Your Biggest Fan

12. NOAH

Chapter twelve

Later, after spending my final period relentlessly bugging Daniel about his crush on a certain little blonde, he finally fessed up that he’s got it bad for her.

Turns out he’s been eyeing her since he saw her giggling on the Gravitron and gorging her weight in that blueberry ice cream.

With that intel locked in, I bolted out of the school after the final bell, sprinting through the grass, straight towards my prized possession.

She’s always been a beautiful little thing, a sleek black Honda NX650 Dominator, the ultimate dream ride that I begged for my seventeenth birthday. And I begged, really fucking begged them. It was quite the performance, one that made me think I could take up acting one day if I really wanted to.

It’s not a memory I like to dwell on. It was pretty pathetic and degrading, no matter how rad the reward. But cars? Those are for the lazy who chauffeur their spoiled offspring to the mall so that they can buy some useless junk. I want to question if I’ll live or die with every jump, and dirt bikes have all that in spades. Not to mention they’re wicked fast and sick as hell.

Prince, Johnny Lawrence, Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, and The Terminator prove that.

And you don’t have to abide by traffic laws.

Most days.

When I kick my leg over the leather seat and feel that purring engine roar to life beneath me, I smile. I wrap my fingers tight around the handle bars, kick the stand up, and with a flick of my wrist, hit the clutch, which causes enough of a stir throughout the parking lot for Ian to look towards me. I swallow when we make eye contact, and proudly restrain myself from flipping him the middle finger.

I zoom out of the lot and down the streets. A few minutes fly by until I park my bike at the edge of my driveway.

Shoving my keys into my jacket pocket, I hike up the pathway and swing the front door open, stepping inside. The atmosphere is immediately different—the smell of home cooked food wafts from the kitchen, keys are tossed on the entryway table, jackets are hung on the coat rack, and the living room TV blares in the background.

Normally, these things would grab my attention, but right now, my mind cares more about reaching the storage unit to meet up with Roxanne.

The only reason I swung by home first is to grab my microphone cables and stand. Hindsight being 20/20, I should’ve asked Daniel to follow me so I could cram all this gear into his car. That’s one of the downsides of tearing around on a dirt bike—if it can’t fit in a backpack, it’s not coming along for the ride.

I’m dashing up the stairs, working a plan in my head that if I fold the cords tightly enough I might be able to fit it all in my backpack, but when I reach the top and glance to the left, fear slices through my gut and I skid to a stop.

My bedroom door is cracked open. With the light on.

I specifically remember closing it and switching off the light this morning.

My heart skips a beat as I cautiously walk closer, using my finger to gently push the door open the rest of the way. My scare comes to life with Dennis standing at the edge of my bed in his beige suit, his short peppered hair turned away from me.

My stepdad is rummaging through my box of cassette tapes on my bed, and my eyes dart around the room, trying to piece together what exactly he’s looking for. Weed, alcohol, something to listen to while he eats dinner? He never came into my room, and this is my inner sanctum he is defiling.

Dennis grunts, flinging a tape onto the floor without a care. The blood under my skin heats up when I see it’s The Stranger .

I immediately eye the next cassette in his hand. “What the hell are you doing?” I finally ask, stepping forward to interact with the devil.

Probably shouldn’t have cursed, but screw it.

He pauses and turns to me, his mustache barely twitching as his droopy eyes narrow up and down my lean frame. Goosebumps start rising on my arms despite my jacket.

“Do you know what you are doing is wrong?” he says in his deep, monotone voice.

This can mean one of three things: I’ve done something he doesn’t approve of (which is basically everything), he wants to berate me for no damn reason other than being in a shit mood, or this guy wants to beat my ass.

With the tone of his voice... Yeah, this certainly can’t be good.

“Wrong? I think that’s debatable.” I cross my arms to shield myself. “What have I done this time?”

Dennis shakes his head and turns back to flip through my tapes, already displeased with me. Nothing new there. I can handle it this way at least. I can handle staring at the back of his head instead of his eyes.

I take another breath, curling my fingers tighter into my sleeves so he won’t see them trembling.

“You didn’t answer me,” I push, proud of how steady my voice sounds. “What are you looking for in here?”

