I didn't want to make my mom cook breakfast for me that morning because I knew she was both physically and emotionally drained, and before I reported to homeroom, I went into the cafeteria to grab something to eat. I always stood in the same line; one of the lunch ladies knew me, because I always came here on the mornings that followed my mother's beatings, and I think she had an idea of what was going on in my home, though she never said anything—instead, when I'd go up to the register, she appeared to be charging it to my account but when I checked online it appeared I'd never purchased a single breakfast. I did feel guilty, sometimes even sheepish, carrying a tray loaded up with food to the register while knowing it was completely free. But she did not realize how much I appreciated it, because I needed to eat and if I'd rung up even the smallest charge on my father's credit card and he saw it, my mother would be beaten and I'd be whipped. I thanked her every time I came in for breakfast. She would smile sadly in return and nod silently. Her name was Delores.
I feebly ambled up to the register, the usual food piled on my tray: cinnamon rolls and cereal and milk and juice and bread and cream cheese. I set the relatively heavy tray down on the long metal counter.

"Hi," I mumbled shyly, not looking at her, never looking at her.

Delores was really in pretty good shape for her age, I thought, although I didn't know just how old she actually was. She looked to be in her late-forties or maybe early-fifties, a little older than the snake who currently sat in the mayor's seat, my "uncle" Vlad Masters. Even though her hair was graying and was constantly tangled in a messy bun, it looked silky and well-kept. And even after so many years of working at Casper High as a lunch lady, sitting behind this counter—she'd been here the day I first entered as a freshman, and I'm almost a junior now—her blue eyes never dulled.

That was, before my dad started drinking and I came in for breakfast on the mornings after he beat her. When she saw me wander in, looking lost and broken and tired, her eyes always dulled. And this morning was no different.

"Hi, Danny," she said softly, her voice ringing out with sadness. "Breakfast, I see."

Under any other circumstances, to anyone else, this woman would have seemed like such an idiot for stating something so obvious. But Delores and I both knew that it meant so much more than just breakfast. It meant a beating.

"Yeah," I said quietly, sighing involuntarily, "breakfast."

I'd gotten here later than I usually did because my mom was waiting to dress me and apply that makeup until my dad left, and he left a lot later than he usually did. He'd had a beer in his hand when he appeared in the kitchen doorway. He eyed me drunkenly, most likely studying the bruises he'd given me, and then he came up to me and patted me on the head, a little too roughly but not intentionally, I think.

"Dan," he'd grumbled, "you don't let those bastards at the school see this shit now."

"I won't, Dad."

"They'd take you away from me, you know that, Dan?"

"Yeah, I know that."

"And I love your ass too much, Danny Boy." Another pat.

"I love you too, Dad."

He looked at the clock on the wall above the stove and saw it was almost an hour later than he usually left. "Ah, fuck, I gotta get to the goddamn bar."

Delores was looking about cautiously and I realized she was scanning for other students who could be listening in, but all the kids who came here in the mornings were probably in class by now, probably listening to Mr. Lancer lecture them about the importance of literature and blah, blah, blah. I almost felt like a rebel being here so late into the morning, almost felt like Sam, who cut both of her classes that ran during the four periods of lunch and showed up at all of them, drinking whiskey from a water bottle at the empty table in the far corner of the lunch room.

When she saw that we were alone, she leaned in and said, more like a statement than a question, "He started beating you."

I paused momentarily, a little shocked, because I thought my mom had done a pretty good job caulking me with foundation and powder in my skin-tone. "Why do you say that?"

"You must have smudged some of the makeup with your hand."

I looked down, and sure enough, there was a smear of cream-colored makeup on the back of my hand. I stared at it intensely. She sighed.

"Danny," Delores said, her voice soft and compassionate, "you need to tell someone about this."

"I can't," I said simply, still staring down at the smudge on my hand.

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"Danny, look, I don't know what he did to you, but you're swollen and from what I can see your skin is black and blue. Danny," Delores cried, her face dawning an expression of horror as she uttered the words, "he could have killed you."

"But he didn't."

"He could have, and he still could. You need to get help."

"Look, I appreciate how much you care about me. I really do. And I appreciate that you haven't told anyone yet, because if you did, he really would kill me."

"Why, Danny? What did he say?"

"Look," I said again, grabbing my tray. "I have to get to class. I'm already late."

She sighed sadly, looking down at her hands. "All right, Danny. You're my favorite student, but I pray I won't see you tomorrow morning."

"Hopefully," I said, and walked away with the tray.

On the way to class, I stopped at the bathrooms to fix my smeared makeup. My mom had packed extra.