I didn't want to take calculus. Who would, right? I was sixteen. I was already a year ahead. I wanted to take it easy. Coast.

I knew to broach the subject once I stopped hearing my Uncle Greg's raised voice, and started hearing Dad call me down to dinner. I don't know what they were fighting about; I never knew what they were fighting about.

I announced my intentions, bluntly, as soon as dinner was served.

"I don't want to take calculus."

My dad sighed. He would get to a point were he just couldn't fight anymore, and would give into whatever you wanted. The trick was finding that point.

"I don't," I said.

"Tough," Uncle Greg said.

"That's not helping," Dad said.

I glared at Uncle Greg. "Why should I have to take it?"

He gave me a duh look. "Because it's what comes after trig."

"But I barely passed trig."

"Because you didn't study."

"Because I'm not good at math," I whined.

"You're not good at math because you don't study," Uncle Greg said.

Dad held up his hands. "Time out, guys. Joseph, you are good at math. Don't say you're not. House, give him a chance to explain himself. What do you want to take instead?"

I shrugged. "Nothing."

Now Dad gave me the duh look. "What?"

"Nothing. Study hall."

"Absolutely not." Dad said.

Uncle Greg looked triumphant.

"I don't need it to graduate," I said. "Why do you always side with him?"

"I don't…" Dad started.

"It's not even that hard," Uncle Greg said.

"The only thing you think is hard is walking to the mailbox," I snapped.

My father slammed his hand down on the table. The silverware jumped.

"You do not," my father said in a grave voice, "speak to people like that. Ever. Do you understand?"

Two sets of eyes stared me down. I nodded, mumbling, "Sorry."

We finished dinner in silence and I legged it back to my room.

I slammed the door and threw a pillow. I played on the computer for a few hours until my father went to bed and Uncle Greg closed himself in the office.

I got bored. I got angry.

Then I went outside and stole my father's car.

I have no idea why.

It seemed like the thing to do. It wasn't until I'd rolled it down the street and started it as quietly as possible that I even decided where to go.

It was a warm summer night, and I remember the sound of the air conditioner over the radio, and the hum of the engine at my fingertips.

I found a parking lot where people from school hung out, then found some guys from my sophomore English class, who found a party.

There I got royally drunk.

I did tequila shots until I thought I was going to puke from the salt. Then I switched to vodka.

There was music playing loudly and I sat on a couch, watching people make out and dance.

After far too long spent contemplating the ceiling, I found my friends and told them I was going home because my stomach hurt. They laughed, and one thrust a cigarette into my hands and told me it would help. I took a few puffs of the sweet smoke, acknowledged it as pot and promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up, the house was empty and a beautiful girl was shaking my shoulder.

I don't know who she was, but she was tired and in her pajamas. "You need to go," she said. "You need to go right now." The urgency in her voice scared me and I bolted, leaving behind my expensive leather coat. Maybe her parents were home, maybe she just wanted to go to bed, I don't know, but the terror stayed with me as I swerved all the way home.

By the time I put my key in the door, red was bleeding into the dark sky. I didn't even get the doorknob turned. The door opened on its own. Uncle Greg reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me inside and bellowing, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He pulled me into the kitchen. Dad had his back to me, his hands on the kitchen counter.

"I found him," Uncle Greg said. "He smells like a casino."

Dad turned, staring at the ground. "Are you alright?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Yeah."

"You're sure you're not hurt?"

"Yeah."

"Was there an emergency? Something I don't know about?"

Uncle Greg snorted.

"No." I spoke very quietly.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Uncle Greg said.

Dad raised a hand to shush him. "You can't do things like this," he said, still not looking me in the eyes.

"They'll take you away!" Uncle Greg yelled. "Is that what you want? Do you want them to take you away?"

"House!" Dad yelled.

Uncle Greg rolled his eyes and leaned back on the table. "Fine."

Dad turned back to me. He took a breath and spoke again in a low voice. "I want you to tell me what exactly you were thinking."

And then…I guess I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt both of them. I wanted them to feel, just once, like I felt all the time. I let out a stream of profanity, most of which I can't remember, but somewhere in the middle I grasped for the worst word I knew.

Let's just say, in my father's home the f-word did not end in u-c-k.

I yelled it, loudly. I believe my exact words were, "And I don't have to listen to a couple of…"

Yeah.

He slapped me.

