The slap comes so fast, I barely see it. But I feel it. There’s no way in hell I couldn’t feel it. My dad has perfected his slaps over the years: hard enough to bruise, soft enough not to break the skin. My jaw snaps back, and I hold in a yelp. That’d only make things worse.
“Where were you, Alison?” he demands, his slurred words hard to read. His face is twisted with the anger that overtakes him every time he gets drunk. I have no idea what sort of horrific flashbacks he tries to hide from when he gets that haunted look in his eyes and pulls out a bottle, but I’m not sure I want to find out. He’s never dared to speak about the monstrous memories that ruined his mind, and I’ve never dared to ask.
I’ve heard my dad’s police buddies joke that he’s a “master of disguise,” because underneath all his gruffness is a “heart of gold.” He’s their retired chief, and the entire Los Angeles police department holds him up on a pedestal. Everyone sees him as a hero for creating protocols that reduced gang violence in at least half a dozen neighborhoods. And I guess he technically did do something heroic, but he’s not the Superman everyone thinks he is. People have no idea how quickly a few shots of liquor can make his gold heart turn black.
Pain blossoms through my cheek and down my neck, and panic twists my gut. I feel like I’m about to lose my dinner. Maybe I’ll hit his shoes if I vomit. Go down with a fight.
Yeah. Right.
My dad glowers down at me, and I do my best to read his lips while avoiding his gaze. It’s an art I’ve mastered over the years: when his eyes get watery and red, look at anything but them. His receding hairline, his knobby chin, his graying hair, his strong jaw. Anything but his eyes.
“How many times have I told you? Curfew is at eleven.”
It was actually at twelve last time I checked, but I know better than to even attempt to correct him when he gets like this. Silence is almost always the safest answer. I resist the urge to rub at the stinging skin on my cheek, knowing it’s best not to draw attention to the fresh bruise.
Damn it, I really should have accepted Avery’s offer to sleep over tonight. But she was so worked up about what happened with Jace, and I didn’t want to hear any more on the subject. I just wanted some peace. I’d figured I’d be able to spend the evening quietly holed up in my room; my dad had been in a surprisingly good mood earlier today, and I had expected it to last at least though the evening. Apparently, I was wrong.
I could cry about it, but I’ve lost enough tears over him. Now I need to focus on the good: in four months, I’ll be eighteen. Then I can run away and no one can stop me.
“Well?” my dad says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough,” he snaps. “You’re always sorry, but you never listen to me.”
I bite my lip just in time to stop myself from saying, “Maybe I’d listen if you bothered to make sense.” It’s true, though. The demands he makes of me are often downright stupid. He wants me to get straight A’s so he can “be proud of me.” I want to get D’s, so that my teachers will realize I really do still need the help of an ASL interpreter, despite my lip-reading allowing me to squeak by with passing grades. He wants me to attend Los Angeles State and “follow in his footsteps.” I want to go to Gallaudet University, where I’ll be part of a community that embraces my deafness instead of pitying it. He wants me to get a job in law enforcement. I want to vomit at the thought.
“Really, Dad,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.” My cheek is already starting to swell, and it aches as I speak. But I force an appeasing smile to stay on my lips.
He grunts and turns away from me, walking unsteadily toward the kitchen. I let out a long breath. But apparently I’m too loud, because he whirls around. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I squeak. “I didn’t say anything.”
He glares at me for a long moment, and then shakes his head and strides back to the kitchen, leaving me there alone. I let out another relieved breath, but make sure to keep it quiet. Then I sprint up the staircase to my room in the attic.
Old movies make attic rooms out to be scary—making your kid stay in one is always some sort of punishment. In reality, it’s the exact opposite. Mine is cozy and big and far away from my dad.
I collapse on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. Avery’s room still has the glow-in-the-dark stars we put up there in second grade, and her bedroom is also home to about five dozen pictures of her family, friends, and animals. Her walls are covered in good memories.
Mine are bare. I keep all my favorite pictures carefully bundled in my desk drawer, ready to be scooped up and packed the first chance I get to move out of here. This isn’t home, and it never will be.