Hooked. Liz Fichera

hot plates.

      Dad bent over to kiss her cheek before turning for the front door, and for a moment the corners of Mom’s eyes softened. “Just need to take a quick shower.” He reached for the torn screen door. It creaked whenever it opened. “I feel like I’m covered in golf course.”

      Mom laughed and my throat tightened. Mom used to laugh a lot more. Everybody did.

      Then Mom took a long swig from her shiny beer can before resting her narrowed eyes on me. Her head began to bob. “So, Freddy, tell me something that happened today. One happy thing.” She framed it like a challenge, as if answering was statistically impossible. A second beer can crunched underneath her sandal while she waited for my answer.

      My mind raced. I sat in the plastic chair across from her and wondered how long it would be before I could retreat to the safety of my bedroom, if you could call it that. My room barely fit a twin bed and nightstand, but at least I didn’t have to sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room like my older brother, Trevor. “Well,” I said, dragging my tongue across my lips to stall for time. There was no easy way to answer her question. I’d lose no matter what. “I got an A on a social-studies pop quiz today,” I said finally.

      “Social studies?” Mom’s wet lips pulled back. She stared at me like I’d grown a third eye. Then she reached inside her blue cooler for another beer. “Who needs social studies? What exactly is that anyway? Social studies?” Her words ran into each other. “How’s that going to help you pay for your own trailer?”

      My jaw clenched as I coaxed my breathing to slow. I knew this was only Mom’s warm-up, and I wouldn’t be dragged into it, not today. It wasn’t every day a high school coach begged you to join his team. I only hoped that Mom would drink the rest of her six-pack and pass out like she always did. Then I could practice next to the house where Dad had built me a putting green with carpet samples from the dump.

      “I’m not real sure,” I said. “Anyway, it’s not that important.” I certainly wouldn’t share that I’d earned the highest score. That would only make the night more painful, especially for Dad, and I often wondered how much more he could take. He’d left us once, two years ago, and that had been the worst three months of my life.

      Mom jabbed her third beer can at me, and a few foamy drops trickled down her fingers. “Don’t lie to me, girl.” Her face tightened into the mother I didn’t recognize. “I can always tell when you’re lying.” Her dark eyes narrowed to tiny slits as she peered at me over her beer can.

      “I’m not. Really.” I rose from my chair, my toes pointed toward the trailer, anxious to be inside. “You want me to get you anything?” My voice turned higher. “I’ll heat up the chicken.”

      Mom sighed heavily, slurped from her can and let her head drop back. She stared up at a purplish-blue sky where stars had begun to poke out like lost diamonds. The beer can crinkled in her hand. “No,” she said. “Just leave me alone. Everybody, just leave me the hell alone.”

      I climbed the two concrete steps to the front door, biting my lower lip to keep from screaming. Even though we were surrounded by endless acres of open desert, sometimes it seemed like I lived in a soap bubble that was always ready to pop.

      “Hey, Fred,” Mom said, stopping me.

      I gripped the silver handle on the screen door and turned sideways to look at her.

      “They’re short a couple of bussers at the restaurant. Wanna work tomorrow night?”

      My jaw softened. “Sure. I need the money.” I’d been saving up for a new pair of golf shoes. A little more tip money and I’d have enough. And, thanks to Coach Lannon, I now had a reason to own a real pair.

      Mom smiled and nodded her head back like she was trying to keep herself from falling asleep in her chair. “Good girl,” she slurred. “You’ll want to make sure the chef likes you so you’ll have a job there when you graduate.”

      I bit the inside of my lip again till it stung. Then I quickly opened the door wider and darted inside. The screen door snapped shut behind me.

      * * *

      A crescent moon hung in the sky by the time Trevor coasted his motorcycle down our dirt driveway. Low and deep like a coyote’s growl, the engine blended with the desert. I knew it was Trevor because he always shut off the front headlights the closer he got to the trailer. Less chance of waking anyone, even the dogs.

      I waited for him on the putting green. With my rusty putter, I sank golf balls into the plastic cups that Dad had wedged into the carpet samples. Dad had even nailed skinny, foot-high red flags into each of the ten cups to make it look authentic. The homemade putting green wasn’t exactly regulation, but it was better than nothing, and he had been so excited to surprise me with it for my birthday last year. The moon, along with the kitchen light over the sink from inside the house, provided just enough of a glow over six of the twelve holes.

      “Hey, Freddy,” Trevor said after parking his bike next to the van. The Labs trailed on either side of him, panting excitedly.

      “Hey, yourself,” I said after sinking another putt, this time into a hole near the edge that I couldn’t see. I liked the hollow sound the ball made every time it found the edges of the cup. It was strangely comforting. And predictable. The ball swirled against the plastic like it was trapped before resting at the bottom with a satisfied clunk. “How was work?”

      “Oh, you know, same shit, different day.” Trevor’s usual reply.

      I smirked at his answer. I should be used to it by now, but a small part of me wished that once, just once, he’d surprise me with something different. Something better. Something that could take my breath away.

      Trevor worked at a gas station in Casa Grande off the Interstate doing minor car repairs like fixing tires and replacing batteries when he wasn’t making change for the never-ending cigarette and liquor purchases. His long fingers ran through the sides of his thick black hair as he waited for me to pull back my club for the next putt. His hair hung past his shoulders, all knotty and wild from his ride. If he wasn’t my brother, I’d have to say that he looked like one scary Indian.

      “When are you going to quit that job?” I looked up at him.

      “And do what?” He chuckled but not in a sarcastic way.

      “I don’t know,” I said, purposely casual. I struck the ball and looked at him. “Go back to school, maybe?” I walked over to the cup and reached inside for the ball. “You always said you wanted to open up a repair shop one day.”

      “Don’t need school for that, Fred.” He sat on the edge of the carpet, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles.

      “Wouldn’t hurt.”

      “Yeah, well, when I win the lottery, I’ll let you know.” He looked up at the kitchen window and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.”

      I swallowed. I worked hard not to picture the future at all. I couldn’t imagine working at the gas station, the restaurant or even the Indian casino for the rest of my life. Whenever I did, it felt like someone pressing on my chest with both hands.

      “Mom?” Trevor said.

      “Asleep. Finally.” I laid down my putter and sat next to him, pulling my bare knees into my chest. “So’s Dad. I think.”

      “Bad night?”

      My shoulders shrugged. “Same shit, different day,” I said, regretting it instantly. I hated swearing. My chin dropped to my knees.

      “You don’t mean that, Fred.” Trevor placed his arm across my shoulder and pulled me closer. “You really don’t want to let yourself get angry. Because once you start, it’s hard to stop.” His voice turned softer. “Look what it’s done to Mom.”

      My eyes closed as I sank deeper into the corner of his arm. His shirt smelled like grease and cigarette smoke,