1987
16 - 2t = 5t + 9
Whoever invented algebra is a sadist and, if they were still alive, (I'm guessing they're not) I'd kill them myself. Because, hunched over my dinning room table, I can't figure this stupid problem out.
Marshall, my best friend, is amazing at algebra. He's always trying to help me with my homework, trying to get me to understand whatever inane equation I happen to be struggling with. Marshall's good at everything and everyone loves him. He's always getting the A's in every class and impressing the teachers. I'm not jealous or anything, but sometimes I wish he was bad at something. Then I'd get to be the smart one.
Luckily for me though, Marshall is really good at teaching. So, I'm fairly sure I have to switch the 9 and the 2t around. There's some kind of division going on and I finally arrive at the answer of 25/3. Finally, I'm finished with algebra for the night.
It's not often I can do my homework at the dining room table. Normally, something is going down. Usually, it's Matt getting reamed out for whatever prank he pulled at school or inappropriate thing he said at the dinner table. (The only reason that's not happening tonight is because Matt's already been grounded for his dumb prank). Other times it's because of family game night or Dad's poker games with his friends.
"Dad!" I call upstairs, hoping he can hear me. "I'm finished with my homework."
My father has some strange need to checkover all of our homework. I got it when we were little but, now that I'm in eighth grade, it's getting a little tiresome. Uncle Pony says Dad even checked over his homework up until university, and I believe it.
"Alright, Bill. Be there in a minute." He says. I can only assume he's dealing with whatever problem my brother has throw his way. "Matthew, that bedroom better be spotless by the time I get back up there!" Oh look, I was right. My brother makes some smart retort that I can't hear, so now I know my dad's going to be more than a minute.
"Billy!" I look over into the living room, where Kathy's curled up with a book. For a moment I wonder why I didn't see her, but the thing is… No one ever notices Katie (everyone calls her Kathy, but she's always been Katie to me). She has an aversion to speaking, and has had it since she was little. And so, miss quiet Katie manages to sneak up on everyone all the time.
"What is it, QT?" I call her my pet nickname, created after I combined quiet with the abbreviation KT, and so QT was born. My parents thought I meant "cutie" until I explained it to them. Then they got mad at me but Katie likes it, so it stuck.
She doesn't say anything else, just brandishes her new book at me. On Stranger Tides, it came out fresh this year and we bought it together. I read to her, it's always been our thing. It's not like she can't read them herself, I'm sure she could. But it's our thing and, besides, Katie's my favourite sibling anyway.
"In a minute," I say, "let me just get dad to look over my work."
She nods, but rolls her eyes. For a nine year old, the girl has got a lot of sass and no words to let it out. I'm pretty sure my mother is afraid that one day, that sass is just going to come tumbling out.
I can hear my dad start coming down the stairs, scolding my brother every step of the way, "I mean it Matthew! If that room isn't done I'm going to whip you into the next millennium." I can help but snort. My father is real big on threats, and that might concern some people. However, we know he's all bark and no bite. Minus the few, gentle, cuffs to the back of the head (mostly reserved for Matt and I when we've done something incredibly stupid), my father never hits us and would never. Though, I'm pretty sure he could snap both my bother and I in half without putting in too much effort.
"Alright, let's see this algebra," he says, pulling my math book over. My dad's good at math, and once I made the mistake in asking "why he didn't go to business school or something like that." I felt so bad after he explained, that I created a fake degree out of crayon. I'm pretty sure it's hanging in his office at the construction company.
"Billy, you did this last one wrong." He tells me gently, knowing all to well my aversion of this particular unit. "You forgot to flip the signs. The answer is seven divided by seven, or just one."
I want to curse, but I don't want to put money in the swear jar. I should've known that. Marsh taught me that so many times. Then I remember something else Marsh taught me and blurt out, "hijoputa."
My dad raises and eyebrow and gives me a stern look. I'm shocked when he counters, "cuida tu lenguaje, pelotudez."