I'd never so much as had my hand batted for stealing cookie dough, but that night my father slapped me, hard, across my face.

When I looked up, shocked, his eyes were still narrowed in rage, and he raised his hand again. For a second I went numb with fear, convinced he was going to beat the ever loving shit out of me.

He might have; I honestly don't know.

Uncle Greg was there instantly, stepping between us, his hand heavy on my shoulder to keep himself upright.

"No," he said. My father turned away, bringing his hand to his face. Uncle Greg turned to me and said, "Go to your room."

I fled and he wobbled, grabbing for the wall.

I slammed the door dramatically and flung myself on my bed. And of course, I could hear them yelling.

I don't know how long I lay there, and I don't know if I fell asleep again, but I remember Uncle Greg's knock on the door.

"Kid?"

I threw my pillow at the door, and he took that as an invitation. He shut the door firmly behind him, and took a seat on my desk chair.

"Kid? Look at me."

I buried my face in my mattress.

"Look at me, please."

I peaked at him over my arm.

"Are you okay?"

"What do you care?"

"Let me see your face."

I sat up, leaning forward as he took my chin in his hand and studied my red cheek.

"Is it going to bruise?" I asked.

He cocked his head. "Don't think so." He released my face. I sat back on my bed, my back against the wall. "Are you okay?"

"I guess. Is Dad mad?"

"Yeah. He's mad. He'll get over it. I'm mad at him. I'll get over it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine."

There was a knock.

"Joseph?" Dad stuck his head in. Uncle Greg pushed himself up, immediately. "Can I talk to you?" Dad shot Uncle Greg a cool look. "Alone?"

"Talk to him around me," Uncle Greg said.

Dad pulled himself up and looked Uncle Greg in eye. "House, I want to talk to my son."

Uncle Greg looked to me, and after a moment I realized he was seeking my permission to leave. I nodded hastily and he left the room.

"Joseph," Dad said softly. "I'm sorry. That was wrong."

I rolled over, giving him my back. He sat on the end of my bed. "I am sorry," he said. "I don't know if you understand. I don't know if you'll ever understand. You grew up in such a different way." He shrugged. "But I never should have raised my hand to you. Ever. I'm sorry."

I burst into tears. I think that was last time I ever cried like that, totally and completely, like a little kid. I crawled up, grabbed Dad around the middle, and sobbed into his stomach. He put a hand on my back and rubbed soothingly.

"Shh," he said. "It's okay."

"I'm a bad kid," I blubbered. "I'm a real bad kid."

"No, you're not. You're a good kid who sometimes does bad things."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry." Then I told him all about the party, and the drinking, and his car.

He tensed, but made a joke. "Next time steal House's car. It's faster."

"Why do you say that?" I might have been trying to change the subject away from myself, but part of me really wanted to know. I sat up, pushing the tears off my face with the palms of my hands.

"Um, because it is?"

"No, why do you call him House?"

"That's his name. Everybody calls him that. Except maybe his mother."

"I don't call him that."

"Well, yeah. You don't remember why?"

"No."

"When you first came to live with us, you didn't quite have control over your tongue. H's and S's were the tough ones. When you met him, he told you his name and you didn't like it. Too hard to say. You called him Outh for a few days, then…" Dad looked down at his hands. "You started calling him Daddy."

"I did?"

"Yeah. You were really little and it was one of the words you could actually say clearly. You probably thought it meant Guy Who Feeds Me or something, but…I didn't like it. I'd barely even met you. I wasn't ready to share. He figured out it was bugging me, I guess. I woke up one morning, late because he'd unplugged the alarm clock, and you and him were sitting in the living room watching TV and you were calling him Uncle Greg." He threw up his hands. "I guess that's not really a good story."

"No. I like it," I said.

Dad rubbed his eyes. "I'm so tired."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Does that mean we're even?" I asked.

"Oh no. You're grounded for a month. No car. No TV. No cell phone. And you're volunteering at the hospital for the next week so I can keep an eye on you." He gave a quiet little laugh. "Go take a shower. You reek." He shoved me playfully, but his touch was light and he quickly drew his hands back into his lap.

I hopped off the bed, turning to look at him in the doorway.

I have lots of pictures of my dad, nice professional ones and happy candid ones, but when I close my eyes and try to picture him, I see him as he was at that moment. His head pressed against the wall. His eyes closed. His face tilted toward the ceiling. Tired. Sad.

I went to take a shower.