Free Racing for Freedom by Bec Botefuhr Page B

if you could come and watch me.”
    He forces a smile. “I’ll certainly try.”
    “Will you?” I whisper.
    He looks over at me and his face is broken. “I will.”
    “Dad, I have no one else.”
    “You have Lucas and John.”
    “They’re not you.”
    “I know Dash, I’m sorry.”
    I nod, looking away. I continue cooking, silently. When I’m done, I serve him and sit, as he eats.
    “Have you been eating dad?”
    He shrugs. “Sure, mostly sandwiches, but I’ve been eating.”
    “That’s not healthy dad.”
    “I know, I’ll start cooking.”
    “What about the drinking?”
    He looks up at me sharply. “You said it wasn’t your problem anymore Dasha, so I believe that means it’s none of your business.”
    I stare at him painfully. “Dad, that’s out of line.”
    He sighs and rubs his head. “You know what? I’m not hungry. I might just go to bed. Thanks for the dinner and congratulations on your win, Dasha.”
    Then he stands and leaves me alone. I’m hurt, truly hurt. I clean up and then leave. I take my time walking home, my feelings are all over the place. I want to scream, cry and yell. I want to change things for him, to snap him out of this world he’s put himself into, but I don’t know how. When I get home, Slade and a bunch of guys are out the front drinking and making a lot of noise. Kandee is perched on Slade’s lap, stroking him in way I didn’t need to see.
    “Dashy baby, you’re home.” Slade grins.
    I glare at him. “Did you ask to have a party, Slade?”
    “It’s not a party, we’re celebrating your win.”
    “Leave, all of you.”
    “Aw, you said she was fun Slade. She’s nothing but a stiff.” One of Slade’s friends tease.
    I storm over and kick him so hard in the chest his chair stumbles backwards and he lands on the concrete. He makes a loud oomphing sound and everyone goes silent.
    “LEAVE!” I scream. “NOW!”
    I turn and storm inside, and I hear Slade telling them all to leave. I hear Kandee whine, but he demands that she goes too. I run into my room, my rage boiling over. My own father doesn’t care what happens to me. He doesn’t care at all. Why do I bother racing? Why do I bother trying to save his name, when he doesn’t care about himself?
    I grip the photo frame off the side table, it’s of me and him after my first race when I was sixteen. I smash it against the wall and I yank the photo out, slicing my finger on a bit of jagged glass. I tear the picture into pieces and scream profanities at it. My mother is gone, my father has lost it and I have no one to turn to anymore. No one to cheer me on. No one to be proud of me. Hot tears stream down my face as I struggle to tear the next bit of photo.
    A set of arms go around me from behind and grip my hands. I tremble and tug, but he doesn’t move. I know who it is, I know those hands. He grips my wrist and shakes it, causing the photo to drop from my hands. I cry out and struggle against him, but he just holds me tightly, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other holding my wrist.
    “Tearing that up isn’t going to make it better, Dashy.”
    “He didn’t even come and watch me. He doesn’t care if I win or lose. I have no one, no one that’s proud of me!”
    “I’m proud of you,” he whispers.
    I sob loudly and he tightens his grip around my waist, pulling me back into his chest, until our bodies are molded together. My legs buckle and he slides down to the floor with me, never letting me go. He grips my sliced finger and he wraps his hand around it, holding it tightly to stop the thick flow of blood that’s now dripping onto my legs.
    “He’s missing out, you’re a great racer Dashy. He’s the one missing out, not you.”
    “He’s my dad,” I whimper. “He’s meant to be there Slade.”
    “Sometimes having them there, isn’t always best.”
    I shift slightly so I’m turned to the side and I tilt my head back to look up at him. His eyes are pained, but he quickly covers it and