Chapter 3
"Dad!"
He was tapping hard on the glass with the wooden handle of the snow shovel.
Through the fogged window, Butters could see that his face was red with anger, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
"Hey, what's his problem?" Sally asked, letting go of Butters and edging back to her side of the car.
"Leave us alone!" Butters started to scream. But before he could get the words out, his dad pulled open the car door, and he nearly toppled out into the snow.
"Hey, let go!"
Mr. Stotch grabbed the elbow of his jacket and tugged. "I've been calling you for twenty minutes. I know you heard me!"
"No, we couldn't..." Sally started.
But Butters knew better than to resist when his dad was angry. He allowed him to pull him form the car, then jerked his arm away and stood facing him, determined not to cry or be upset.
"What do you want, dad?" he asked coldly.
"Don't you care what the neighbours think?" he asked, his voice high, excited, his face still red.
He's so ridiculous looking, Butters thought.
He didn't answer him, just stared at him, aiming all of his hatred towards him, wanting him to wither away and disappear, to melt under the heat of his strong feelings.
"Well, even if you don't care what the neighbours think, I do!" he said, angrily tossing the snow shovel halfway across the garden. "Parked here like a tramp in broad daylight..."
"We weren't doing anything," Butters said.
"Mr. Stotch, I'm really sorry if..." Sally called, leaning across the passenger seat, sticking her head through the open doorway.
"It's time for you to go to work," Mr. Stotch said, ignoring Sally, simply acting as if she were invisible. "If you go now, maybe you'll get to your job on time for once."
"I'm never late for my job," he muttered.
His job. Waiter at the coffee shop in the mall. It was such a boring terrible job. And it took up so much of his time and made it so hard to keep up with his schoolwork.
And why did he have a job? His parents had enough money, but his dad wouldn't let him touch it.
Mr. Stotch believed in hard work.
It was teaching him to be responsible.
He was teaching him to have self-discipline.
What a joke.
"Butters, I'll call you later," Sally said. She had climbed out of the car and was walking round the passenger side to close the door.
"I'll be at the mall until nine," Butters sighed. Jamming his hands into his jeans pockets, he turned and followed his dad, who was already crunching over the snow to the house.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, he thought.
As if reading his mind, his dad turned suddenly. He saw that he had ab odd smile on his face. The lowering afternoon sun seemed to make his face glow a bright yellow.
He's not looking at me. He's looking past me.
He's watching Sally back down the drive, Butters realised. He's smiling because he's celebrating a victory.
He's so happy because he interrupted us. And he totally embarrassed me.
He gripped the pocket lighter that somehow made it's way into his pocket, and he still hadn't got round to taking it out.
"I hate you!"
Mr. Stotch spun around, his features pulled tight in anger.
"Oh." Butters hadn't meant to scream it aloud.
It had just slipped out.
"You're a very disturbed young man," his dad said. Clenching his hands, staring back at him. "Very disturbed," he repeated. "You need help young man, you really do."