In Broken Places by Michèle Phoenix

you,” he said. Translation: Anyone says anything bad about my son and I’ll have their head. Insulting you is my job.
    “Thanks, Dad.” Translation: I hate it when you’re happy—makes me squeamish. Trey gulped some orange juice and caught my eye-rolling. His eyes crinkled. I liked making him smile.
    “Cleats still feeling okay?” Translation: You should be kissing my feet for spending so much money on your cleats, young man. I’m a wonderful dad.
    “Yup. Fine.” Translation: I’d rather kiss Sonya Roland than say thanks to you, and she’s got zits and braces.
    “Well, try to score one for the old man.” Translation: I’ve got a belt and I’m not afraid to use it. You stink, you sting. That’s the rule.
    “Sure, Dad.” Translation: Like I’m ever going to put any effort into making you happy, you pompous bag of bones.
    I wanted to play too. “It’s too bad you hurt your ankle skateboarding,” I said. “Maybe you’ll be able to play anyway, though.” Translation: Let’s see if we can make Dad crazy by letting him think you might not get to play.
    “What’s wrong with your ankle?” He put his fork down and narrowed his eyes. Translation: How stupid have you been, Son?
    “It’s fine, Dad.” Translation: Please don’t get mad, please don’tget mad, please don’t get mad. Trey sent me an are-you-nuts? glare and swallowed a too-large bite of pancake.
    “What’s with the ankle, Son?” The distant sound of thunder was in his voice.
    “Nothing,” Trey answered, an almost imperceptible tremor weakening his words. I knew it meant fear, but to my dad, it sounded like guilt.
    He leaned across the kitchen table, the napkin he’d stuck in his collar brushing the chocolate syrup on his plate. “What—did—you—do?” Strange that a minute before his face had looked clean-shaven. Now, with the blotchy red creeping up from his collar and the dirtiness of his scorn flaking out from his eyes, it looked like a kind of threatening stubble was growing out of his skin.
    Trey saw it too. “I didn’t . . .”
    My dad pushed away from the table with so much force that a couple of plates went flying and the milk container tipped over. Mom, who had been standing frozen at the counter, rushed in with a dish towel and mopped up the milk before it spilled onto the floor along with more of Dad’s wrath.
    “Dad, I didn’t mean—”
    His hand came down so hard on the top of my head that I bit my tongue and felt my jaw go weird. He pressed his fingers into my skull like it was a watermelon he was trying to crush. I felt his pancake breath wetting my ear when he hissed, right next to it, “Shut up, Shell.”
    There were stars behind my eyes when he released me, so I didn’t actually see him shove Trey’s chair back so hard that it toppled over. My brother looked like one of those beetles that can’t figure out how to get up off their backs. So I guess my dad decided to help him by flipping him over onto his stomach with his shoe. He flipped him hard and Mom yelped and I jumped off my chair and went to grab Dad’s armbecause I knew what he was thinking and Trey kinda crawled away as fast as he could, but his knees kept slipping in the mess of his pancakes.
    I grabbed my dad’s arm harder and said, “I didn’t mean it, Dad! I was just being funny! Trey’s ankle is fine! Really, it’s fine! He hasn’t been on his skateboard in forever!” But he wasn’t hearing anything right then except Trey’s cowering. He flung me off his arm so hard that I hit the fridge. Then he leaned down to pick my brother up by the front of his shirt. My mom had retreated to the sink by then and I wished she would throw herself on her husband’s back and ride him and pummel him until he stopped, but she twisted the towel in her hands instead and kept saying, “Jim. Jim, stop. Please, Jim.” Which I thought was a very ineffective approach.
    My dad had Trey shoved into the corner of the wall and cupboards, and Trey had