Shift

2

My house smells like toxic acid and smoke. Like embers ground into old carpet and covered with baking soda bought at the dollar store. I can’t stand sleeping here, and I rarely do. When I’m not spending the night with the Judges, I’m usually in my car. I’d rather take my chances sleeping in the back seat of a Supra than sleeping under a cloud of whatever shit Colt’s cooked up.

Sleeping in the car takes care of two things, actually. One, I’ve got some distance from Colt and my mom, and two, I can keep a close eye on my car. Colt’s “friends” tend to steal shit, and they’re savvy enough to know my car’s worth more than it looks like it is. Especially in parts.

Colt isn’t here today, and it’s the only reason I can slip inside my own damn home to take a shower. I usually end up taking those at school in the locker room or at the Judges’. Lately, though, it’s gotten weird with Ha

“That you, Colt?” My mom’s nodding in and out of consciousness on a sofa that’s so rotted and stained by her bad habits that homeless people would reject it if I took it down to the shelter.

“It’s Dustin. Just taking a shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be gone in two minutes.” I don’t bother to stick around for her response because I know she’s just going to ask me to make her a shot or grab her pills.

My mom’s an addict. I don’t know her as anything other than an addict, besides the few short years Colt was gone and she was semi-sober. She never fully pulled it off, but she was at least able to hold down a job and be present for me, make me breakfast and shit. She smoked a lot, and I hated that everything I owned smelled of nicotine. I’d trade that for the constant chemistry invading my clothes now. I keep most of the things I wear in my duffel bag in the back of my car, and I have a lot of clothes in Tommy’s room. Sometimes when I’m there overnight I run a load of laundry. I’ve gotten good at squatting.

Yesterday was Ha

It took me a month to find those pieces at work, and my hours at the tow and scrap yard are limited, so the good finds are pretty well picked through by the time I get on shift on Sundays. I think the piece turned out nice, though. I’m not sure Ha

I speed through my shower, lathering up and not even bothering to rinse all the shampoo from my hair. I’ll shove a hat on my head and take a dip in the Judges’ pool later. Whatever it takes to get out of here before Colt comes back.

I don’t even bother to walk through the house on my way out, instead opting to stuff what I need for the next few days in my backpack and crawl through my window. Good thing I do, too, because I see the back of Colt’s piece of shit truck idling at the side of the house the minute I toss my stuff in the passenger seat of my car.

My phone buzzing in my back pocket, I round my car and make sure I get inside before answering. I hate that I’m still somehow afraid of that son-of-a-bitch. I quit calling him Dad when I was three, the first time I saw him put a fist in my mom’s face. That little act of defiance earned me the first beating I can remember.

Key comfortably in the ignition, I answer my phone on speaker while I crank the engine.

“Yo, you’re late,” Tommy says. He has a thing about punctuality. I think it’s because he’s never faced much adversity in his life. It gets harder to be on time for things when you have a lot of crazy shit in your way.

“I stopped at the house to grab a shower. On my way now,” I answer, flinching as a half-empty bottle of God knows what crashes against my windshield, busting it into a spider web of glass.

“Fuck!” I shout, my blood’s temperature instantly hot enough to burn me from the inside.

“Dude, what was that?”

“Hang on,” I say, tossing the phone in the passenger seat. Tommy’s questions are going to have to wait.

I get out of my car to pick away the green bottle remnants from my hood while I survey the damage. A few scratches and chips in a paint job I plan to redo aren’t the worst of it, but my windshield is trash. I toss the biggest shards into the gutter and turn to catch Colt’s wasted smirk as he wipes his sleeve across his nose then extends his arm and points his finger at me. He holds it there, and all I want to do is run up to him and break it off—break him.

“I have to pay for that!” I shout, as if he gives a shit.

Leaning forward and off balance, he spits into the gravel and falls back on his heels before turning toward the house where he’ll take my mom down to even lower depths of hell. I’ve quit trying to be her hero. It’s not my job. I wish the Judges would take me in full-time, adopt me or some shit, but I get the feeling Tommy doesn’t want that. We’ve never talked about it, but it’s the feeling I get, and going down that path might mess things up. Whatever. I’ll be eighteen in six weeks and then I can rent my own place, work on the car, and build my brand.

Tommy’s hung up already, so I leave my phone in the seat and take off fast enough to spit gravel at the trailer I’ve come to hate with a fiery passion. It takes less than twenty minutes to get to the Judges’. Life twenty minutes away from the highway is a lot different than the trailer park I live in under the service station’s neon lights. Tommy’s already working in the garage when I pull up, so I follow the curve to the side of the house where the floodlights should let us work into the night.

Tommy holds his palms out as I pull up, his face bunched up as his mouth hangs open. I kick open the car door before coming to a full stop, slap my work boot to the ground and let it slide to a stop along with the car. I push the gear in park but leave it ru

“Dad’s home,” I say, waving my hand at the busted glass. Tommy’s already leaning forward to look at the nicks on the hood.

“Dude, bigger problems than the paint,” I huff, threading my hands behind my neck while I pace around my car.