Safety Pins || Fuenciado

Chapter 2

"Jaime Alberto Preciado," calls my stepdad from downstairs. "Get down here!"

I sigh and turn off my record player. I won it last month after betting Cal Ferris I could go a whole school day high off a bean without getting caught. Sure, I failed my math test, but the record player also takes cassette tapes. I'd say it's worth it.

My full name is something my stepdad uses a lot, and it never gets less annoying. Like, he's not the one who named me. Alberto is my grandfather's name on my dad's side. I guess Richard only calls me by my full name when I'm in trouble, though, so it'd be dumb of me to complain. Still, he could call me 'Jaime' or 'Homefry' or 'Housewarming Gift' and I'd still be in the same amount of trouble every time. So yeah, Rick, get bent.

I slip on a hoodie to hide the bruises on my arms from slam dancing and zip down the stairs. Despite being two floors, our house is tiny. The upstairs has a cramped bathroom, a claustrophobic bedroom, and a slightly less claustrophobic master bedroom. There's something that resembles a closet, too, but it's stuffed with the washer and dryer and is small enough that they still jut out halfway. As for the downstairs, things don't get much better. You can't have the fridge and the oven or dishwasher open at the same time. Dining room? Nonexistent. There is a bathroom, but you can't fit inside it if you're over two hundred pounds. We don't have people over much for fear they'll realize we're poor.

Richard Holden, my stepfather, is a tall, skinny, blonde white man with thinning hair and tiny hands. He couldn't be scary if he tried. He works for an insurance company but is too much of a pu.ssy to ever get a promotion, which means that he and my mom will probably be stuck living in this piece of shit house forever. Like most yuppie parents, he's scared out of his skull when it comes to punks. He punishes me, sure, and I can't do shit about it, but when I talk back, his voice shakes and his face gets red. Like I said, pu.ssy.

Once I'm downstairs, I find my mom sitting trimly on the couch with her ankles crossed and her hands folded on her lap. She doesn't speak much English, but my Spanish is awful, so Richard tends to be her mouthpiece. I find that funny. Richard doesn't know any Spanish besides 'gracias' and 'de nada.' Maybe that's why their relationship works so well.

Richard is standing next to her with his arms folded and a piece of paper in his hand.

"Jaime, is there anything you want to tell your mother and me?" he asks in his authoritative voice, which is nasally and weak. I shrug, since I've done plenty of shit and I could be in trouble for any of it.

Richard pinches the bridge of his nose for a brief second, then drops his hands to his sides. "Jaime, I got a telephone call from the principal of your school." That explains the paper. He takes notes on his phone conversations. "He says he's concerned about your grade in Geometry. You want to tell us what you have?"

"What's the point in me saying it?" I retort. "You already know, don't you?"

On cue, his voice quivers when he responds. "There's no room for back talk from someone who has an F."

I sigh and scratch my forehead tiredly. "Okay, yeah, I have an F. Sorry. Math is hard. Can I go now?"

"This won't go unpunished, young man. The year is almost over and I won't have someone under my roof trying to slide out of his junior year with a mark so unforgiving. You know this seriously harms your chances of getting into a good college, right? I want to hear that you'll do everything in your power to get this back up to at least a C."

"Sure," I wave him off. "Yeah, I'll handle it."

I start to turn around to return to my room, but he stops me.

"I'm not finished with you, Jaime." He glances at the paper in his hand. "He also said that there was an altercation in physical education between you and another boy. Is this true?"