a couple of good breaths and watched as Les shoved him out of the room, eyes blazing with fury.
“Get the hell out,” Les snarled, looking more frightening than a slim-muscled, gangly seve nteen-year-old had any right to look. “Don’t you dare come back. Ever .”
My dad outweighed him but he was drunk, clumsy, and starting to lose the adrenaline that had driven him to choke me. He shouted nonsensical insults and threats before stumbling out of the house.
“Are you all right?” Les asked gently. It seemed oddly silent with my dad gone, though I could still hear the TV blaring in the living room.
Tears began to tremble at the corners of my widened eyes. “Um . . . yeah.” I nodded slowly. “Where’s Ivory?”
“We were supposed to meet here. I guess he got caught in traffic. Come on.”
He led me out into the living room and sat me down on the couch. After shutting off the TV, he knelt in front of me and lifted my chin to inspect my throat. I was too upset to feel emba rrassed or nervous about him touching me.
“It’s a little red,” he said, “but I don’t think it will bruise. I’ll get you some ice.”
I started to tell him I didn’t need it but he was already up. I sank back into the couch, breathing deeply. My energy slowly drained away. The tears receded. I’d never cried for my father and I wasn’t going to start.
“Here.” Les handed me a plastic bag stuffed with ice cubes, a dishtowel wrapped around it.
“Thanks.”
He had bleached hair then, and a penchant for wearing black t-shirts with the sleeves cut off. He sat facing me on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, and talked to me about getting su spended a few days earlier for fighting. It was mostly just noise, just something to distract me from my dad, but I was always interested in what he had to say.
There wasn’t really any reason for him to fight, just normal adolescent rage, probably, or b ecause he just liked it. Whatever the reason, whenever he showed up with a black eye or some other mild injury, I found myself oddly intrigued.
I listened to him talk until Ivory arrived a few minutes later. Les explained what had ha ppened, then Ivory turned to me for the full story.
“That son of a bitch,” my brother roared after I’d told him. “I’m calling the cops.”
“No, don’t do that,” I protested. I just wanted to forget today had ever happened.
“Asha—”
“I’m fine,” I said in wavering voice, clutching the ice under my chin. “I mean, I don’t really care, all right?”
“I don’t think he’ll be back,” Les said. “I sort of threatened him.”
“He better not be,” Ivory muttered.
My dad never did come back and we’d all assumed he’d left the city or, later, that vampires had gotten him. But now, five years later, he was here and looking sober, though much older and more worn than I remembered. His glasses were the same ones I’d once knocked off his face. Because he barely acknowledged Les, I wondered if he remembered what Les had done to him. I wondered if he remembered that day at all.
I kept a blank expression as I stared at him, empty of emotion. I didn’t love him but I couldn’t bring myself to hate him. He was nothing to me.
“What do you want?” I asked calmly. Les looked back and forth between us, ready to fight if necessary.
“Asha. Can I come in?” Dad smiled hopefully and took a tentative step toward us.
“No. We don’t let strangers in here. What do you want?”
“I just want to talk to my daughter. And my son. Is Ivory around? Where’s Trish?”
His words stoked a sudden fury in me. “They’re not here,” I nearly shouted. “Which you would know, if you’d bothered to show up at all the last few years. You could have seen us every day, all the time, if you’d ever bothered to be a father! Or a husband!”
Though he looked stricken, I remained unmoved. “I’m sober now,” he said uncertainly.
I sighed. “Good for you. But Mom’s been dead
“Get the hell out,” Les snarled, looking more frightening than a slim-muscled, gangly seve nteen-year-old had any right to look. “Don’t you dare come back. Ever .”
My dad outweighed him but he was drunk, clumsy, and starting to lose the adrenaline that had driven him to choke me. He shouted nonsensical insults and threats before stumbling out of the house.
“Are you all right?” Les asked gently. It seemed oddly silent with my dad gone, though I could still hear the TV blaring in the living room.
Tears began to tremble at the corners of my widened eyes. “Um . . . yeah.” I nodded slowly. “Where’s Ivory?”
“We were supposed to meet here. I guess he got caught in traffic. Come on.”
He led me out into the living room and sat me down on the couch. After shutting off the TV, he knelt in front of me and lifted my chin to inspect my throat. I was too upset to feel emba rrassed or nervous about him touching me.
“It’s a little red,” he said, “but I don’t think it will bruise. I’ll get you some ice.”
I started to tell him I didn’t need it but he was already up. I sank back into the couch, breathing deeply. My energy slowly drained away. The tears receded. I’d never cried for my father and I wasn’t going to start.
“Here.” Les handed me a plastic bag stuffed with ice cubes, a dishtowel wrapped around it.
“Thanks.”
He had bleached hair then, and a penchant for wearing black t-shirts with the sleeves cut off. He sat facing me on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, and talked to me about getting su spended a few days earlier for fighting. It was mostly just noise, just something to distract me from my dad, but I was always interested in what he had to say.
There wasn’t really any reason for him to fight, just normal adolescent rage, probably, or b ecause he just liked it. Whatever the reason, whenever he showed up with a black eye or some other mild injury, I found myself oddly intrigued.
I listened to him talk until Ivory arrived a few minutes later. Les explained what had ha ppened, then Ivory turned to me for the full story.
“That son of a bitch,” my brother roared after I’d told him. “I’m calling the cops.”
“No, don’t do that,” I protested. I just wanted to forget today had ever happened.
“Asha—”
“I’m fine,” I said in wavering voice, clutching the ice under my chin. “I mean, I don’t really care, all right?”
“I don’t think he’ll be back,” Les said. “I sort of threatened him.”
“He better not be,” Ivory muttered.
My dad never did come back and we’d all assumed he’d left the city or, later, that vampires had gotten him. But now, five years later, he was here and looking sober, though much older and more worn than I remembered. His glasses were the same ones I’d once knocked off his face. Because he barely acknowledged Les, I wondered if he remembered what Les had done to him. I wondered if he remembered that day at all.
I kept a blank expression as I stared at him, empty of emotion. I didn’t love him but I couldn’t bring myself to hate him. He was nothing to me.
“What do you want?” I asked calmly. Les looked back and forth between us, ready to fight if necessary.
“Asha. Can I come in?” Dad smiled hopefully and took a tentative step toward us.
“No. We don’t let strangers in here. What do you want?”
“I just want to talk to my daughter. And my son. Is Ivory around? Where’s Trish?”
His words stoked a sudden fury in me. “They’re not here,” I nearly shouted. “Which you would know, if you’d bothered to show up at all the last few years. You could have seen us every day, all the time, if you’d ever bothered to be a father! Or a husband!”
Though he looked stricken, I remained unmoved. “I’m sober now,” he said uncertainly.
I sighed. “Good for you. But Mom’s been dead
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