I don’t have anything to hide—some albums with Parental Advisory stickers he won’t approve of, and a little weed if he bothers rifling under the bed. But that doesn’t explain this obsessive searching.

“You and your friends have been wreaking havoc, damaging both public and private property. Not to mention the act of vandalism,” he states, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Are you too stupid to be concerned about criminal charges?”

My expression drops into a scowl while I mentally blow him up with my mind and try really fucking hard not to let it show. Is this why he’s in my room searching through my things? Trying to find evidence of spray paint?

Though every cell in my body begs to forcefully shove him out the window and slam it shut, I have to tread carefully here. My body is already getting too tight and I don’t want him to swipe me across the face with his belt like he did when I made a funny face at the wrong time.

“Do you want to know what happens to kids like you?” He turns and looks me in the eyes when I don’t respond right away, a fire flaring up in my chest. “They get labeled as criminals, and everyone looks at them with judgment. They spiral into poverty, forced to commit more crimes to survive.” He tsks under his breath. “It’s not a life you’ll want to live even though you're already halfway there.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s acting as if he actually cares what happens to me when really he’s embarrassed by me.

My throat starts to close up, my emotions far more present thanks to the new tape he tosses down onto the floor. It’s hard to describe what the fuck is strung up inside me, but it’s mostly defiance. And a determination to prove him wrong. To prove that I can carve my own path, no matter the judgments and labels that may come my way.

I know I’m better than that, and just because he doesn’t understand that spray painting isn’t some mindless act of destruction, it’s a form of art, an expression of freedom, I’m not going to let him make me feel shitty about myself.

I’m not out there spray painting all over town either, the canvas is an abandoned community pool that we turned into a skatepark that everyone is well aware of. I’m not some fucking mindless delinquent destroying the damn place. The goal isn’t to deface property, it’s to hit the streets with color. It’s better than looking at all the corporate logos tagged everywhere. This is my world, not Bellpond Plumbing & Supply’s.

The belt appears in my mind again, the leather strip stretched between two hands and slicing across the air. I can feel the sting on my cheek, the bite of a too-quick movement, the burn of the impact. The welt it would leave for everyone to see, potentially leaving a small scar behind to match the other one on my left cheek.

My insides start shrinking, and my goal of setting the record straight goes with it.

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

He cuts me off quickly. “How did I know it was you, kid? I listened to the voicemails from the city, and they all left me detailed messages about seeing you spray painting a wall in broad daylight.” Dennis’ sharp gaze meets mine so fast I almost flinch in pain. “I work hard to take care of your mom, to put food on the table, and this is the thanks I get? A little shit who defaces property and thinks he’s untouchable?” He shakes his head, disgust so clear it’s as noticeable as the mustache on his face. “Well, here’s some news for you. You’re not untouchable. This has to stop, Noah. I won’t tolerate this behavior any longer.”

His usual disappointment hangs heavy, and as he keeps fixing me with that cruel fucking look, doubt creeps in and I start to believe that what he thinks of me is true.

No . I shake it off.

“I’m not a kid,” I whisper. “I’m eighteen.”

Dennis scoffs like I’d claimed the moon was made of cheese. “You may have turned eighteen, but you’re still acting like a child. You think you’re living in some teenage movie, where you’re the hero defying all the rules, but this isn’t Hollywood, and I’m not some random guy. I’m in charge here, and you’re living under my roof. I’ve had enough of this spray painting bullshit and you playing make-believe about being some kind of artist.”

There it is. Dennis Ward everyone. Always eager to remind me of my dependence on him. Ever the harsh reminder of what I’m trying to escape.

I need to keep biding my time, patiently waiting for the day I graduate. The day he fulfills his promise and puts my dirt bike in my name as my graduation present. That’s when I’ll make my move.

Before I can open my mouth to tell him where to shove it, Dennis strikes viper fast, his fist knotting into the folds of my shirt. I bite against my cheek as I slam against the wall of my bedroom, pain exploding at the base of my skull.

“Don't you dare make that face at me, you little shit,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. I hadn’t even realized I had made a face, but fuck —here it comes.

I close my eyes and mentally prepare for the smack of leather.

“Dennis?” I hear my mom’s voice, but it sounds like it’s coming from far away. He pulls back, leaving me to catch my breath as a cold sweat beads on my forehead.

