“Black’s not a color, dumb-ass. You’re not very smart for a grown-up.” He hops over and picks up every single picture frame we have on display—well, every frame he can reach, anyway, knocking them over and smearing greasy fingerprints all over the glass.
Coke-baby’s photo shoot is a total party. The mother complains about everything she can possibly complain about. She even tsk-tsks some of Henry’s camera angles. I don’t know how he remains so cool. I want to grab her by her soccer-mom ponytail and drag her out the door. And the kid? He might be the literal spawn of Satan. I swear his head even does the Linda Blair 180 at one point.
When they finish, the mom tries to argue her way into getting free retouching. I don’t know what to do, but Henry hears it from the back and comes up and puts her in her place.
“We outsource the retouching, so we have no say in the pricing. It’s all pretty standard. So I guess it depends on how much retouching you want. You don’t really have to do any, it’s a personal preference kinda thing.”
The woman wants to argue more, but Satan’s spawn has now started throwing a tantrum about it taking too long and wanting ice cream and shit. Henry smiles as she drags the kid toward the door and tells her he’ll see her on Monday to pick out which prints she wants.
“I think that kid might need some major retouching,” I say as the door closes.
“I don’t even know if I got one shot where he didn’t look deranged. Monday’ll be fun.”
I don’t work on Monday. Part of me is relieved and part of me is bummed—I’d kind of like to see her reaction.
“Hold on,” Henry says as he pushes the curtain out of his way. He quickly returns with the memory chip. “Plug her in. Let’s see what the damage is.”
I do as asked. It’s not as bad as we thought. Little bastard is actually photogenic. He’s one of those kids who’s so ugly, he’s cute. Damn. I was hoping for a good laugh.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Henry says, pulling open the drawers, searching for something. “It’s gotta be here somewhere . . .” After a few minutes of rifling, he gives up. “I don’t want to mess with Jordyn’s system too much. She’ll make my life hell.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The chip with your pictures on it. Aren’t you curious about how they turned out?”
“I forgot all about that,” I say. I didn’t forget; I just hoped that he had.
“Sure you did,” he says with a grin.
? ? ?
Dad’s home when Captain and I get back from our run. After school, it was either jerk off in the shower or get out of the house and do something productive. Since the first option would still be there after the second, it was only fair to take Captain for a run.
But now Dad’s sitting on the couch, watching some ghost-hunting show, drinking what looks like the last of an entire case of beer, from all the empties on the coffee table and floor. Oh, and a Jack Daniel’s bottle is at his feet. I haven’t been gone more than two hours. I can tell he’s in the in-between state and I brace myself—unfortunately, I can’t lock myself away for the night because I’m starving. Fucking biology.
For dinner this evening, I have ramen or ramen to choose from. God, I have to talk to Henry about money tomorrow. The bad thing about ramen, especially at this very moment, is that it requires me to be in the kitchen long enough for Dad to start shit with me. He’s down in the family room. Seven stairs and a railing separate us, but we have a clear line of sight on each other. And he can make it up those seven stairs much quicker than one might think possible.
I’m hyperaware of his every movement. Every hair on my body is alive, like it’s sensing a shift in the electric currents in case I need to flee the storm before lightning strikes.
I feed Captain by picking the kibbles from the bag with my hand and placing them in the bowl with minimal noise. Dad clears his throat and my jaw snaps shut. I freeze, sure he’s heard my teeth hit together and he’s going to view it as an opening. He takes a swig of JD right from the bottle and sniffles. As I stir my ramen, I hear Captain descend the stairs, his tags clinking against each other with every step. Dad sighs and I hold my breath, waiting for him to take out his aggression on Captain again, but the flap of the doggie door clacks shut after he’s made his way outside. I jump when the flap clacks again and Dad shifts on the couch. I brave looking and see the self-satisfied smile on his face as he scratches Captain’s ears and lets Captain lick his face. What is he up to? I mean, he’s obviously fucking with me, but what’s his endgame?