My eyes go wide, "Since when do you speak Spanish?" I can hear the whining in my tone. But it's just not fair. We're not allowed any cussing at my house, even thought my dad cusses like a trucker. I just wanted one time where I could swear and no one would know, except I picked the one other language my father speaks.
"I'm assuming you learned from Marsh?"
I nod hesitantly, not really wanting to throw my friend under the bus.
"I learned from his daddy, well… that's where I learned my swears at least. Spent half my childhood hanging around Tim Shepard."
I knew my dad knew Tim, but this is news to me. "Why's that? Where'd you learn the rest of your Spanish?"
"Our dads were uh… well, they were close for a while." He looks incredibly uncomfortable, so I leave it at that.
Our living room is almost the stereotypical living room of a boring white family. At first glance, everything looks prim and proper. Nothing looks weird or out of place.
It's when you really look at it that the room comes alive and looks inhabited. The first thing people notice when they really look is the armchair, old and worn it looks so out of place. It was the one piece of furniture my dad brought from his old house. When my mom said she didn't really like it, all my dad said is that it got him through some long nights. Somehow it managed to stay, and has continued to get my father through long nights given to him by us kids.
It's the chips in the coffee table that come next. Many of them a courtesy of the time matt got a new skateboard for Christmas and, against my mother's instructions, was riding around in the living room. Needless to say, she was not happy and the coffee table ended up with a few dents. The biggest dent is from me thought, when I took a nosedive into the corner. 5 stitches and a new carpet later, the only thing left to show for it is the scar on my forehead and the blunted corner.
Don't even make me mention the assortment of pictures on the mantle. They range from Dad's high school graduation, to a picture of Matt and I jumping off the dock at the lake. Now, you might be wondering what's wrong with that picture? Well, we were four and skinny dipping.
I found it weird that our living room looked so impersonal from afar, but I've come to realize that's just how our house is. And, honestly, I like it that way. It forces people to look deeper, and the only people that do are the people that really want to.
The front door opens and My mom walks through, immediately setting her sights on Katie. "Katherine Mary Curtis, you should be in bed."
What am I mom? Chopped liver?
She's just finished another shift at the hospital, and looks dead tired. Both she and Auntie Annie work as nurses at Hillcrest. Tonight, my mom got stuck working all day. Her shift started at 4:00 am, and ended at 10:30 pm. It's 11:00 now.
"Hey, Darlin'" My dad grins. He's just sitting lazily on that armchair, smiling.
You'd think he'd just told her he won the lottery the way she smiles. But, I guess he thinks he did. (I think so too). My mother just goes over and sits on the floor against his legs. "Hey."
They never say I love you. In fact, my parents never really have PDA. But, I've noticed they don't need to. This one interaction, that my parents have every week, says more than an I love your or a kiss ever could. At least in my opinion.
They sit like that for a few minutes before my mum realizes that Katie is still here, asleep on the floor. She picks her up and says, "C'mon little girl. Let's get you to bed."
My dad and I are talking when there's a knock on the door. It's now 11:30, and I can't believe somebody is knowing at our door at this hour. Normally, it's Uncle Pony, who's working on something and completely forgets what time it is. I guess my dad has the same thought because he gets up, mumbling, "Ponyboy, whatever the hell it is…"
It's not my uncle standing there when the door opens. Marsh is there, looking like he just got hit by a car. Well, not that bad but bad enough. My dad grabs him and pulls him inside. "What the hell? Get in here."
My dad sits Marshall down on the couch before going into the kitchen, coming out with an icepack and cloth. He kneels down in front of Marsh, handing him the ice pack. "Put this against your face." Marsh does, and my dad starts dabbing the cloth on his temple. It comes away bloody. "You get into a fight?"
"No." He doesn't elaborate, looking anywhere but my dad or me.
My dad looks at him, "your step-daddy do this? Ed's been hittin' you?"