My mind is fuzzy when I hear Mom’s voice again, but this time it’s closer, and I jerk over to see her hovering in the doorway. Her chestnut hair is a mess, white tee tucked into jeans, a matching denim shirt hanging open with a wine glass dangling loosely from her fingers.

“What’s with the racket?” she asks, and I stare into her eyes, silently pleading for her to intervene.

She looks between us, takes one deep breath… then averts her eyes.

“Dinner’s ready in ten,” she mumbles weakly before turning away.

My heart pumps blood so fast it’s almost painful while I watch her disappear from the doorway. Dennis takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing at me while he raises a finger and jabs it against my chest, repeating his demands to quit with the spray painting.

My spine goes rigid, and for good reason, because when I don’t nod fast enough, he yanks me again with a firm grip on the collar of my jacket this time, his knuckles brushing the underside of my jaw.

The weight of his arm is a heavy anchor sinking into my chest, and with every breath I take, I’m a fish out of water, gasping for air. His face lights up as he looks down on me, but there’s something twisted and mean about his grin.

He’s enjoying this.

“Do we have an understanding?” he asks me.

My fists unclench at my side. I may not agree with Dennis, but I need to find a fucking way to navigate this situation without causing any further damage.

I know what he wants—submission, obedience, fear.

I clench my jaw so tight my teeth click. “Fine. I won’t spray paint anymore.”

It’s the only way he’ll release me, but even as I speak the words, I think about how to sneak around that—sneaking off to the tunnels behind the park or discovering new hidden spots. I’ll be damned if I’m not going to find a way to continue doing what I love, so Daniel, Levi, and Molly can too. Even if it means bending the rules.

“Good,” he says, releasing me to smooth down his pristine wool jacket.

Air rushes sweetly into my starved lungs. His footsteps are heavy as he prowls towards my bed, his foot narrowly missing the Billy Joel tape still lying on the floor.

“And I hope you’re not planning anything stupid, Noah, because we’re done with not only the spray painting, but the tattoos, and all the other crap you’ve been doing that makes you think you look cool.”

He reaches into my cassette box again, inspecting the 2 Live Crew artwork before dropping it back, shaking his head, and grabbing another. Almost like he’s rummaging around for something to cause me pain, but I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t find it.

He is really running the evil stepdad look today.

With an aggravated sigh, he brandishes a Metallica tape. “I don’t give you money to blow on records either. If you’re an adult, then you pay for your own things.”

My eyes stretch open wide as I witness him grip the cassette tightly in both hands, snapping it in half without a second thought. The brittle plastic shatters easily, the film inside spilling out like the oozing cheese from a mozzarella stick.

He hurls the broken pieces across the room so it bursts against the white of my closet door. “Is that clear, mister adult?”

“Crystal,” I grit through my clenched teeth as Dennis continues his rampage of snapping more tapes in half.

My vision swims and I sway slightly. This can’t be happening. I want to shut my eyes and pretend that it’s not, but the mortification and pain in my chest keep me rooted to the spot, and the vibrations of his steps shake the floor while my heart races that he’ll acknowledge the Billy Joel one.

I’m not sure if I’ve even blinked.

His fingers reach for Van Halen’s '5150' next, and I stand here in complete fucking denial and numb horror as he shows no mercy and destroys the tape.

The heat of my heart burns in my chest. It might melt out of my ribcage and join the tapes on the ground. I can’t force a single word past the lump in my throat while he tosses the broken pieces onto my bed like they’re nothing. It would only get me into more trouble than I already was, and fuck, I really don’t want the belt.

“Maybe if you had a job instead of wasting your time scribbling those idiotic doodles everywhere, you could afford to buy your own records. But no, you expect me to foot the bill while you indulge in your little punk rock bullshit. Wake up, kid.”

He snatches one of my sketchbooks from my bedside table, flipping through it with exaggerated disgust. “Look at this. Is this what you do instead of applying yourself to something useful? You think these are going to get you anywhere in life?” He tears out a page, crumpling it in his fist. “This is what the real world does to pipe dreams, Noah. It crushes them. It's not going to put food on the table or pay the bills.”

Is he serious right now?

