I wake up dizzy and dry-mouthed, and so disoriented I wonder if last night actually happened— when I realize it damn well must have, I groan and drape my arm over my eyes, shield them from the sunlight coming in through the curtains. I should be embarrassed I tried to stage a WWE bout in the middle of the living room, but that's not what's making me blush, remembering it.

All Curly used to want to fucking do was talk about feelings. How I felt about him coming back from prison. How I felt about my half-sister. How I felt about Luis biting the bullet. I always either stubbornly kept it zipped, or tried to deflect, because I already got enough of that crap from the child psychologist he shipped me off to— Curly's a firm believer in the therapeutic industry, from what I've gathered, this family's employed enough psychiatric professionals to staff a mental hospital by now. I don't say it out loud, it really helped my mama and everything, but I got fired from that quack for not complying and I'm not sorry about it, either. I wasn't the problem in this family, I wasn't about to accept that as a premise.

(I want to say that I don't exactly feel great, about him coming back from prison, but no one asked me. I want to say that I love Dani, but I didn't really think my opinion of Curly could get any lower, and was unpleasantly surprised. And there's nothing I'm ready to say about Luis. Maybe there never will be.)

Now I've not only talked about feelings, I might as well have put a sign on my forehead like I'm a side character on The Brady Bunch. Dad, as a impressionable teenager, I need you to provide structure and discipline, not just be Mr. Nice Guy. Please, God, make me eat my vegetables and clean my room. Boundaries are so crucial to my healthy development and prove that you care.

... Hell, I actually must've seen this plotline as an after school special. Except I don't think anyone on The Brady Bunch would challenge their old man to a fistfight, or that anyone as tatted up as Curly would be allowed inside their house.

I want to stay in bed, just keep the curtains drawn and never come out, but I'm not nearly hungover enough to justify that— swing my legs over the edge, tentatively walk out of my room when a familiar voice hits me before I can step into the shower. I peer inside the bathroom— my mama's got our new cordless phone cradled between her cheek and shoulder, using both hands to spray her hair with Aqua Net and comb it six inches above her head. "Back when I got into this business, it was women's work, Christ hell," she complains, "the interviewer asked if I was good at cookin' with a recipe, said codin' was the same thing. Now would you believe what I gotta deal with? This pimply kid fresh outta TU's 'computer science' program, tryna tell me how to do my job. Honey, I got a son near your age, I been runnin' in wilder boys' clubs since before I got a driver's license. You can sit right down and wipe your ass with that degree, how 'bout?"

She pauses for a moment. "Oh, Curly says I should quit if I hate it so much now, he's not exactly a pusher— don't even make the joke, Syl, God— yeah, I think I'm gonna come over to the salon this weekend, I just can't get enough volume on my own." She pulls her bangs up, then catches a glimpse of me in the doorway. "Hol' up, hon, lemme call you back in a minute," she says, and my heart falls into my stomach. "Get in here, Michael." She crooks her finger at me and slaps her comb back down on the counter. "Why is your history teacher callin' me up, sayin' you was talkin' back in class? He sounded real hacked off about it, too."

... Oh, thank God, this is just some bullshit about school and not last night. I want to tell her that he taught Curly twenty years ago and told me he wasn't surprised he ended up in prison, and that I ought to get used to sitting in the front, because he didn't expect I'd turn out much better. But I'm too old to have my mama fighting my battles for me, and know she'll show up at the principal's office with guns blazing, so I settle for, "Cause I was talkin' back in class, I reckon."

"Don't get smart," she says, but there's a smile she's unwilling to unleash playing on her lips. "You wanna be grounded for the weekend, or is a Saturday detention enough for you?"

I sure as hell wouldn't prefer the first option, so I pull out one of the easier weapons in my arsenal. "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't think you're charming, either," she sighs, but relents and picks up her eyeshadow brush. "How'd you do on your chemistry test, then? Better have been an A, amount of time I spent with those flashcards."

"Just a B+. Guess it's a good thing you work for free, huh?"

I expect her to laugh, but instead the crease in her forehead deepens, and she puts it back down, only one eyelid done in electric blue. She cups the side of my face, unusually serious. "You're so smart, baby, Jesus— when I was your age, I got sent to truancy court, I was way too busy gettin' into trouble to go to school at all. I just want you to do well, okay?"

I might say something else, but through the mirror I see Curly come out into the hallway, hair disheveled— we both, with embarrassing obviousness, try to avoid eye contact the second after we make it. "Whatchu doin' up so early?" she asks him. "You were workin' last night—"

"Couldn't sleep," he says, walks inside past me and kisses her idly on her temple, but Mom's got one hell of a finger on the pulse of all the tension in this house. And me and Curly, we contribute to most of it.

