Home

-8- Can I Keep Them

Holt Jacobs

The door clicks shut behind me and I step out of my shoes, careful to line them against the wall beside the others. I'm devastated that my shoes are gone. They were all I had. And even though they were worn out, they were more comfortable for basketball then the street shoes the Lincoln's gave me to wear. I don't know how I'll get another pair.

"Holt?" Mrs. Lincoln's voice echoes through the house.

I'm back early because of my shoes. I didn't want to risk playing in the shoes I had on, in fear they might get ruined.

"Yes ma'am." I say as I follow her voice to the dining room.

I freeze when I see her seated at the table, Mr. Lincoln beside her, my basketball shoes resting on the bag I kept them in and sitting on the table.

"Have a seat son." Mr. Lincoln's voice makes me jump.

I start for the table as he requests, my eyes focus on my shoes, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Holt, honey, are these yours?" Mrs. Lincoln asks.

I nod my head slowly, I can't deny it. I know better than to lie.

"Coach Morrison said he found them hidden in a bush near the park." She tells me.

I close my eyes tight, panic swelling up inside me as my mind runs through the numerous ways he will punish me.

"Why were you hiding them?" She asks.

"I'm sorry ma'am." I blurt.

I'm already trying not to lose control but I barely have a grip on things as it is.

"Sorry?" Her voice raises slightly in confusion. "You don't have to be sorry."

I almost explain it to her. I almost tell her that I'm not allowed to have things of my own. That I shouldn't be hiding things. I shouldn't be keeping secrets. But I can't. Not without telling her about him.

"Holt, Coach said he invited you to tryouts." Mr. Lincoln speaks for the first time since telling me to sit and I feel my stomach knot.

I nod my head again, stuffing my hands under my legs to keep me from doing anything stupid. He hates it when I fidget.

"Why didn't you tell us?" He asks me.

My eyes snap open, my chest is tight and it's getting hard to breath. I remind myself not to run.

"I'm sorry sir." I say again but my voice hitches which only adds to my panic.

"Honey, there's nothing to be sorry for." Mrs. Lincoln's concerned.

I'm losing it. Don't run.

"Do you like to play basketball?" Mr. Lincoln asks me.

I nod my head instantly, Mr. Lincoln's voice reminds me of his. And he hates hesitation.

"Yes sir."

"Then why didn't you go to tryouts?"

I try to look up but I only make it as far as his chest before I catch my mistake. I'm making too many mistakes.

"Holt?" I jump hearing my name.

Don't run.

"I..I don't know." I stammer.

I refocus my eyes back on my broken down shoes, my chest is on fire and I'm sweating.

"Well Coach Mo said you have a spot on the team, if you'd like it." Mr. Lincoln tells me. "And Kendra and I think you should take it."

"Yes sir." I answer.

Even if it wasn't joining the basketball team, I'd still agree. I have to agree, I have to listen and behave.

"You do want to join the team?" Mrs. Lincoln asks.

I nod my head. "Yes ma'am."

A loud clap echoes through the house and I all but fall off my chair at the sound of it. Mr. Lincoln chuckles as he says, "Relax son, nothing but a hand clap. We will get you some new shoes then."

"I don't need new shoes." It falls out of me before I think twice. I wince at my mistake. "I'm sorry sir, thank you sir."

I hear them both sigh. I know they don't understand me. I've heard them talking. They sometimes stay up after they think I've gone to sleep, talking quietly on the couch about me. About why I startle, why I won't call them by their first names even though they said I could, why I don't look Mr. Lincoln in the eye. They have a lot of theories, some are close, but none of them are right.

"You can't wear these son, they're worn straight through the bottom." He lifts a shoe off the table and I can't help but follow it with my eyes.

"We can go after dinner and pick you out some new ones." Mrs. Lincoln reassures. "And we can just toss these ones out."

I know better but the thought of not having those shoes feels like it might undo me. It's stupid, I know, they're just shoes but I'd managed to hold on to them for so long now.

"Please, can I keep them?" I beg, forgetting my manners in my panic.

They both look at me, before glancing at each other.

"I won't wear them." I tell him.

I'm not sure if they want to throw them out because they're old and gross looking and it doesn't fit within their social standard to have the kid they took in poorly dressed. I know all about keeping up appearances. And maybe my old hand me down basketball shoes that are a size too big don't keep up with how they like to be seen by society.

Mrs. Lincoln takes both shoes and for a second I think she's going to toss them in the garbage from where she sits at the table. But then she sets them back in the plastic bag and pushes them toward me. The whole time my heart feels like it might explode.

"They're yours Holt, if you want to keep them then that's up to you." She says.

I reach for them hesitantly, part of me feels like this is a trap. A clever little game he used to call it. I usually failed them, even when I knew I was suddenly playing. I never could figure out what it was he wanted from me and it always resulted in time in the basement. I don't want to go to the basement.

I let my eyes dart to Mrs. Lincoln, too afraid to look at Mr. Lincoln. She has a soft smile on her face, her eyes warm and gentle. If it is a game, I've already lost. So I grab my shoes from the table, trying my best to ignore the pounding in my ears that's trying to drown everything else out. I clutch them to my chest, afraid they might change their mind and wrench them from my fingers. But nothing happens.

"May I go to my room sir?" I speak the words quietly, aware that my uncertainty is present in my voice.

It takes him a second to answer so I sit there, back straight, death grip on my shoes. And I wait.

"Of course, we'll call you when dinners ready." He says.

"Thank you sir."

I want to bolt from the table but that isn't good manners so I stand slowly and pad across the hardwood floors like I'm not in a rush.

By the time I close the door to my room I'm in a full blown panic attack.

                              ————————

So I have a dilemma. I've got this stupid broken shoulder I'm dealing with and I still can't do yoga really because I can't put any weight on that arm without pain. Now the dilemma comes because I CANT STOP EATING FOOD 🤣. I need to figure out a way to work out so I don't have to figure out how to stop eating food, moreover junk food. Your girl here just wants to eat chocolate and ice cream and Taco Bell and sushi and everything else that's not a fucking salad 😂. And you know, I'd like still be able to fit into my jeans at the end of all of this. Haha