“You're the one who told me not to get a job, saying it was important for me to focus on my studies,” I retort, surprising even myself that I’d talk back to him. “You said only poor kids had to work in high school. Now you're on my case for not having money?”

Rather than being ridiculed, Dennis’ words continue to pour out. “You have no idea what it means to provide for a family. I'm the one putting food on the table, keeping a roof over our heads, trying to salvage our good name while you waste your time on this hippie nonsense,” he exclaims. “You need to grow up and fast, boy. At this rate, you'll end up as some bum selling pencil sketches in the park before you're twenty.”

I look away, chest falling in quick breaths. He’s manipulating me, trying to justify his fucking meltdown while making me feel like I’m two inches tall. And damn him, it’s working. I’m no freeloading punk—I bust my ass, I keep my grades up, I do what I gotta do. But under his stare, I do feel very much a powerless, scolded child.

Dennis breaks another cassette and tosses its remains alongside the shattered pieces of the first three. I’m about to go fucking ballistic. I want to smash Dennis Ward across the face like those plastic pieces scattered on my floor and see how it feels to give him a scar on his cheekbone.

Fists clenched, I take a step forward and shout back, “You want to talk about the name you’re giving me?”

A brief pause hangs in the air, the tension thickening as we both realize what I’ve done. He quirks a brow at me and I resist running for my life.

Oh, shit .

I take a step back, fists going into my pockets. I know better than to be arguing with this asshole, but the anger inside me is too damn hard to swallow at this point. His comment triggers memories of the countless times I was picked on and targeted when I first rolled into this town. All because of my association with him , I had to work twice as hard to change the way I look, even fucking act.

My reputation had been tainted by him before I set foot in Bellpond, and I was expected to be his walking clone. At least I still had my own last name, a tiny shred of individuality that I hold on to for dear fucking life.

The sound of another cassette cracking fills the room like thunder, and staring at Dennis tossing it behind his shoulder makes me feel like a simmering volcano. His flaring nostrils, the cold flash in his eyes, all are rumbling tremors making my rage spike like molten lava.

My thumb presses so hard into the ring around my finger and I bite both of my lips down between my teeth, trying to tame the explosion.

And when Dennis steps forward, the sound of another cassette cracking, I’m sure I’m about to fucking erupt. If it weren’t for The Stranger underneath his Italian loafer, I would have.

His foot lifts to expose the plastic shards in pieces against the brown carpet, the white tape cracked in threes, the black and white cover bent backward. With an icy prick, the boiling heat inside me quickly drops down to freezing in the blink of an eye.

The only heat in my body now is the prickle behind my eyes.

My tape, the one that had seen me through so much, now lays in ruins under my stepfather’s ignorant fucking heel. It was more than a cassette—it was me inside those magnetic ribbons.

“Yeah, I do, kid. What of it?” he shouts, grinding his shoe into the remnants of my tape. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming at me like that. I could slap the cuffs on you right now if I really wanted to. But I’m cutting you some slack, and this is how you repay me? Snapping at me?”

“You cut me slack?” My vision dims at the edges as if I’m sinking into the bottom of the ocean.

“You’re damn right I do! I was your age once, but I had the good sense to respect my elders.”

I drag my eyes from the crushed tape up to Dennis, who now stands right in my space and is towering over me. I have to crane my neck to look into his swirling black eyes.

I want to fight back, so badly. So badly . But I don’t know how. I’m not as big as him.

“Then maybe you should start acting like one,” I mutter under my breath.

“Excuse me?” He leans down, making me feel small and insignificant. “You want to repeat that, you little smartass? Go ahead, tell me how a real man should act. I'm sure you know all about it from your fruity art classes and your deadbeat friends.”

The room’s very molecules vibrate with his anger, and anything I say will set him off more. Being with Dennis is never safe, and I can’t bear the thought of spending any more of this night in this house if this is what it’s going to be like.

I lock eyes with my opponent, but inside, my bones tremble. My heart beats faster than ever, and I can’t tell if I’m about to fight Dennis, run, or have a heart attack. I roll my lips back into my mouth and stare up at him, refusing to say anything else.

Why is this happening again? This was supposed to be a quick pit stop on the way to the real adventure, an adventure I couldn’t even think about anymore. The only threat to danger tonight was supposed to be if I decided to ride my bike without my helmet.

