what we do best

part one

This world is so fucking stupid. But I'm sixteen. That's how I'm supposed to feel.

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I spend the first five minutes of every day tapping my bare feet against the wooden floors. Sometimes it will be to the rhythm of whatever song had worked itself into my dreams that night. My heels eventually get so out of time with each other that I can't stand it anymore. So, I push myself up and go to the bathroom.

I carefully inspect my bruises in the bathroom mirror. Some of which are fading. If you turn the shower water to the heat of lobster-boiling, it hurts less to press on them. I lose track of how long I'm in there.

The same sweatshirt and pair of jeans from yesterday still fit. That's one thing I can rely on. I only pack my backpack for the first two periods of the day, because I know I'm not going to make it past lunch. I tap on Zoey's door and creep in to give her a kiss before I leave, I wouldn't want to wake her.

I slip out before Dad can hear me unlatch the front door. I've got nothing to worry about, though. He's passed out in front of the TV blaring the morning news, a surprising transition from the enticing football game on last night.

Before I leave, I pick up one of the bottles that litter the floor. I let the last drips of vodka slide down my throat, although I know it won't do anything. I think I just like the burning sensation.

I take the long way to school to feed the scraps of my bagel to the alley cats. I like to think they appreciate it. One of them even lets me get close enough that I could reach out and pet it. I don't, though.

First period is a breeze. Mr. Weiss is blind as a bat and lets us do what we want, as long as we promise to read the chapters for homework. I pull my hood up and let the impending anxiety of facing next period run its course.

Second period algebra is the same as it always is. Over-enthusiastic Jamie bounds over to me every day.

"How'd you get that, Oliver?" he always asks, pointing to a new bruise or cut that's displayed itself across my face.

How am I supposed to tell him that I can't remember if it was my perpetually drunken father or the boys that take the time out of their day to hunt me down and yell "fag" while turning my intestines inside out?

"I must've fallen again, Jamie," I smile for his benefit.

"You've got to watch where you're going, man!" He twitches and fiddles with his glasses, then returns to his seat across the room.

The remaining 73 minutes of the class consist of me telling Mrs. Allen that, no, I do not have my homework and no, I would not want her to call my father again. My hands shake when I try to complete the supposedly easy problem on the board. I feel thousands of eyes on me, even though more than 99% of the world has no idea I exist.

I'm barely ten feet out the classroom when my backpack is yanked by David Jacobs, accompanied by Seth Lymann.

"Headed to the cafeteria, are you?" David leans into me. His eyes are cruel. I wasn't going to the cafeteria, actually. Leaving the school became routine after second period.

I let David and Seth drag me into the bathroom and push me against the wall. It reeks of piss and bleach. I close my eyes. One of them strikes my diaphragm and I don't even bother trying to breathe, I know it won't work. The other hits me square in the nose and my eyes water, even though it didn't hurt all too bad.

"Aw, is someone crying?" Seth fakes a pout and knees me right in between my legs. I crumple to the ground and stare at the tile floor. It's not worth it, really. To fight back, I mean. Seth and David leave, cackling to each other.

I gather myself off the floor and look in the mirror. A single tear works its way down my cheek. Fucking pussy, I think to myself. I grab my backpack and walk out the front of the building. The security guard knows me well enough that it's no use trying to get me to come back. One of these days, he might even wave me goodbye.

I spend the rest of the day at the park, trying to think about not thinking. It's easy to push yourself back and forth on a swing. I sympathize for the children whose legs have yet to reach the ground.

By the time my watch reads 1:39, I make my way back home. I want to be there in time to get Zoey off the bus. I know Dad won't get her. She smiles shyly when she sees me standing on the curb.

"Hi, Ollie," She waits until the bus pulls away to hug me. Being the most popular in the fourth grade means you can't hug your big brother until no one is around. She points to the bridge of her nose. "Dad?"

"Nah. Just hit my head."

Zoey's blue eyes stare into mine, almost as if she's trying to force the truth out of me. She gives up and takes my hand.

"Ice cream?" It's kind of amazing how she can do that. I can see a maturity far beyond her years for only a split second, before she's a kid again. I want her to stay a kid. We go for ice cream.

The next morning, Zoey knocks on my door, clutching her hairbrush.

"Can you braid my hair?"

Her hair is snow white, the exact color of Mom's before she died. It's thin and straight, and she really begins to look like Mom when her hair is up.

"You look just like Mommy did, Zoey," I tell her when I finish the two braids trailing down her back. She beams up at me.

"Thank you, Ollie," She scampers out of my room.

Sometimes I wonder if I could just take her and we could run away. I don't want her to go through another night of her screaming at Dad not to hit me, another morning of creeping around as to not to wake him. Life isn't worth it if you keep tiptoeing.

But tiptoe I do, until mid-November of my junior year of high school. Because I met Tristan. And Tristan teaches me that I don't have to tip-toe, maybe I can even run a little.