Life Is Funny by E. R. Frank Page B

goes.
    â€œYou have to be so perfect?”
    His father slides out from underneath some car on the other side of the garage. “¿Tienes algún problema?” he yells over to Sam.
    â€œNo es nada, Papi,” Sam yells back.
    â€œDo you ever break one goddamn rule?” I’m going. “Do you ever just do something for the fun of it?”
    He gets real still.
    â€œMy whole life is a goddamn broken rule,” he tells me, real low, real calm. Then he steps in close, like Dreadlocks Dean did that day, and his voice stays quiet, but it’s hard and mad as anything. “Do you know how fun it is to be a bastard half spic with a mother who’d rather fingerpaint in some other country than live near you and a father who has to kiss rich white ass daily just so he can make his goddamn rent?” He backs up, glaring at me with this disgusted look, like he’s the coach and I’m the spaz retard.
    â€œYou always know what to say, don’t you?” I tell him, sarcastic as hell. I’d take it all. I’d take his life any day. I’d take his father in a second. “You always know what to do.” I want to be him so bad it makes my blood hurt. “With the girls, with the cars, with me. With everyone.”
    He sort of blinks, and then he shakes his head, like he’s sorry for me or something. “Whatever,” he goes, and then suddenly I get scared I’ll either start bawling or else rip his face off.
    â€œYou know what?” I tell him. “From now on just stay the fuck away.” And I’m gone.
    *  *  *
    I’m so pissed off I don’t even get what’s going on until I’m in the apartment and the door is closed. My parents are in the foyer, and he’s mad again. She’s got blood on her mouth and over her eye, and her sleeve is torn. She’s got the keys and mail table between them, holding it up by the surface so the legs stick out to sort of protect her, but he’s twisting it out of her grip.
    â€œGo to your room,” she tells me, the way she always does.
    He yanks the table away from her and tosses it behind him. Then he grabs her and shoves her up against the wall. She throws up her hands, and I walk around them into the kitchen. I hear the punch, which doesn’t sound like much in real life but turns eyes the shiny color of olives in five minutes flat, and I pick up the phone.
    I dial that stupid, stupid number they make TV shows off of and try to keep my voice steady, so if they replay it on the news, I won’t sound like an idiot.
    â€œWhat is the location of the emergency?” they go, without saying hello.
    â€œTwo-fifty-one Baker Place,” I say. “Between Seventh and Eighth Avenue.”
    â€œWhat’s the nature of the emergency?” they ask.
    â€œMy dad’s beating the shit out of my mother,” I go.
    â€œStay on the line, please,” they tell me.
    So I do.
    *  *  *
    My mother starts to cry when they cuff him. She never cries.
    That goofy Gingerbread kid watches from his stoop. He’s got his basketball tucked under one arm, and I can see his fingers tapping it, fast, like he’s typing or sending Morse code.
    My father stops in front of me as they walk him to the squad car. They let him lean down to whisper in my ear. The kid stops tapping and shifts the ball to his other arm.
    â€œDo you see what you’ve done?” my dad goes, really quiet, nodding over to her. She’s still crying, slumped against our front door. “Do you see?”

Year Three
    Grace
    China
    Ebony
    Sam
    Carl
    Monique
    Molly
    Drew
    Caitlin
    Hector

Grace
    MY MOTHER IS a lunatic. She has a routine for everything, and if you do anything to screw it up, she falls apart. My mom falling apart is something you don’t want to see. The problem is, her routine’s always changing, so it’s next to impossible to figure out what you might be doing to screw