Free Tap Out by Eric Devine Page A

looking like he wants to hold her. “You seen Char? She call?”
    â€œNo. That’s why I stayed home, in case she came back.” She takes a long drag and shivers. “I don’t know what the fuck’s up.”
    I picture Char’s dad from the other night. Nothing good is coming from him. But Char’s at her grandma’s. Well, so he says.
    Rob moves to her and puts an arm around her back. She lowers her head, and I can hear her crying. “I fucking hate it here,” she says.
    Don’t we all. Rob’s looking at Amy’s neck, and I can’t tell what the fuck he’s thinking, but Amy’s right, this place is a nightmare. Guys like Charity’s dad make it so. I wish Mom could have made it work with one of those guys. I mean, did she only pick complete assholes, or is that all I can remember? Why can’t life just give us one? Something to make this
shit easier? But knowing my luck, it’d be even worse in the suburbs. And I’d never have been friends with Rob.
    I take off and Rob yells into my back. “Tonight, Tone.” It’s not a question.
    I climb into the trailer. It’s dark and I don’t bother with the light. I don’t want to see what kind of condition they’ve left it in.
    I pull the fridge open and half a turkey club is sitting in an open take-out container. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, so I take a bite. The bread’s soggy from the pickle juice and the bacon’s chewy, but it wouldn’t matter if the thing were balled up and dripping, I’d eat it.
    I pour a glass of milk and lean against the counter. We’ve been here seven or eight years and not one thing has changed. The ugly-ass striped couch we got at Goodwill still takes up way too much space in the living room. If you can really call it that. The La-Z-Boy still leans to the right. And the TV reception blows. We don’t have end tables, just floor lamps. There’s no kitchen table either. Not that there’s room.
    It’s fucking depressing. My mother and I live a pathetic life. And there’s nothing that says it’s going to get any better. I’m going to be a mechanic instead of going to college. Guess all those fucking tests from back in the day that said I was smart were wrong. Mom, she’s going to? Fuck, I don’t know. Serve food the rest of her life. Get beat by her boyfriends. Smoke too much.
    What if? What fucking if my dad hadn’t been a drunk? What if she stood up to him? Or if I did? I had my chance. I was five, and he was passed out. Mom was crying in the bathroom. He was in a chair, head craned back, Adam’s apple bobbing away. I had the knife from the drawer, and I was cutting out that bobbing apple. And I was smiling.

    Mom came out of the bathroom then and called my name, snapped me back to reality. She asked me what I was doing, and I just started bawling. The way she asked, I felt like she knew. But what if I’d gone through with it? All this shit, this violent, dirty fucked-up life we live, could we have escaped it?
    I set the glass in the sink and hesitate before going into her room. The bowl and some shake lie on the nightstand. I open the drawer. The pipe’s still there, but I still don’t see a bag. All right. Maybe I was worried over nothing. I mean, I don’t give a shit if she passes a bowl or smokes a joint, so long as she keeps that fucking pipe out of her mouth.
    I head down the hall and flop onto my bed. The crash causes the trailer to creak. I’ve outgrown this shit. My eyes close, and I haven’t yet taken off my shoes.

    â€œTone. Hey, Tony!”
    I snap up, wipe drool from my face and look at my clock. 6:15. Fuck!
    â€œTony, you in there?”
    â€œYeah. Hold up.” Fuck, we have to boot. I grab a pair of shorts out of my hamper. I’ll change at the gym.
    Rob screws up his face when he sees me. “Damn. You just wake up? Face’s got pillow