“I'm going to set this straight—as long as you’re under this roof, which you still are, you have no right to talk back. No right to argue. You are still a child.”

I release my lips from my teeth, about to say something, but I stop. The energy for this is leaving my system with each breath I take.

“Now let me teach you about being a grownup, Mr. Adult. You see those records?” He points to the crate of vinyls I’ve collected over the years beside my bedside table. “Those are your things. Grownups have their own things that they've earned, that they pay for with honest work. Let me show you what grownups do with their things when they’re mad at their children.”

He bolts over to my bed, his hands reaching for my records, one by one. My heart sinks as I watch him break them in half, right in front of me, over his knee.

My knuckles pop the tighter I squeeze my fists and bite at the inside of my already raw cheek, metallic anger flooding my mouth. I want to give his grinning face a good right hook, and this can be the day I finally know what it’s like for my knuckles to meet a nose.

But I just stand here, motionless like a fucking idiot, eyes burning as I listen to the sound of every record in my collection cracking against skin instead of a needle. Isn’t it funny how I’m so used to shedding blood, but I’m scared to hurt my poor knuckles?

“When I was your age, I wasn’t into all this music crap. I was focused on making it through high school and finding a job. You’ve got to learn how to be a grownup, Noah. You can’t go around painting walls and spending all your time listening to records you don’t even earn. You want some advice? Learn how to be a man.”

He steps back and drops the empty milk crate with a thump. It’s pretty ironic being judged by an absentee stepfather whose idea of quality time is raiding my room. No one was ever around to pass me the guidebook and show me how to be a “man.” If he had, maybe I would be the perfect stepson he wanted. Only, that was not my reality—or what I wanted.

Add it to the list of things I’ll never tell him. At least Dennis has the guts to say whatever bullshit he wants.

“Fine,” I croak out. I might not be a real man , but I’m man enough to know that destroying other people’s belongings to prove a point is beyond fucking childish.

“One more thing,” he says, making every ounce of my blood rush up my neck. “My family built this town. I'm doing everything I can to keep it respectable, and you're making a mockery of us all. Can you even begin to comprehend the shame you'd bring to your mother or to me if someone found out about all those tattoos you have? No, of course you don’t. You’re nothing but a pincushion with long hair.”

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have your last name,” I deadpan. Dennis laughs, and I'm not sure what that means, but I can guess he’s laughing at me.

“That last name isn’t even yours now, is it? That last name belongs to your no-good dad who couldn't even stick around.” His head shakes while he pinches at the bridge of his nose. “You ought to be on your knees thanking me every day that I took you in and gave you all these opportunities, even if you are turning out to be a major headache for me.”

Yeah, sure. I’m the pain in your ass.

At a glance, I get a glimpse of my mom passing by the doorway before she heads downstairs. Has she been listening the whole time and not said a word?

“You need more discipline in your life, Noah. You think you’re tough, but I’m not afraid to teach you a lesson in respect by force.”

All the blood drains from my face at the threat. This is it. The belt is coming.

Everything heightens in those stretching seconds. The fabric of my shirt feels abrasive against my skin, the smell of leather and sweat strong in my nose. My lungs start working faster, my heart pounding so loud in my ears.

My hands twitch, ready to march down the stairs in a gesture of heroic bravery and close the front door to never open again, but everything is trembling, wobbly with blind terror, including my legs. I’m a damn coward.

Want, want, want. But I never do .

“Yes, sir,” I whisper through paper-dry lips, embarrassed to hear myself say those words.

“Glad we have come to an agreement. Now clean this mess up before dinner.”

Dennis gestures to the mess he made, then adjusts his yellow tie in the mirror above my dresser before walking out.

I fantasize once more about throwing him out the window by that tie when he stops before he enters the hall. “Try to remember that you’re lucky I’m able to get to the calls first before they reach the mayor.”

The person I’m supposed to impress in three days. Super.

Dennis leaves my room, and I stay still until I hear his loafers step down the stairs before finally leaning off the wall. I swipe at the sweat above my brow with my wrist, rub my hands against my jeans, and run my fingers through my waves.

It’s a fucking travesty to see a cassette tape be crushed at— and in —the hands of Dennis Ward. Especially one that held sentimental value. I loved that damn tape. He has no right to destroy something that means so much to me.