Marshall's parents got divorced a few years ago, after Tim got jailed again. It wasn't for very long, but Marsh's mom filed for divorce. She was able to gain sole custody of him because of Tim's arrest record. (I mean, even I know of the legendary Tim Shepard. Even before he was my best friend's dad.) According to Marsh, she'd started drinking and caring less and less about what her son did. Now she's on Husband number four, Ed Mcgeary.
What sucks is that Tim is a really great dad, even if has been convicted of a few felonies. What's more is that Marsh loves him, and wants to live with him. But no, the state of Oklahoma decided that's a dangerous environment for a kid.
Marsh nods, slowly.
"Sonofabitch." My dad all but growls. I haven't seen him this angry in a really long time. "He belt you?"
"Once." I can't help but stare at my friend. I saw him everyday, how could I not have... He didn't seem to be any different... He just... How did I not know?
"Darry, who's at the door?" My mother says, coming down the stairs. She sees Marsh sitting on the couch and smiles. His back's to her. "Oh hey, kiddo." She comes the rest of the way down, and moves to the front side of the couch. Once she gets a look at his face her expression changes and she sits down beside him. Taking the cloth away from my dad, she begins to dab where his head's bleeding. I'm surprised when she comes to the right conclusion. "He had a ring on?"
"Ring? Brass knuckles maybe." My dad mutters quietly. I can tell he's seething, even if he looks calm.
"No, he shoved me. Caught the counter on the way down." Marsh says quietly.
I watch my dad pick up the phone off the side table and dial in a number. My mother looks at him, "Who're you calling?"
"His father." Everyone knows he's talking about Tim.
"Marsh, your dad's going to be here in the morning, ok?" He tells him gently after getting off the phone, "You're gonna stay here tonight."
"Ok." His voice is scratchy and quiet.
"Ok." My dad turns to my mother, "Can you get the extra mattress set up in Billy's room?"
I would've thought he would go do that himself and let mom looks after Marsh's face, seeing as she is a nurse and all. My mother just nods and goes upstairs, and I wonder why my dad's doing this.
Even thought my father is madder than hell, his hands and voice are still gentle when he talks, "Marsh, he ever hits you again you come straight here. I don't care what time it is or what I'm doing, you come straight here. You will always, always, be able to stay here."
"Ok."
"Alright, go on up to Bill's room. Caroline will find you some pjs. Billy'll be up in a minute." He says. Marsh starts towards the stairs but my dad stops him, giving him a hug. A hug which Marsh melts into all too easily.
"Thanks, Mr. Curtis"
"Go to sleep, honey." My dad's voice is softer than I've heard it in a long time. What's different is that he looks like he's just seen a ghost.
My father waits until Marshall is all the way upstairs before telling me to sit on the couch. I do, and wait for what he's going to say.
"I don't want you asking him about this, ok? He'll come out and tel you if he wants to, but don't you dare ask him."
I nod, "Ok."
"Second, you keep that boy out of that house as much as you possibly can. Invite him over, go out to the movies, go swimming, do something illegal for all I care. Just…. Keep him out of that house." What's strange to me is that this doesn't seem to be something my dad has thought up on the spot. It sounds like he's reciting something.
"Finally, for god sake do not go over there. You can pick him up outside and everything, but for the love of god please do not go inside that house. Unless you are with another adult, like me or Tim." He waits for me to say something in the affirmative, and when I do he hugs me.
"Alright, kiddo. Go on to bed." He smiles, gently pushing me forward.
I'm halfway up the stairs when I stop, "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"You've done this before." It's not a question, but a statement.
He nods, "I've done this before."
I realize, lying in bed with my best friend sleeping on the floor next to me, that I got what I wanted. Marsh's lost to me in some categories. It was all I wanted a few hours ago, me to win at something. I did, and I feel like vomiting.
Wow, I did not know where that came from. It took a bit of a dark turn too, and I'm sorry about that.
1. Apologies for my Spanish. I used Word Reference Because I am not a native Spanish speaker. I apologies to anyone who actually speaks it
Thanks for reading and for all the support! it really means a lot