Free The Boots My Mother Gave Me by Brooklyn James

would be okay, but I could not. I would not. I stood with my arms folded.
    “It was a family altercation that got out of hand, and that’s where her mother would like to keep it, in the family,” Ms. Carpenter pled her case.
    “Those bruises on your chest, Harley, how did you get them?” Judge Jackson asked.
    I could feel Mom’s eyes appealing to me, hoping I might glance her way, wishing me mute. I stared at the floor and reluctantly answered, “My father.”
    “She did fight back, Your Honor. It’s in the police report,” Ms. Carpenter said.
    “What would you have her do?” he asked defiantly.
    “She is a minor and her mother would like her to sign these papers, releasing all charges. It will only make matters worse for the family if she files.”
    “Minors are now devoid of rights, Ms. Carpenter? Where exactly did you study law? As a woman and a mother, I expect you would have more regard.” Judge Jackson extended his hand in the direction of his office. “Now, Harley, if you would like to accompany me to my chambers, you will find I can be quite accommodating.” I fell in stride with him.
    “Harley,” Mom called after me. I hesitated at the sound of her voice, slowing my pace. Judge Jackson put a gentle arm around my shoulder as we continued to his office. He offered me a seat across from his desk.
    “You play any sports in school, Harley?”
    “Basketball.”
    “What position?”
    “Point-guard.”
    “Great. You’re well prepared then. Consider me your shooting guard, forward and center. You make the calls, I follow your lead.” He smiled.
    I nodded my head, while in the back of my mind, unsure of what I was about to do. I knew Mom would not be happy with me for airing our dirty laundry. It would only bring her more shame and embarrassment. It would appear in the papers. Everyone would know what really goes on at my house. My dad would be irate, completely pissed off, and it could make things worse for Mom in the long run.
    But I couldn’t back down. My father never took responsibility for anything. He never suffered the consequences. He made all the rules. If I backed out now, he would see it as a sign of weakness, and much like an animal with its wounded prey, he would pounce.
    “Harley,” Judge Jackson recalled my attention.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “You are not alone.”
    I didn’t visit my father in rehab, not once. I thought about it, but I knew he would not care to see me. Mom reported he was not happy at all.
    “I don’t have a problem. I’m not like them. They’re all a bunch of nuts. I don’t need rehab to quit drinking. I can quit whenever I want to. I’m just going through the motions, getting by on good behavior. I’m smarter than the psychologists. They only think they’re running the show,” he said.
    We had heard the same thing for years. He was the genius and everyone around him was a bunch of idiots. How did he function at such a level of denial?
    I simply rejoiced at being out of his world, out of his grasp, for the time being, anyway. For once he couldn’t affect my life and life was beautiful. I had the privilege of resting well every night, not worrying what he might do next. He ignited such turmoil in our household and in our lives for years. It was freeing, a true and wondrous relief, just to be. A little piece of me felt guilty that I seemingly had no more regard for my father than for a total stranger, but I was having such a good time living, guilt seemed a waste of time.

The Boots My Mother Gave Me
    A las, June arrived. We had three days until graduation, three days until freedom. My father returned from rehab, his behavior somewhat improved by default. He remained on probation for three years, during which he could not drink or he would have to go back to rehab or jail. It pleased me to see him show some reserve when it came to alcohol and that he could be tolerable, even if it made him unhappy. We unhappily tolerated him for years.
    Mom, nervous about my