She surveys us both. "Why are y'all trying not to look at each other like you hooked up at a party and don't want to admit it? Did somethin' happen?"

"Nah, babe, don't worry 'bout it," Curly says at the same time as I stammer out, "We're good." It sure sounds real convincing.

"Okay, then." She rolls her eyes, though, she's not buying it for a second, and I swear she'd press it further if it weren't for Dani running in too, a crumpled permission slip clutched in her fist, taking up everyone's attention.

I book it before she gets that focus back.


So the thing about Will Rogers being real underfunded is that my homeroom teacher regularly just... doesn't show up, and nobody gives two shits. The other thing is that when I get threatened into a grudge fight at eight AM, that's business as usual too.

"I still don't get why you're bitchin'," Scott says as he copies my chemistry homework, "who the hell's mad because they ain't in trouble?" He's never gotten it— he loves Curly, who's always tried to buddy up to him, ply him with beer and cigarettes and stories about the wild old days. Thinks he's cool, which makes me want to hurl. "Shit, talk about havin' it too good for too long— you prefer my old man? Bein' unemployed means he's got unlimited time to crawl up my ass, trust me."

Yeah, I know I must sound like I won the lottery and decided to throw away the ticket— Curly's better than most of the dads in this neighborhood, he's not in the can anymore and he doesn't hit anybody (despite my best efforts) and he brings home a paycheck, he's not a deadbeat. He's a lot of fun, even if I'm begrudgingly admitting it. Ice cream for dinner, trips to amusement parks, the time he picked me and Dani up from school and took us swimming in Skiatook the whole day. Curly's everyone's best friend.

I don't mention that the problem with friends is that you can always drop them. Or my suspicion every day of my life that if he decides I'm too much trouble for him, not worth keeping the charade up any longer, he'll cheerfully pass me on to another relative and not even think twice about it. It's not like Uncle Darry isn't blatantly angling for it already, that I should move in with him for high school. Curly did it often enough when I was a little kid and the worst thing I did was cry too loud, now that I'm older? I'm surprised I haven't long since been settled in with the neighbors.

That's what I'm contemplating so hard, I don't even notice Brian Reynolds stepping into my field of vision. He's one of those seniors that got held back a year, so he's nineteen with biceps the size of basketballs— I'm not sure how he hasn't dropped out by now, but there's a decent customer base at Will Rogers I guess he doesn't want to give up. Not to mention the endless supply of underclassmen to slam into lockers. "Shepard. What's happening, huh?"

I don't respond at first, lost in my own world, which is when he really gets on the offensive. "Hey, faggot, I'm talking to you." He snaps his fingers, and I bristle; not that it's a personal insult or anything, but the uncle I was named after is queer, and I don't love hearing it. "My stepdaddy just got out Big Mac last week."

"That's real nice for your family, I guess?" How the hell is that my business?

"He's been in there for twenty years, he was a River King."

Oh, fuck.

"Had some interesting things to tell me." He steps forward a little, with the timing of an actor— the whole room watches like a wrestling match is about to go down. "He says he and every other King used to pass your aunt around like a joint." As if that wasn't bad enough, he leans in close to my face and goes in for the kill. "You know what else he told me? That your redskin mama spread her legs for every gangbanger in the city... apart from bein' a dirty snitch."

Oh, hell no— I flail right at him, and I probably would've connected, if Scott hadn't pulled at my other arm hard enough to dislocate my shoulder and yanked me back down to my desk. "Not now," he hisses in my ear, "not in school."

If Will Rogers kicked out every wannabe JD for throwing down, it would be empty, but I get what he's saying. Wrong place, wrong time. "I'm gonna beat your head into the concrete," Brian says, perfectly calm. "So where were you thinkin' of doin' it?"

"Not here, obviously," I say like I fight seasoned gangbangers every day of my life. Try to channel my uncles and feel like I've put on a shirt that's two sizes too large. "Gonna get the cops called on us. The abandoned lot by 43rd Street."

"Come by yourself," he throws over his shoulder as a parting shot. "If you've got the balls."


I mean, in the end, I should probably count my blessings that instead of being identified at the morgue after he, of fucking course, brought two friends to flank him, my uncle's dragging me out of the police station by the ear. That's an exaggeration, but not much of one.

Tim only hollers when he's sort of pissed, 'quit runnin' in my goddamn house before you wear out my carpets' level. When he's nuclear with rage, he's got a voice like vodka on the rocks, and that's what we've hit once we've gotten into his car. "Five-eighths white," he says slowly, "is not near white enough that you can be talking back to cops."

