FIVE YEARS EARLIER
“You know, you don’t have to be up here all night,” Mom says as she enters my room on Sunday evening. She walks over to my desk and smiles down at me, gently rubbing my shoulder. She doesn’t realize that she’s rubbing a bruise. “Don’t you want to watch the game downstairs? I think the 49ers are losing, but hey, who knows? They might turn it around. At least your dad is praying they will.”
“It’s okay,” I mumble, keeping my head down, my hand never stopping. I’m writing out some notes from the work we covered in geography class over the past week. I have a test coming up soon, and failing it isn’t an option. Besides, Dad has asked me to study tonight.
“You’re always studying,” Mom comments, and even though I’m refusing to look at her, I know that she’s frowning. I can hear it in her voice. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely not complaining, but maybe you should live a little too.”
“I want to study,” I lie. I write even faster with more pressure, my pen leaving deep grooves in the paper. I wish she would stop rubbing my shoulder. It hurts.
“How did I get so lucky to get such a hard worker like you?” Mom muses with a sigh. I can sense her frown transforming into a smile now. I know her so well. “But seriously, enough for tonight. Either watch the game or help me with the laundry. Your choice.” She leans over my shoulder and plucks the pen out of my hand. I was developing cramp anyway, so I’m grateful.
I twist my neck to look at her for the first time now, and she’s resting the laundry basket on her hip with an eyebrow raised as she smirks challengingly back at me. I force a smile onto my lips, even though I don’t feel very happy. I feel drained, but I always do. “Okay, Mom. I’ll watch the game.”
“Good, now get going!” she says with a laugh, nudging me off my chair. Reluctantly, I get up as she drifts around my room, scooping up clothes from my floor, and I make my way downstairs.
I can hear the sound of the game echoing from the living room and with an overwhelming sense of dread, I force myself to man up and enter the room. As I push open the door, I keep my chin up and feign bravery. The 49ers game is playing on the TV, the volume up way too loud. Jamie is on the floor on his stomach, his chin resting on his hands, his eyes wide and fixated on the TV screen. He’ll ruin his eyesight if he keeps sitting that close. On the couch, Chase is sitting cross-legged next to Dad, eating a bag of chips. Dad has a beer in his hand and his eyes flash over to look at me as soon as I walk into the room.
Still, I keep my head held high and my gaze on the TV as I sit down on the opposite couch. I can’t sit back and relax, though. I’m rattling with nerves and my blood runs cold with fear.
“What are you doing down here?” Dad asks after a few minutes, keeping his voice relatively quiet amid the noise of the game. Slowly, he takes a swig of his beer and narrows his eyes at me over the rim of the bottle.
“Watching the game,” I state. I try to keep my voice clear, strong. I look at him for only a split second and then I turn my attention back to the TV. Don’t back down. For once, once, I just want to defend myself. I deserve to watch the game too.
I hear Dad release an aggravated sigh into the air, and then I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he gets up and walks over, sitting down next to me. His knee bumps against mine, and he angles his jaw toward me, hissing, “You’re supposed to be studying.”
“I already did,” I tell him. I don’t like him being so close. I can feel his breath on my face, and it’s a mental battle with myself to stay rooted in position. If I move, I’m weak. If I back down, I’m weak. If I let him tell me what to do, I’m weak. “How come they get to watch the game and I don’t?” I nod to both Jamie and Chase, who are still glued to the TV. We are keeping our voices low now, so they can’t possibly hear us.
“Because they do,” Dad says. He nudges me with his elbow. “Get back upstairs.”
“No. I’m watching the game with you. Mom told me to,” I bite back, and the adrenaline floods straight through me, sending a shiver surging down my spine. I’ve never spoken back to Dad before, not like this, not with determination. It’s almost satisfying, but at the same time, it’s terrifying.
Quickly, my courage changes to fear when Dad grinds his teeth together and grabs a fistful of my shirt with his free hand. Rising to his feet, he yanks me with him and shoves me hard toward the door. I glance back at Jamie and Chase, and they’re so invested in the game that they haven’t even noticed Dad throwing me across the room despite it happening right in front of them. Dad is glowering at me, daring me to stay here and challenge him further as he sits back down next to Chase. He takes another sip of his beer, and I finally give up and walk out of the room.
In complete and utter defeat, I storm back upstairs and into my room. Luckily, Mom isn’t here anymore to ask why I’ve returned, so I shut my door behind me and slump down onto the floor, leaning back against my wall. Why can’t he just let me watch the game? I’ve already done my work. Don’t I deserve a break now?
I reach for the closest thing to me, my school backpack, and I throw it across my room. It hits the opposite wall with a soft thud, but it’s not satisfying enough for me, so I even kick over my chair. But then I feel guilty, so I quickly pick it back up again.
“Tyler,” Dad says, and I flinch at the sound of his voice and his sudden appearance at my door. I should have known I wouldn’t get away with talking back to him like that, because he’s followed me up here, his beer still in his hand. He walks into my room and slowly clicks my door shut behind him, and that’s when it’s confirmed: I’ve made it another bad night.
I stand frozen in the center of my room and already I’m trying to focus on something else, trying to numb my mind so that the next few minutes can be a complete blank to me. My stomach is twisting as Dad walks toward me, and just as I’m about to squeeze my eyes shut, he brushes straight past me and sits down on the chair at my desk instead. I peel open my eyes again and watch him carefully as he sets his near-empty bottle of beer down on my desk and exhales, hanging his head low.
“I’m sorry, Tyler,” he says, but despite the softness to his voice and the guilt in his green eyes, I don’t believe him. He always feels guilty, and I believe that, but I don’t believe his apologies. He looks up at me from beneath his thick eyelashes. “Look, I wasn’t going to tell you this yet, because I’ve been keeping it a surprise, but I’ve got us tickets for the game against the Chargers next month,” he tells me quietly with the very small trace of a smile. It’s apologetic. “We’re heading up to San Francisco, just you and me, buddy. You know Hugh takes Dean up there to games all the time, right? We’re joining them. How’s that sound?” His smile widens a little, and the corners of his eyes begin to crinkle. This is Dad, really. This is him deep down. This is the dad I used to love so much.
“Really?” I ask, widening my eyes. Dad’s never taken me to a football game before, but he knows I’ve always wanted to go. “We’re going to a game?”
“I thought you’d like that,” Dad says, and for once, he looks almost sheepish. He locks his gaze on his beer while he traces its rim with his thumb. He goes quiet for a few seconds as he runs his eyes over the notes that are still lying on the desk, then he frowns. “I am sorry, Tyler,” he apologizes again, glancing back over to me. “You’ve worked hard enough tonight, so come on. Let’s head back downstairs. We’ve got a game to watch.” He smiles, wide and pure, just like he always used to.