Hit

Meet the Fam

My hand smashed against the side of the bag. It moved slightly forward, and before it recoils back, I swing again. My fists started to sting, but you get used to the pain. I started boxing when I was about twelve years old, that was a dark time. I would punch with my wrist, not my fist, and the bag wouldn't move a millimeter. But I have improved sense then. Sweat began to drip down my back as my fist collided with the bag once again. The bag flew in the air farther than ever before. In my shock, I let the bag fall back into my stomach, and I lost my balance. I fell to the floor, landing on my ass. A big thump rang threw the house. 

I heard from downstairs, "Andrew, you okay up there?"

 I sighed, got off my butt. I walked over to a vent that led downstairs, and shouted down it, "Yeah mom, something just fell over!"

 "I told you not to put anything near that bag!"

 "It's okay, I got it!" I swung myself down on my bed. My punching bag was in a corner all by itself in my already small room. Everything I owed was either in a pile next to my bed, or in storage. We just moved to this new town a few weeks ago: so not everything is out of storage yet. I don't think we will ever finish unpacking either.

 It was early September, and school was going to start up soon. Two days to be exact. I still needed a new backpack, and I didn't have any pens or anything. I bet someone in school would have supplies like that though. My family can't really afford to waste money on school supplies. Which is why I haven't gotten any new clothes in the past year, and the only time I do get clothes, mom takes it upon herself to pick out some plain t-shirts and jeans from the Salvation Army, or Goodwill. We got my punching bag at a raffle five years ago; that's the only reason we have it. But I'm glad we do, because it's one of my favorite hobbies.

 Once the sweat stopped rolling off of my back, I decided to go for a run, because hey, I'm a bad ass. Not really. But I do like the feeling of becoming exhausted. Before I walk out of my room, I take a look in the mirror that was above my pile of junk. My red hair was plastered to my face, and freckles were in full swing. I was a classic ginger. But more importantly, I was trying to check out how my muscles were doing. They weren't big yet, which really bothers me, sense I've been working out since I was twelve. I was built big though, so my shoulders were broad enough to get away from the ginger stereotype, somewhat. Gingers are supposed to be lanky, and well, nerdy. At least I'm not lanky.

I walked out the door, and down the steps. "I'm going for a run ma!" I shouted, as I walked out the back door. Our front door lead to a nasty patio with no steps leading up, so everyone has to go in and out of the house from the back door. Our garden was overgrown, and weeds littered the pathway that lead out to the sidewalk. The sidewalk was a mess too. I looked up at the front of the house. The green paint was chipping off of the wood paneling, and the roof sagged. The windows had to be from the sixties, maybe later, and one of the windows on the second floor was boarded up. Mom told me the only reason this house was so cheap was because there was a murder, well more like a drive by shooting, a month before we moved in. I really didn't like hearing that. Going for runs wasn't safe, and I don't really feel like getting shot.

 As I ran, I took care not to trip over the nasty sidewalk that my feet were landing on. The sidewalk was uneven, and grass was growing between the cracks. Running on the side of the road was a worse idea, saying the road was cluttered with potholes, and even sometimes, just pot.

 My heart started beating faster, as I ran faster and faster. My breath became raspy, and sweat started running down my body everywhere. But I kept running. I ran for five blocks, then stopped to catch my breath. There was a bench not to far from were I was standing, so I decided to take a seat. I plopped down, and put my soaked head into my soaked hands, breathing hard. 

"Hey! Red!" I heard from the street. I looked up, and a guy with sunglasses and a beat up convertible looked at me back. "Need a lift, Red?" The man asked, as he licked his lips. I've been in these kinds of situations before.

 "Nah man, waiting for my bros, we going meet up here."

 "Aight, man!" He said, as he started to honk and drive away. If you just tell these guys that you're with someone else, they leave you alone. They don't want to funny business if they think your crew coming. I don't have a crew or gang or whatever you want to call it. Well, I'm not black, so that's mostly the reason no ones claimed me, fresh meat. What gang wants a pasty ginger in there crew? Can you imagine some redheaded kid breaking into some convince store with a crow bar? Or maybe setting houses on fire. Drive by shootings? Nah.

 I get off the bench and begin my journey home. I ran back slower, because my sprinting tired me out. Coming back into the house, I smelt supper cooking on the stove. "Kids!" I heard my mom scream, and then rough footsteps beat down the stairs. My siblings ran into the kitchen, waiting to be served the only meal we get a day. At least during summer. School lunch normally provides for us, but in the summer, we have to deal with one meal a day. But it's always a big one, so it's not as if we starve.

 I walk into the kitchen also, and grab myself a plastic plate from the cupboard. "Ew! Andy, you stink!" My younger sister plugged her nose in disgust. I shoved my armpit in her face, and she screamed. "Mom!"

 "Stop it, and get a plate for your sister." She addressed this to me, and I gave her my plate, then got out three more. One for mom, my younger brother, and me too.

 My sister, Danielle, is six years old. She's tall for her age, and looks about eight instead of six. She got her father's black hair, and her mother's green eyes, making her look extremely unique. We don't share a father.

 My father gave me his brown eyes, and the rest of my ginger self came from mom.

 My brother's name is Cameron. He's either eight or nine, I can't really remember. Cameron's dad isn't the same dad as Danny's or mine. I never met his dad, but I assume his father was just a one-night stand. His hair, eyes, and skin were all brown. I used to call him dirt man, until mom found out and told me why the name 'dirt man' was a terrible nickname. Oops. Oh well.

 My own father was with my mom for a while. They weren't married. Or at least I don't think they were married. I remember that he had blonde hair, and that he was really tan. That's all I really remember. I don't even remember when he left. I was quite a while ago.

 But I do remember Danny's dad. That fling wasn't to long ago. He was big, hairy, and loud. He said he was a football coach, and that he wanted to teach me a thing or two about football. He's the one who took me to the raffle where I got my punching bag. I had no idea mom was even pregnant at the time just before Danny was born.

 It was just me and her at the time, and one day when I was seven-ish she came home from her job at the gas station that was down the road from us crying. I don't remember asking her why she was crying, but I remember her saying something about bad people and bad things. Then she said something about a new member of the family. Safe to say I was quite confused. Now I know that she was either raped or her one nightstand didn't turn out to well. I hope it was the later but you never know.

 We all sat down around the tv, and ate supper together. Cameron talks about how he never wants to start school. Moms calming Danny down, because she's stressed about starting kindergarten. I say quite, and pretend to be so into Swamp Wives on tv.