I want to defend myself, but he has an entire speech planned. "What did I tell you if you ever got picked up?" He tilts my chin up and we lock eyes. More than pissed off— though he's plenty pissed— he looks afraid. "The only three phrases out your mouth better be 'yes, sir', 'no, sir', and 'I want a lawyer present'— you don't start spoutin' off about how you're innocent or how you're bein' racially profiled or fight them period. Hijo de tu—" He sucks in a sharp breath. "Next time? You won't have to worry 'bout what I'm gonna do to you, 'cause the next cop will just put a bullet in your skull and say you were resisting arrest."

I try to shake him off with a nod, but he gets a firmer grip, he's going to detach my chin at this rate. "Let's take them manners out for a spin."

Tim's not a stickler for this kind of shit like Mom is, he's usually a little cooler, but I've got enough sense to tell when he's been pushed to the limit. "Yes, sir." He finally lets go once he's gotten his pound of flesh out of me, and I slump down in the seat. "It was profiling, though, I ain't kidding. There were four of us, I was the only one they hauled in."

"That don't explain why you were on this side of town at night, up to no good, you ain't off the hook with me." Despite his anger, his fingertips are gentle as he studies my battered face, the black eye I can feel swelling up and my busted lip. "Cop do this, or were you fightin'?"

Both. I'm in no position to be arguing with him, but I do anyway, leftover adrenaline flaring up like a firework. "Maybe I was fightin', and what about it. He was disrespecting me—"

He laughs out loud. "You was bein' disrespected, huh, ese, you think you're some big man now?" He leans closer to me. "Lemme tell you a real fun story. So you remember how Luis had a mouth on him? A Tiger didn't appreciate it too much, so he got a little drunk and decided the best way to settle this was to shoot Luis's thirteen-year-old nephews in the head. Only reason I'm still alive is 'cause his gun jammed."

That's not the most horrifying story I've heard in my life, but it's damn close, and I try to offer him some sympathy before he keeps going. "I don't know where your lil' wannabe-hood attitude came from all of a sudden, I don't know what Curly's been tellin' you 'bout the good old days, but there's no way in hell I'm fixin' to visit you in a cell like I visited him. You wanna get into the crack game next?"

"I'm not going to fucking sell crack." I grip the door handle, want to walk out, but he'd catch me. "I'm not my father."

Tim pauses, then flicks me on the forehead. "Don't you cuss at me, kid, I didn't raise you in no barn."

I want to point out that he has a dirtier mouth than Uncle Soda, who was in the army and uses 'fucking' to signal that a noun's coming up, but I've got more sense than that. "Sorry."

He cranks down the driver's side window and lights a cigarette. "Heard you and Curly had quite the showdown last night."

"Wait, how would you know?"

"He called me up, we're brothers, sometimes we talk about what's goin' on with our kids," he says dryly. "And there sure seems to be a lot goin' on with you."

I slump even further down. "Yeah, what'd you tell him 'bout how to handle the prodigal son, then?"

"That if you don't have any respect for him, he dug that grave with his own hands," he says, but doesn't let me get too smug from his support. "However. That's the last time you ever try to taunt him into hittin' you, Jesus fucking Christ. Our stepdaddy beat on him. My daddy beat on him. He never wanted none of that in his house."

"I won't," I say, and I mean it. As angry as I am with him, my stomach still lurches with a brutal twist of guilt, remembering that.

When he speaks again, he's more gentle than I expected, like he's settled the score between two squabbling brothers and taken no one's side. I guess he did have the raising of the both of us. "You ain't so mad at your mama, and you were livin' with me for a while, when she was in rehab."

I don't like thinking about that, and I want to lash out at him for mentioning it at all, something I'd much rather leave buried. The time I called him all panicked on the phone springs to mind, when she was passed out cold, couldn't wake up no matter how hard I shook her. "She was real sick," I finally say, bite down on the inside of my cheek. "She got better."

She got better. It wasn't so long. That's all that matters to me.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, changes tack. "Listen to me. I'm gonna talk to you like an adult right now, okay? Prison is a business, and every business wants repeat customers. Once you have a felony record, it's very difficult to get a job that pays anything at all— plenty of people go right back to sellin' drugs or stealin' hubcaps or however they got sent inside in the first place. I thought Curly might die in there." He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, the sternness drained out of him. "You're a good kid, honey, Curly and I were little demons growin' up— hell, I'd dropped out of school at your age, Curly did time for armed robbery, and you're out here thinking 'bout college. I want a lot better for you than bein' caught up in that cycle. And I promise he does too, even if he's shit at showin' it."

