Free Sandra Hill by Down, Dirty

Sammy’s voice held all the disdain a five-year-old could muster.
    He laughed to himself. He wasn’t too fond of spinach himself.
    “And white worms.”
    “Bean sprouts,” Madrene corrected.
    “And she hit me just ’cause I pissed in her cat’s dish. Then she hit me ’cause I said her cat looks like a fat hairy hog. Then she hit me ’cause I tol’ her you prob’ly screwed five hundred women and didn’t even remember my mother. Then she hit me just ’cause I farted in the grocery store.”
    “I did not hit you, you snotling. I just swatted your little arse with my palm.” It wasn’t like Madrene to lose her temper like this around Sammy. It must have been a particularly bad day.
    “And what’s with this Scary Larry guy?” Sammy continued. “He looks like he eats little kids for breakfes’. Shiiit! What kinda father sends a scary monster to watch his kid?”
    Zach had to smile. Wilson could be a little, well, scary, even to adults. The man never smiled, and he had strange grayish green eyes that sort of looked through a person, like ice.
    “And I don’t need no watchin’ anyways. I can take care of myself. I been doin’ it for a long time.”
    Oh, yeah! Six months is a long time. And you weren’t alone, kiddo. You were with good ol’ grandad.
    He heard shuffling sounds then as Madrene took the phone from Sammy.
    “You best come home now , you lustsome knave, or I will be paddling your arse, too,” she said, banging down the phone.
    Zach headed off then for home and the madness that had become his life.
    Children are a gift? Says who?…
    Samir lay in his bed, eyes scrunched shut, arms arranged at his sides, like a corpse, pretending to take a nap. It was a trick his cousin Taj had taught him one time, ’cept they had been pretending to be dead in case the Evil Americans attacked.
    He still could not get used to the idea that he was part American. Did that mean he was evil, too?
    Maybe, praise Allah, my father will forget some of the things I did today if I “sleep” long enough.
    Despite his protests, he knew Zach was his father. Even before he’d been shown photographs by Grandmother Floyd—or Nana as she’d told him to call her—he’d known the truth. His Grandfather Arsallah had slapped him every time Samir reminded him that he was half-American, whether it be the color of his eyes, or a slip into the English language, or mention of his mother, whose name was not allowed to be spoken. Because of the way his grandfather treated him, his uncles and cousins felt free to treat him just as badly, or worse.
    A bastard, that’s what I am. Don’t matter what my father says ’bout me bein’ his son. I’m just a dirty little bastard. I don’t care if no one likes me. I don’t care if my father likes me.
    Sometimes he wondered why his grandfather wanted him back so bad. He’d never acted like he cared when Samir had been there.
    And his father would be giving him up soon. Samir knew better than to get too close. He knew he was on his own. He had been for a long time, even when his mother had been alive. She’d said she loved him, but most times she paid more attention to her fighting pals than she did to him. She died on his birthday.
    “Sammy.”
    It was his father opening the bedroom door. Samir shut his eyes tighter and braced himself for the slap or punch that was sure to come. Or even worse, a whip. Oh, he hoped it wouldn’t be a whip.
    The mattress shifted as his father sat down on the bed. “You’ve had quite a day today, haven’t you, kiddo?”
    Samir was confused. Why wasn’t his father yelling? Why was his voice so soft? A trick…it was probably a trick. I am not going to talk. If he thinks I am asleep, he will go away. I hope.
    “Why do you do all these snotty things?”
    Because I like to?
    “Do you want me to think you’re bad?”
    I am bad, bonehead. Didja forget I’m half-American?
    “I’m thinking about taking you to a psychiatrist. That’s a…uh, head