FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Friday night baseball games have become almost a tradition in our family. We like the Dodgers, and Dad has been taking me to games ever since I was young. And then Jamie came too when he was old enough, and then Chase, and now Mom wraps up early at the office on Fridays, so she comes along too. Every time the Dodgers play a home game on a Friday night, us Graysons are there.
That’s why we’re here now, at Dodger Stadium among the buzz of noise. Because it’s Friday night, and the Dodgers are playing at home against the Diamondbacks. Empty seats around the stadium are slowly filling up as the stragglers roll in, the commentator’s voice echoes out over the field, the evening sun is low. The game has just started.
I’m sitting forward on the edge of my seat, my hands interlocked between my knees. The Diamondbacks are batting, so my focus slips and I glance sideways at Jamie. He’s on the edge of his seat too, his eyes wide as he stares down at the field, invested in the game. I lean forward, looking beyond him to Chase. We’re up in the top deck, and he’s too short to see over the people in the row in front, so he’s on his feet, watching the game on the big screen instead. He’s wearing a Dodgers cap that’s too big for his head, so it keeps falling down over his eyes. I sigh and look past him too, over to Mom and Dad. They’re talking among themselves and Mom is leaning in close against him, her head resting on his shoulder. She’s wearing a cap too. Dad’s arm is around her, and they both laugh, their smiles genuine, their eyes locked on one another. I like it when they’re happy. I like that they make each other happy.
“Oh, Chase!” Mom laughs. She sits up and nudges Dad’s arm off her. Placing her hands on Chase’s shoulders, she gently pulls him closer to her and swipes his cap off, then places it on his head backward instead. “I think your dad should buy you a smaller size on our way out.”
“That’s right, buddy,” Dad says, leaning forward to look at Chase past Mom. He grins wide, and he and Chase bump fists in agreement. His gaze flickers up to meet mine, and his smile widens as he glances between Jamie and me. “Are you guys hungry?”
Jamie tears his attention away from the field and looks at Dad, confused. “But it’s still the first inning,” he states. We usually wait until the third before we get hot dogs—another of our traditions.
“By the time I get to the front of the line, it will be the third inning!” Mom says, getting to her feet. She grabs her purse from the floor. “Hot dogs coming right up!” She squeezes around Dad, but before she leaves, he reaches up for the bill of her cap and pulls her down toward him, kissing her. Then, she shuffles off along the row.
“Tyler,” Dad says. He fixes his gaze on me and nods after her. “Help your mom.”
Quickly, I stand up and push my way past Jamie and Chase, then practically climb over Dad’s long legs. He watches me closely, his mouth still showing a hint of a smile. He’s relaxed tonight. He usually is on a Friday. I awkwardly sidestep my way down our row and then race to catch up with Mom further back inside the stadium. There’s food and merchandise stalls every few hundred yards, and the lines are long and weaving.
“Oh, Tyler,” Mom says as I approach her at the back of one of the food stall lines. She looks down at me, unaware that I’ve been following. “You’re missing the game!”
“It’s okay,” I say with a small shrug. “Dad asked me to help. The Diamondbacks are batting anyway.” I don’t even want to think about the look Dad would have given me if I’d said no to him, if I’d whined and told him I wanted to stay and watch the game. He’s been in a good mood today and he’s been smiling a lot, but I don’t want to test him. Dad never stays in a good mood for too long, at least not with me.
“Hmm,” Mom says teasingly, pursing her lips as she pretends to think. She smiles wide at me, her blue eyes sparkling. Why don’t I look like her? “Who raised you to be such a good kid?”
“You did,” I answer. I smile back up at her, but it’s sort of fake. Dad raised me too, and I’m not allowed to be anything less than good. I am a good kid, but only because I’m too scared not to be. That’s why I always try to remember my manners, always work hard at school, always do my best to stay out of trouble. Sometimes, even that isn’t enough.
Mom laughs and runs her hand through my hair, playfully ruffling it before she rests her arm over my shoulders. We move forward in line. “Ketchup, no mustard, right?”