"I know," I say, contrite, though I don't really believe that. I would've called him up to get me if we hadn't been fighting, expected him to laugh this off.

Tim's not the touchy-feeliest person in the world, but he wraps an arm around me, pulls me into his side. "We gonna have to have this conversation again?" he asks. "If we don't, maybe I won't tell your mom."

"No, sir," I say, and I'm a hell of a lot less sarcastic now.

"You're okay, ain't you?" He holds me closer for a second. "I mean, after gettin' picked up—"

I want to confess the truth. That after being told I'm an ain't-shit little spic and getting backhanded in the mouth and having my pockets turned out to see if I was selling, I'm a little shaken, to put it mildly. But I don't want to sound like a pussy more, so I brush the concern off, and he drives me home anyway.


Curly is the last person I want to see, but it's just my luck to have a dad who works the night shift, anyway, and he walks right in on me getting hammered in the garage. He flicks the lights on, illuminates all of my sin— he's none too happy about discovering me, either. "The hell are you doin'?" he asks though it's obvious, like he's fishing for more time to respond. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Drankin'," I say unwisely, hold the whiskey bottle up like it's a challenge. Tilt it too far forward, spill some of it onto the concrete floor.

He strides over and snatches it from my grip— I actually try to push back against him, clutch it tighter, but he takes it as easily as taking candy from a baby. "Oh, hell nah," he says as he pours the contents into the grimy sink next to the washer, "I might be drivin' you to drink, but we've got enough alcoholics in this family to fill a whole AA meeting." He narrows his eyes at me, tension gathering over his face like a stormcloud. "I ain't havin' this, you hear me?"

I'm not sure if Curly, who's a bartender, is the right person to be imparting this lesson. Irritation coils inside of me, a snake ready to strike. "Like you weren't givin' me beers when I was in eighth grade."

"I shouldn't have." He bites down on his lower lip, reveals the chipped front tooth he never took to a dentist. "I was drinkin' younger than that, but it wasn't right."

I make the mistake of looking up at him, reveal how battered I got over the course of the past few hours. "What happened to your face?" he demands, finally realizes that I've been through the wringer tonight. "You been fightin' now?"

"I got arrested," I try to spit at him, but instead I just sound small and scared, shiver as I say it, remember the backhand. Even with the whiskey circulating through my blood, I feel like I'll never be warm again. "Yeah, I was fighting before, though."

Maybe Curly and my uncles were getting locked up left and right, by my age. Maybe I am soft. But no one's ever talked to me like that before. Hit me, either.

"You got what." I'm starting to think my first instinct, that he would've laughed this off, wasn't right, because he looks mad enough to spit nails right at my head. "I— who picked you up from the station?"

"Tim."

I'm not fluent in Spanish, but I can cuss pretty good, and what's coming out of his mouth ain't nothing polite. He crosses his arms over his chest once he's done, and I fixate on his tattoos— 'only God can judge me' at the peak of one shoulderblade, 'Jasmine' on his bicep in faded, crooked ink, like it was done by a drunk guy, gang symbols swirling around further down. "You want to go live with Tim, then? Is that what this is all about?"

I'm not exactly surprised, by this new development, but the fact that he'd give me away so easily stings like getting attacked by a nest of hornets. "Oh, wouldn't you just love that," I snarl. "Can't say you've got the wrong idea, though. He's more my father than you."

I think I might've actually pushed him towards smacking me into next week, but instead he does something much worse. "Did I ask to have you?" He slashes his hand through the air like a machete. "Do you think I wanted this? Luis told me to get on makin' a baby, and there you were nine months later."

Time slows down, like I'm wading through molasses— tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I'll be damned if I cry in front of him, I swear I'll rip out my own eyeballs first. "Well," I start, and it's a meandering start, I don't even know where I'm going. "I mean, I always suspected it, Dad." I manage to put more disrespect into that than I ever managed to fit into his first name. "Thanks for finally makin' as much clear, though."

I used to wonder what was so wrong with me, that my own father couldn't love me. Now at least I have an answer.

The explosion between us might as well be a burst balloon, all the sound and thunder gone, just uncertainty and pain left. I didn't know you could actually see remorse on someone's face until now, a physical thing. "Baby, no, fuck, I didn't mean—" He reaches for me, but I couldn't be more revolted if he had bubonic plague, I step as far away from him as I possibly can. "I didn't—"

"Fuck you." It feels good to say like popping a zit feels good— you know it's wrong, that it'll leave a nasty scar, but it's too satisfying in the moment for you to hesitate. "You want me gone so bad? I'll go, then."

And what do I do but snatch up the car keys he slapped onto the dryer, before I walk outside.

He doesn't follow me.