“Fuck you,” I whisper to the ground. He may think he can control me, but he can’t control my passion, my emotions, or break my spirit. I will not let him fucking break me.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my pulsing skin. Even though he’s downstairs by now, my skin is still crawling, and the total destruction of my room isn’t helping. I take a few more calming breaths before I step over the crushed records and cassettes, blood shaking and feeling like holy water in Satan’s den as I try to clean up his mess.

When The Stranger is at my feet, I pick up the pieces with shaky hands and lay them on my bed, as if I could put them back together like some sort of a puzzle.

I feel... How do I feel? Numb. Cold. Dead inside. Sad for the irreparable loss, yet annoyed that I know it’s not worth putting up with him. I’ll have to resolve to find a new tape to replace this one.

To replace all of them .

I’ll have to make new memories with it too, but I won’t be able to forget this one. Most kids have a giant cabbage patch or bear stuffed animal to clutch to whenever their parents get into arguments, but I had this tape to keep me safe.

It takes me thirty minutes to clean up this shithole before I’m yelled at to come sit at the dining table for a happy family meal.

After stabbing at the meatloaf on my plate for two minutes with my fork, thankful that the table is long enough that I don't have to hear Dennis breathing, I concentrate on keeping the tension I feel entirely concealed.

I don’t let my knee bounce out, don’t let my finger tap out a rhythm against my thigh. Dennis eventually excuses himself and retreats to the hallway, slipping behind the sliding doors of his office, while my mom is equally focused on her fourth glass of wine.

Brooke Jackson, or I guess some call her Brooke Ward now, used to be a heartstopper, with a bright smile that would stop traffic while we walked down the streets of Seattle. She used to wear warm-colored dresses that cut off mid-calf, the floral patterns spinning around with me in the middle of our living room while we danced along to the radio. But when she married Dennis he started to suck the life out of her, and I could tell by the way she sucked down her wine.

I hate Dennis even more for that. No matter how much it costs her sanity, she is constantly bending over backward to please him. He’d taken away her shine, all the color and joy she once had, and it was clear as fucking day that she couldn’t take it anymore. I noticed too how she reacted when he would come home from work, how the mood would drastically change. Instead of leaving like I know she wants to, she tries to drown it out.

She stays. For me.

Isn’t that sick and twisted?

I clear my throat and set my fork down. “Mom?”

“What, honey?” The words are a heavy sigh as she visibly droops. She looks even more tired when she faces me, sweaty and flushed, and not from the heat of the house.

“Was that necessary for Dennis to be such an asshole?” I could've done without the cursing again, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. No watch your language or Noah Shane Jackson coming my way.

She keeps tipping her wine up, the bridge of her nose pressed against the glass as she looks through the bottom toward the oil painting across the room.

“I know Dennis doesn’t like me, or think I’m ‘a grownup,’ but that was way too far.”

“Oh, Noah. Give him a break, will you?” She sighs, waving her almost empty glass at me. I watch as red droplets splash onto the tablecloth. She doesn’t even notice. “He’s had it hard lately, with work and everything. He cares about you, you know. You should just be happy he’s around. He’s doing his best for you, okay?”

So. Yeah. Mom’s drunk off her ass and making excuses for Dennis. It’s the same old bullshit.

I rub at the brewing headache behind my eyes. “I get that he’s probably been stressed, but being stressed isn’t an excuse to tear up my shit. How does that help anything?”

My gaze hops over to the white table runner and I start to pick at the laced edges between my fingers. I want her to see me, to see the ugly purple fingerprints that ring my bicep when he’s in a bad mood. But I can see my mom’s thoughts starting to drift somewhere else, wondering what Bill Cosby is doing on the TV tonight instead.

“Mom, are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, Noah, I’m listening.” She sets down her glass and leaves sweaty smudges behind. “You know how stressful things are right now. Dennis is trying his best.” She actually snorts. “You had to have a punishment. You can’t go around spray painting the local grocery store.”

Jesus . With a defeated huff, I slump back in my chair. I’m still pissed the fuck off, but now it’s starting to get overshadowed by the hurt that is my mom acting like nothing is wrong. How can someone sit there and watch their own son get treated like that?

