Crushed

2. He's a Hoodlum, for Real

"Who was that boy?"

That was the first question that came out of my mom's mouth when she came home from work, bags of groceries on her arms. Dad looked up from his spot at the table where he was sorting his containers of lug nuts that the cat had knocked over in the barn.

"Eh? Oh, him. Koen, he said his name was. Apparently, he's Daisy's daughter's kid," Dad replied with a sigh.

"Really?" Mom asked skeptically. "He looks like a hoodlum."

"He might be," my dad replied, noncommittedly.

My mom snorted as she began to put the groceries away. My eyes followed her hands: lettuce in the fridge, crackers in the cabinet, a few cans of soup on the counter-for dinner, I supposed, onions in the-

"Good gracious, Adrian! What the hell is wrong with your face?" My mom drew back in a mix of shock and horror.

Adrian opened his mouth to reply, but Dad beat him to it. "I guess the kids got in trouble again with Jamison. That boy, Koen, pulled them out of it."

Mom sighed, her tongue clicking as she surveyed Adrian's face. "His parents really should deal with him, I've told them several times, but they just don't seem to care. Where's Am-ah," she finished, seeing me standing by the sofa. "You ok, babe?"

I nodded, even though it really wasn't true. I didn't look half as bad as Adrian did with his black eye and busted lip, but I was dreadfully stiff and hurt all over. She looked relieved though, and I was glad. She had enough to be worrying about. Jamison's mom was her boss, so she couldn't really speak up against him without the probability of losing her job. And Dad's work as a mechanic was going slow, so we really needed her job.

"Canned soup for dinner again?" Adrian asked, looking at the cans in disgust.

"If you don't like it, you can go hungry," Mom muttered, irked.

"C . . . can we make sandwiches?" I asked eagerly.

"Grilled cheese!" Adrian chimed in excitedly.

"That does actually sound really good, Hon," Dad agreed, leaning back in his care and giving my mom a slight smile.

"Fine," she groaned in reply. "Kids, butter up the bread, I'm going to go change. And, Greg, get that stuff off the kitchen table, now."

"Fine," Dad moaned, sounding like a child. "God, I hate that cat so much."

"Rover?" I asked, for clarification.

"Yes, Rover." He said the name like it was a curse. "Who names a cat Rover anyway?"

"We did," Adrian said simply.

"I see."

Together, Adrian and I buttered ten slices of bread. And since Mom still hadn't returned, we put some cheese between the slices and slapped them together, grinning at each other when we heard the soft sound they made.

"Ah, good," Mom said, reentering the kitchen, tying her hair back in a ponytail. "Gregory, get that metal out of my house. Now."

"I'm almost done," he sighed, his fingers rapidly dropping the rounded, shiny metal into the proper containers. "Now what?" he muttered as a knock on the door sounded.

"Kids!" my mom rebuked us as we raced to the door.

Of course, I wasn't the one to open it. Adrian did, while I hid under the jackets on the coatrack, peeking between my mom's green sweater. A small, friendly elderly woman stood on our little porch, smiling.