FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Through the silence, Dad taps his index finger against the top of the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are set on the road ahead. He hasn’t turned on the radio. That’s how I can tell that he’s not just annoyed, but seriously angry with me. And I know why. It’s because I was supposed to be redoing my math homework that he tore up last night. I shouldn’t have gone to Dean’s after school. I should have just asked Hugh to take me straight home. I should have known better.
“I was . . . I was going to do it tonight,” I quietly muster up. I’m playing with my hands in my lap, interlocking my fingers over and over again. I can’t look at Dad. Not when he’s mad at me.
“You know I wanted you to work on that homework right after school,” he says through gritted teeth. I see his hand tighten around the gear lever. He once told me only real men drive stick shift. “We know exactly what happens when you leave everything until too late in the evening. You start whining that you’re too tired, that you can’t concentrate as much.”
“I’ll do it right after dinner!” I tell him, glancing up, my eyes wide. Maybe there’s still time to salvage this. It’s not like I wasn’t going to redo that homework. I just wanted to throw a football around first, like how Dean gets to.
“Tyler, just be quiet right now,” Dad says. His voice is low, but firm. As always. His eyes are locked on the road and with his free hand, he rubs his temple. “Please.”
I drop my eyes back down to my backpack on the floor by my feet. I give it a small kick, frustrated. Like Hugh said, it’s only seventh grade. I wish Dad didn’t take it all so seriously, like my whole future would blow up if I failed one test. I’m not even in high school yet! No one else studies as hard as I do, but that’s still not good enough for Dad.
I do as he says and keep quiet for the rest of the ride home. It’s not too far, only five minutes, so I stare at my hands and trace the lines on my palms. Without the radio playing to distract us, the tension is more noticeable, the silence unbearable. It’s just after four, and Dad always works from home in the afternoons, which is a routine I’ve grown to hate. It means that for a couple hours every day, I’m alone in the house with Dad. Mom is usually down at her office until at least five thirty most nights. She’s an attorney who always has case after case to work through. That’s why her car isn’t on the drive when we pull up.
The silence continues even as Dad is pulling his keys from the ignition and stepping out of the car. I slip my backpack on and scramble after him across the lawn, but dread is weighing me down. I thought I knew what I was in for, but now I’m not so sure. It’s still early. I can still have that homework finished by dinner.
“Dad, I’ll go and do it right no—” I splutter as we’re walking through the front door, but my words are cut short when Dad abruptly slams the door shut behind us.
“Get upstairs,” he demands, setting his green eyes on me. Grabbing me by my backpack, he drags me down the hall and then upstairs. His strides are too wide, so I have to fight to keep up or risk being knocked off my feet. Dad shoves open my bedroom door and hauls me inside behind him, then throws me down onto the chair in front of my desk. “One hour, Tyler. ONE,” he states very clearly, his voice raised. He yanks my backpack straight off me, almost twisting one of my arms as he does, and then begins rummaging around inside it. He throws a handful of chewed pens at me. “Disgusting,” he says, still searching through my bag. Finally, he pulls out my math homework and slams it down on the desk, dumping my bag on the floor. He grabs my shoulder, one hand resting on the desk, and he crouches a little so that we are eye level. His gaze is intense, his vibrant eyes piercing straight through me. “Every single one of these questions better not only be done but correct too. Got it? Your mom wouldn’t want to know that you’re slacking, so c’mon. Impress her.”
I nod, already reaching for paper, a pen in my hand. Dad’s grip on my shoulder becomes even tighter, his fingers pressing into my skin. “Got it,” I mumble. An hour to complete this entire worksheet again? I run my eyes over the thirty different equations. There’s no way.
Dad finally lets go of my shoulder and turns away, kicking my bag to one side. “El trabajo duro siempre vale la pena, Tyler,” he mumbles under his breath. Whenever Dad speaks Spanish, the hint of an accent is clear. Grandma is from Mexico, after all. “No lo olvides. Okay?”
I don’t know what he’s saying. I should, because he’s been teaching me since the moment I could talk, and I’m pretty close to fluent now, but my mind goes blank as I try to process his words. I try to translate them in my head, but today, I’m just not getting it. My heart is pounding in my chest. What did he ask?
Dad doesn’t like my silence, and he is obviously waiting for a reply, because he glances back over his shoulder, sees my blank, wide-eyed expression of confusion, then slowly swivels around to face me again. “You don’t even know what I just said, do you?” He shakes his head as though I’ve betrayed him and he places his hands on his hips, narrowing his gaze at me. “DO YOU?”
“No. Lo siento,” I apologize. Saying sorry is all I can do. I’ve messed up twice now today. There’s nothing more I can do. “Lo siento,” I say again, quieter. I don’t even know why I still attempt to appeal to Dad’s better, sympathetic nature these days. I discovered a long time ago that he doesn’t have one.
“God, do we have to go over basic fucking Spanish again tonight too?” he yells, his hands in the air. He’s swearing now. That’s a bad sign. “I was trying to tell you that hard work always pays off. Do you understand that?”
I nod fast and turn my eyes back down to my homework in front of me, but it’s a blur. My hands are trembling. Dad doesn’t like it when I don’t answer him, but I can’t bring myself to open my mouth right now. My chest is tightening, restricting my breathing. I can’t breathe. I can’t.
Dad’s hands are grabbing my shoulders, dragging me up out of the chair, slamming me against the wall. He shakes me. Says something. I can’t hear him. I’m tuning out, focusing on a tiny scuff on my wall at the opposite side of my room, forcing my mind to be anywhere but here. The numbness sets in, my head is fuzzy. Dad is yelling. I still can’t breathe. One second I’m here by my desk, the next I’m over by the door. Then back again. I’m on the ground. Dad’s hold is too tight. I close my eyes.