Drinking doesn’t help. He always thinks it will, feeling buzzed, feeling relaxed. For once. But it always backfires. He doesn’t know when to stop.

And then he’s drunk when his father comes home, hiding in his room. He knows the beating he’d get if his father knew, if he suspected that he was drinking, that he was drunk. Ninth grade. It’s only ninth grade.

Staring in the mirror at the bruises, trying to make them seem real. As unreal as it seems he can’t always remember being hit, being punched, being kicked.

Going to his mother’s grave, the ground cold and hard beneath him. Staring at her name on the stone, carved into it with that awful finality. This was it. All the praying and hoping he did when she was sick, the tears coursing down his cheeks, this was it. It hadn’t done any good.

He could see Joey and Angela, this splintered part of his family. He could watch them without them seeing him. He could long to be a part of their lives but he knew he wasn’t.

The mood of his house changed from day to day. Did his dad have a good day at work? Did he have some unbearable stress that he’d deal with with a dry martini and snapping at him? Everyday was this awful surprise package.

He hated the new house. His mother was so absent from this house, and it was big and beautiful as all their houses were but it was…empty.

Waking up with a headache, dry mouth, his head pounding. It’s best just not to move at all. But the alarm gets him up, he drags himself out of bed, knowing that the hangover won’t last all day. Dragging himself to school. He’s lost the point.

Secretive, he knows that Emma baby sits Angela, and despite his slight fear he talks to her. In the hallway, in the library, anywhere that he sees her. And he can be so charming, locking eyes with girls so they feel special, they feel in his circle of attention. He knows he does it and he does it to Emma to get to see his sister. To get invited to barbeques at her house, to get invited to hang out with her after school. He ignores her looks of adoration. He doesn’t have time for that.

It would be so much easier if he could live two lives. One that his father wants and one that is just for him. Then he could satisfy them both.

Going home, his school bag heavy on his shoulder. Every step feels heavy. He sees the shiny Lexus in the smooth black snake of the driveway. He sucks in his breath. His father is home. So what? It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t make him feel his heart pounding in his chest so hard it feels like it could break out. It shouldn’t make the palms of his hands sweaty so he loses his grip on the school bag.

Inside, the smells of dinner, and so he isn’t late. He doesn’t think. He ducks in, gauges the mood of the house. Impossible to tell.

“Craigger!” His father greets him, and the tightening in his chest lessens just a bit. He can almost breath again. Work went well, or something went well. He slipped his bag off of his shoulder and felt the crushing weight of it off of his muscles and bones.

“Hey, dad,” he said, still cautious. But his dad was stirring whatever he was cooking and smiling. Craig sat in one of the kitchen chairs and watched him.

Every day wasn’t a bad day. That’s what made it so confusing for him. Days like this, normal, going to school and coming home to his dad’s good mood. It made the other days so much harder to comprehend. How could this person who was asking about his day at school be the same one who threw him against the wall, dislocating his shoulder? How could he be the same one who kicked him in the stomach, and he felt the animal panic of not being able to breathe? How could this be the same person?