The dark shadow of a hand-shaped bruise is stark against the fair skin of her lower arm where her shirtsleeve rides up. My jaw clenches and I meet her eyes for a split second before she glances away and pulls the sleeve down again.
“Good boys don’t get their asses kicked like little pussies,” Dad says. “Don’t let your mother fool you. You’re a fucking waste, kid. You’re going to get a goddamn haircut, and I don’t want to see that sketchbook. Burn the goddamn thing. Art is for pussies.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, his voice tight with anger.
“Don’t give me lip, son.”
“What? I didn’t . . .” Sam tries to backtrack, but it’s too late. The telltale twitch appears in Dad’s left cheek, and he lunges at my brother before I can react.
“Smart-assed pussy. You can’t fucking fool me.”
Sam flinches and moves to evade Dad, but the old man grabs his collar and hauls him out of the chair.
“Put him the fuck down!” My bellow bounces off the walls, louder than I intended, and I regret the horrified look Mom gives me. Dad just sneers at me before turning his attention back to Sam, who dangles from his grip, nose-to-nose with the old bastard. Sam’s a big kid—he definitely passes for twenty-one—but that doesn’t change the fact that Dad outweighs him by about fifty pounds, all of it sinewy muscle.
“Julian, honey. Please stop. You promised you’d stop.” Mom’s voice sounds calm but as brittle as the eggshells we constantly walk on around Dad.
“I’ll teach you not to talk back, you little shit.” He slams Sam back against the wall, and I’m already in motion when he raises his hand to strike.
Mom is faster, her palm hitting my chest and her other grabbing Dad’s wrist.
“No! I said stop!”
“Goddammit, Marcella. Get out of my way!” Dad lets go of Sam and turns, grabbing Mom by the shoulders and bending down to shove his face into hers with a harsh sneer.
“You’re the one who spoils these goddamn kids. It’s on you if they turn out like shit. I’m the only one who gives a fuck about discipline in this house.” His fingertips dig hard into her as he shakes her, then shoves her away from him. Mom gasps and falls backward into the kitchen counter, catching herself and upending a bowl of chips, which clatters to the floor.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” Dad says, looking back at Sam with disgust as he disappears back outside.
“My fucking pleasure,” Sam says. He shoots me a pleading look. “Can we get outta here?”
I’m on the verge of storming after Dad and giving him a taste of his own medicine, but Mom’s pleading look stalls me. Escalating things isn’t the answer, so I rein in the impulse. I glance at Sam, then down at Mom and Elle, who are cleaning up the mess. “We should all get the fuck out of here. I’d take all of you, but I brought my bike today.”
“Take Sam and go,” Elle says. “We’ll be fine.”
Sam’s already disappeared into his room, and I crouch down to gather up a handful of stray chips and toss them into the trash. “You two should get in the car and leave that fucker. Come stay with me until he’s gone, both of you.”
Mom’s jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised she answers. “If I leave, it’ll just make him angrier. I can handle him. Elle can spend the afternoon at Rosie’s.”
“I’m not leaving you, Mom,” Elle protests.
“Yeah, me neither.” I cross my arms and clench my jaw.
“Yes, you are. He’ll calm down if it’s just the two of us.” She squeezes Elle’s shoulder, then stands and wipes her hands off on a towel. “I’ll wrap up some food for you and the boys to take with you.”
She gives me a stern look, reminding me that despite Dad’s insistence that she’s soft on us, she has always known how to calm him down. After a brief staredown, I finally relent and retreat to the front porch and park my ass on the top step while I wait, though it takes some work to tamp down the familiar sick feeling of impotence roiling in my gut. A moment later, Sam storms out, backpack slung over one shoulder as he madly stuffs his sketchbook in the open zipper pocket.
“I don’t suppose you’d let me drink tonight,” he says.
“Not a fucking chance. Half his issues are booze related. It’s best you don’t start seeing the stuff as an answer to your problems, because it isn’t. You want to tell me what the fuck happened to you this afternoon? That shiner wasn’t his fault—Dad didn’t have time to hit you that hard.” I point at the dried blood that still coats his eyebrow.
Sam snorts and shakes his head. “Not that he hasn’t tried.” He opens his mouth to explain, then stalls as the door opens behind me. He side-eyes Elle with a tilt of his head. Did whatever he was about to say have something to do with her?
She pushes out of the house, lugging a book bag that looks like it weighs a metric ton along with a stack of Tupperware containers. She drops the bag with a thunk beside me and bends down to hand me the food, then plants a kiss on my cheek.
“I’ll check on her later,” she whispers, then hoists the bag up and slings it over her shoulder. She pats Sam on the back before trotting down the front walk. Pausing at the curb to check for traffic, she jogs the rest of the way across the street and down the block to the apartment building where her best friend, Rosie Vega, lives.
Sam’s gaze follows her, and it isn’t until she disappears inside the building that he turns back to me. “I didn’t want her to hear, but those fucking Quin twins were talking shit about Elle.”
“The Quiñones brothers? That doesn’t sound like them.” I vividly recall
