One more. I only have one more. I wipe the sweat off of my forehead with the back of my arm and pick up the last grease-caked pot. I fill it with suds and plunge in my water-wrinkled hands. To my left is a stack of clean dishes drying in the drain board. Our foster father Frank throws his dishes into the sink all day, and has me wash them all at night. It took me an hour and a half this time. I scrub at the pot, willing it to get clean. No dice. I pick up the dish soap, contemplating how I will get all my homework done and still find time to sleep. Then I hear my foster father's footsteps, quick and heavy, and my stomach goes cold. I put down the soap and turn towards the doorway, dripping water, wanting to make sure I face him square on so his hands can't find purchase in my hair. His shadow enters the room before he does, and it is so tall, so big, that I find my breath catching even as I berate myself for being afraid. He steps into the doorframe, his eyes cold, his large arms crossed.

"Where's that little brother of yours?" He asks me. Four feet away, I can smell the beer on his breath. He drinks it like its water.

"Doing his homework. What do you want with him?" I say as defiantly as I can manage. The truth is, I haven't seen Jude for the last hour. I don't know what he's been doing.

"The brat made a mess when he took out the trash. And now he's going to fix it," he said simply, turning away.

"I'll do it!" My voice comes out shrilly, and I try to calm it down. "I'm done with the dishes anyway."

He turns and looks at me, his voice low.

"Did I say I wanted you to fix it?" His eyes are dangerous. "Disrespect" is high on Frank's list of things to punish for. I shut up, and mentally cross my fingers that Jude is doing his homework like I said he was. "Lying" is high on Frank's list as well.

Frank leaves the kitchen and treads down the hall toward the room I share with Jude. I quickly dry my hands on the red striped dishtowel I hate so much. Those stripes are the color of blood.

I turn to leave the kitchen and see if I can give Jude a head's up, when an angry yell cuts through the house like wildfire.

"YOU LITTLE HOMO!" There's the distinct sound of hand on flesh, and Jude cries out. I've left the kitchen before I can even process what's happening and race down the hall to find Frank towering over Jude, who's so small he could be nine years old. My heart falls as I realize why Frank is enraged. Jude is wearing one of his ex-wives little black dresses. I only have a second to take this in when Frank lifts his hand again, and heat courses through my body. I dart in front of Jude and take the force of the blow on my cheek. Frank grabs my arm and tries to lift me out of the way, but I grasp his fingers and force them backward, trying to pry out of his grip. Again and again I yell at Jude to run, to get out, but my little brother is frozen, horrified, his eyes wide with fear, for himself, for me.

Frank yells in pain as his fingers go back too far. He lifts up a foot and kicks me in the stomach, hard, so hard, and I'm falling, damn it, I'm falling, and he's turning back to Jude. The pain in my stomach is so intense I can't breathe, so I crawl towards the door, and pull myself up on the doorknob. I can hear Jude crying, the sounds of angry hands on his body, and I let my anger and adrenaline soar through me like a drug. I take off, running down the hall and into the door that connects to the garage.

I have to distract him, I think. I have to do something to get him away from Jude. My heart is beating so hard I feel like someone is playing my chest like a drum. I scan the garage for something, anything, that could help me. I'm looking for tools, a wrench, a hammer, anything, when I see the baseball bat lying next to all the sports gear. I grab it and run outside, to the only thing I know that Frank loves.

I leap towards the car, bat raised. For an instant I can see my reflection in the windshield of the Trans Am; see my face, small, scared, and angry. And then it's nothing but a rockslide of broken glass.