It’s bad enough that I’m scared shitless anytime Dennis is around, but at least in the beginning I had my mom there to stand up for me when he griped about me leaving my jackets around the house.

“Noah, how many times do I have to tell you to hang up your damn coat?” he’d yell, face twisted in disgust like my jacket was a used condom on the floor.

Sober Brooke used to fight back. “Oh relax Dennis, it’s a jacket. He’ll put it away, right honey?” She’d flash me a wink when he wasn’t looking.

I’d always rush to grab my coat and hurry to my room to hang it in the closet. I’d take my time smoothing out the wrinkles, aligning the sleeves just so. It’s funny how focusing on that always calmed me down.

All bets were off when it came to drunk Brooke, though. Now in her eyes, Dennis can do no wrong, even when he goes way too far. She didn’t care about my coats or me.

Last year, he threw my favorite jacket in the trash because I’d left it on the couch. Didn’t matter that it was a gift from Daniel for my birthday. Dennis said if I clearly didn’t care about it, I wouldn’t mind it being garbage.

I dug it out of the trash later, reeking of coffee grounds and God knows what else. I hand-washed it in the sink, then stayed up all night making sure it aired out just right. Folded it with shaking hands and tucked it into the very back of my closet, where he won’t find it again.

That’s the thing about living with someone like Dennis. You learn to hide the things that matter. To make yourself small and unseen. And when you can’t do that, you learn to endure. To take the hits and the insults and the mind games. To smother your anger and swallow your tears.

My room’s clean, my jackets are folded, and I’m unraveling at the seams. But oh, poor overworked, overstressed Dennis didn’t mean to smash my stuff. Totally an innocent mistake. My lip curls in disgust.

“It wasn’t a grocery store,” I mutter. “Some wall nobody even looks at inside the abandoned community pool that’s already covered in paint.”

In her wine-warped vision, my mom looks over at me as if I’m speaking in tongues as she tips her head back. She’s far too gone now.

Her eyelids start to fall, her neck tilts back, and the creaking wood makes me panic that the chair might tip her.

“Mom—” I reach out and jostle her shoulder but she swats me away.

“I’m fine,” she snaps harshly, leaning forward. “Leave Dennis alone, he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the one who works hard for this family.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, either.”

“Don’t you go blaming him about any of this.”

Rational discussion is pointless with two empty wine bottles glaring back at me. “How many bottles have you had?” I ask, hoping a reality check will bring her back to the present.

Wrong move.

“I’ve had enough wine to be done talking to you,” she slurs heavily, then swipes for a bottle in the middle of the table, knocking her wine glass over in the process. “Dennis is right. You still are a child, Noah, even if you’re seventeen. You don’t know anything 'bout being a grown-up or what me and Dennis do for you. I’m drinking this wine because of you.”

Her words hit me with more pain than any belt. Is she really blaming me for this? I start to fist at the table runner. She isn’t supposed to make things worse.

“Because of me?” I repeat, staring at her untouched plate as she pulls the cork off the bottle. My better senses tell me I should take that bottle away from her, make her eat food, and tell her to go to bed.

That’s what a good son would do.

My chair screeches against the floor instead.

Fuck. This.

“I’m eighteen by the way.” I spring up from my chair and throw my napkin down on the red wine stain on the table to soak it up. “My birthday was last month.”

Mom snaps out of her trance long enough to look at me.

“Wha’d you say?”

I step behind my chair and push it under the table. “Nothing,” I whisper imperceptibly as Brooke Ward turns her eyes to the wine glass, lifting it with one hand and pulling her shirt closer to her with the other.

Normally, I’m never looking forward to being alone in this house unless I know I’ll be having certain company inside it. Now I know their next trip can’t fucking come soon enough.

I grab my plate from the table and scrape my food into the trash, placing it down in the sink before I stop by the wine rack to steal one of the bottles on my way back up to my bedroom, where I fully plan on calling Daniel, Levi, and Molly from my bedside to meet me at the skatepark. I’m keyed up and on fucking edge.

The real best part of owning a dirt bike is how fast you can get away from where you’ve been. Unfortunately the thing nobody told me when I bought the thing is that no matter how fast I try to go, I can’t outrun the truth.

I’m fucking miserable.