarily blinding me.
Turning my back to the cloud, I frantically wipe my shirt across my face.
That’s when my father throws the jack stand, the metal biting into my leg and sending me to the ground.