I nod and she turns her attention to the food stall as we slowly progress toward it. She doesn’t notice that I’m staring at her, watching her calm features and wondering if she would ever believe me. I want her to know the truth. I want her to know that I’m scared, that I don’t know what Dad will do next to hurt me, but I don’t know how to tell her. She loves him. Would she still love him if she knew? Dad would never forgive me if I ruined all of that. And Mom . . . I want her to know so that she can help me, so that maybe she could ask Dad to stop. But I also don’t want to see her sad. I like it when she smiles. I like it when she’s happy. I like it when they both are.
That’s why I’ve never told her. That’s why I never will. I can’t. I’m terrified to, because I don’t know what will happen if I do. Would Mom still love me?
“Hold this for your dad,” Mom says, and she slides a cold cup of beer into my hand. I blink fast, realizing that we’re suddenly at the front of the line and Mom has already ordered our food. Did I zone out again? I need to stop doing that.
I glance down at the beer. Dad likes to have a few at every game since it’s the weekend and all, and this is his second. It’s freezing cold in my hand, so I shift it to my other.
“C’mon, let’s get back,” Mom says as she grabs the tray of hot dogs. She spins around and nods at me to go ahead as she follows.
I begin to carefully weave my way around the thick crowd of people, but there are bodies darting back and forth in different directions, and the beer is too cold in my hand, and my steps are growing faster, and I’m glancing between the beer and my route back to our seats, and I trip. Just like that, straight over my own feet. I fall to the ground with a hard smack, landing on my hands and knees on the concrete, and Dad’s beer spills all over the ground in front of me. It happens so fast that I don’t even register any of it until my knees sting with the pain of fresh scrapes.
“Tyler!” Mom gasps, and she rushes to my side, crouching down next to me. “Are you okay? Oh, you’re bleeding! I’ve got band-aids in my purse.” Balancing the tray of hot dogs against her hip, she reaches for my elbow and gently pulls me up to my feet.
People are staring at me. My heart is pounding too fast. Numbly, I glance down and see that I’ve broken the skin of both my knees. There’s a little blood, not much, and it stings, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I look up ahead at the empty cup that’s on its side on the ground. There’s a stream of Dad’s beer running along the concrete. He’s not going to be happy.
My hands tremble, and the panic spreads through my chest until my entire body is shaking. I can’t help it. I’m a quivering mess as I stare at that empty cup. “Dad’s . . . Dad’s beer . . .” I mumble. He was happy tonight. He was smiling. I’ve ruined that again. I always do.
“Hey. Hey!” Mom says, stepping in front of me and crouching down again, looking at me with concern from beneath her eyelashes. “It’s okay, Tyler. I’ll just get him another later!” She’s trying to reassure me, but it isn’t enough to stop me from trembling.
Mom throws the empty cup into a nearby trashcan and then places her hand on my shoulder, guiding me back to our seats. I feel sick, like I’m going to throw up right here and now in front of everyone. I don’t want to go back to our seats. I don’t want Dad to narrow his eyes at me and clench his jaw like he does whenever he’s mad at me.
We shuffle back along our row as my knees continue to sting. I brush past Dad as quickly as I can, keeping my head down and refusing to look at him, and then almost run past Jamie and Chase until I collapse into the safety of my own seat at the opposite end from Dad.
“Where’s my beer?” I hear him ask as Mom sits down next to him with the tray of hot dogs. I peek at him out of the corner of my eye, and he’s furrowing his eyebrows at her.
“Oh,” Mom breathes, rolling her eyes, “Tyler had a little fall. I’ll grab you another later. Here, hold this.” She pushes the tray onto Dad’s lap and opens up her purse, searching for band-aids.
Slowly, Dad’s gaze moves to me. His eyes meet mine and I freeze under their power, rooted to my seat, unable to breathe. He presses his lips together. His jaw twitches. “When did you get so clumsy?” he asks.
I can’t answer him. I’m not clumsy. I’m just too caught up in the mental battle I am constantly fighting with myself. Mom sits back and leans over Jamie and Chase, passing me a couple band-aids. She gives me a sympathetic smile, one that’s reassuring, and I focus on that warmth rather than the negative vibes I can sense radiating from Dad.
Tearing the plastic off the band-aids, I lean forward and quickly place them over the cuts on my knees. Band-aids have become a necessity over the past couple years, but they can only fix so much.