cigarette from his mouth and squashed it out in an ashtray. "I got no money for sissy uniforms and you can tell your band director I said so."
Christopher and Jeannie shared a dinky bedroom with space for little more than their narrow twin beds and one beat-up chest of drawers.
Though he got under his covers without turning on the light, he knew she was over there wide awake. Sometimes she pretended to be asleep when their parents were fighting, but not tonight.
"I hate them," she said matter-of-factly.
"You shouldn't say that."
"Why? Don't you?"
He did, but he didn't want his feelings to infect her. Girls were different. Girls needed their moms, especially--a lot longer than boys r, did.
Jeannie startled him by declaring, "I'm getting out of here as soon as I'm old enough."
Hell, she was only nine. She should be living a carefree life instead of plotting her escape from her family.
"Jeannie, don't say that."
"But it's true. I'm going to run away."
"Aw, Jeannie, come on . .."
"And when I do, I'm never coming back, except maybe once or twice to see you. You're the only good thing around here."
He lay with a lump in his throat, unable to rebuke her with any amount of conviction, for he'd had the same thoughts himself.
The following week, Mavis slipped him twenty-five dollars.
"Here's for those black slacks," she said.
"Thanks," he said without any warmth. He deserved decent clothes, and food on the table, and parents at home and sober now and then. Every kid deserved that much. If it weren't for him Jeannie'd have gone to school even tackier than she did. He made her comb her hair and eat some toast and put on her jacket every morning while the old man snored in his alcoholic stupor and his mother fried eggs at the truck stop to earn enough money for their endless boozing.
Twenty-five dollars slipped into his hand now and then couldn't make up for two drunken parents who didn't have time to raise their kids.
"Your dad didn't mean anything by it. He's had it hard, you knowfalling off that loading dock and busting up his back. He was a different man before that happened."
He'd heard this so often, but he didn't buy any of it. Other people had strokes of bad luck in their lives and overcame them.
Other moms realized that nine-year-old girls needed somebody to wash and iron their clothes and be home to cook them supper and wish them goodnight at bedtime. Ed and Mavis were alcoholics, plain and simple, and she was no better than the old man. They didn't beat their kids, but they didn't have to: Neglect did it for them.
Christopher Lallek marched in that Fourth of July parade dressed in new black jeans. But no parents were there watching from the curb, and the joy of playing the Klaxon had somehow dimmed after his father's disparaging remarks about sissies. The following year he dropped band from his schedule and took Home Ec instead.
He figured if he had to cook for himself and Jeannie for the next five years he'd at least learn how. And in Home Ec class he got a free meal now and then.
Christopher sat on the steps of a redwood deck, remembering. Dark had fallen and the first stars were gleaming in the southeast sky.
Crickets were singing in Mrs. Reston's garden. Behind him, light glowed through her kitchen door while on her refrigerator hung a note about leftover lasagna. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten all day, but he had no urge to do so. He should get up and go home, leave this family to themselves, but he didn't know how he could handle walking into his apartment with all its reminders of Greg.
Greg's clothing in the closet, his CDs in the living room, his mail on the kitchen cabinet, his shampoo in the shower, his favorite juice in the refrigerator.
Sweet Jesus, he'd give anything if he had a mom and dad to go to, someone whose house he could walk into and be hugged and held and loved and cared about the way this family cared about one another. Someone who'd turn down the bed in
Christopher and Jeannie shared a dinky bedroom with space for little more than their narrow twin beds and one beat-up chest of drawers.
Though he got under his covers without turning on the light, he knew she was over there wide awake. Sometimes she pretended to be asleep when their parents were fighting, but not tonight.
"I hate them," she said matter-of-factly.
"You shouldn't say that."
"Why? Don't you?"
He did, but he didn't want his feelings to infect her. Girls were different. Girls needed their moms, especially--a lot longer than boys r, did.
Jeannie startled him by declaring, "I'm getting out of here as soon as I'm old enough."
Hell, she was only nine. She should be living a carefree life instead of plotting her escape from her family.
"Jeannie, don't say that."
"But it's true. I'm going to run away."
"Aw, Jeannie, come on . .."
"And when I do, I'm never coming back, except maybe once or twice to see you. You're the only good thing around here."
He lay with a lump in his throat, unable to rebuke her with any amount of conviction, for he'd had the same thoughts himself.
The following week, Mavis slipped him twenty-five dollars.
"Here's for those black slacks," she said.
"Thanks," he said without any warmth. He deserved decent clothes, and food on the table, and parents at home and sober now and then. Every kid deserved that much. If it weren't for him Jeannie'd have gone to school even tackier than she did. He made her comb her hair and eat some toast and put on her jacket every morning while the old man snored in his alcoholic stupor and his mother fried eggs at the truck stop to earn enough money for their endless boozing.
Twenty-five dollars slipped into his hand now and then couldn't make up for two drunken parents who didn't have time to raise their kids.
"Your dad didn't mean anything by it. He's had it hard, you knowfalling off that loading dock and busting up his back. He was a different man before that happened."
He'd heard this so often, but he didn't buy any of it. Other people had strokes of bad luck in their lives and overcame them.
Other moms realized that nine-year-old girls needed somebody to wash and iron their clothes and be home to cook them supper and wish them goodnight at bedtime. Ed and Mavis were alcoholics, plain and simple, and she was no better than the old man. They didn't beat their kids, but they didn't have to: Neglect did it for them.
Christopher Lallek marched in that Fourth of July parade dressed in new black jeans. But no parents were there watching from the curb, and the joy of playing the Klaxon had somehow dimmed after his father's disparaging remarks about sissies. The following year he dropped band from his schedule and took Home Ec instead.
He figured if he had to cook for himself and Jeannie for the next five years he'd at least learn how. And in Home Ec class he got a free meal now and then.
Christopher sat on the steps of a redwood deck, remembering. Dark had fallen and the first stars were gleaming in the southeast sky.
Crickets were singing in Mrs. Reston's garden. Behind him, light glowed through her kitchen door while on her refrigerator hung a note about leftover lasagna. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten all day, but he had no urge to do so. He should get up and go home, leave this family to themselves, but he didn't know how he could handle walking into his apartment with all its reminders of Greg.
Greg's clothing in the closet, his CDs in the living room, his mail on the kitchen cabinet, his shampoo in the shower, his favorite juice in the refrigerator.
Sweet Jesus, he'd give anything if he had a mom and dad to go to, someone whose house he could walk into and be hugged and held and loved and cared about the way this family cared about one another. Someone who'd turn down the bed in
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