I feel my eyes widen as I look around me, clutching the twenty in my hand close to my chest. I sit still for a few moments, making sure this isn’t a trick. I look around again, I’m even super quiet to make sure no one saw me steal the money.
When I know this isn’t a trick and I’m safe, I jump up and run out the front door down toward the small corner store, three blocks away.
I run as fast as my legs will take me, knowing soon I’ll have something in my belly. Reaching the door for the small store, I pull it and go inside. The store is small, but has some basic food staples and fresh fruit and vegetables. With my twenty dollars I get three bananas, three apples, a loaf of bread and some non-refrigerated milk. I’ll hide the groceries and when I’m really hungry, I’ll eat something and not show Dad. He’ll get angry at me because I have them, but he’ll be angrier at me for not giving it to him. I know the money is his, and technically I’m stealing it, but I’m so hungry.
Walking home from the store, I eat a banana and open one of the milks. At first I drink it super-fast, but I know I’ll need to slow down or I’ll end up being sick.
Taking the bags inside, I hide the fruit and the milk in my room. There’s a closet in my room that holds the few clothes I do have and an extra blanket for when it’s really cold in winter. Dad has a space heater in his room. I have two blankets. When it snows here, it’s freezing. The winter before this one, I had to go to a thrift shop and beg them for a pair of socks. The ladies were really nice to me, and could tell I needed the help. They gave me a coat, a pair of boots, three pairs of socks and a thick sweater. Dad got angry at me and told me it made him look like a bad parent. Maybe he is.
But I got through winter with those clothes, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to get through next winter with them too. I hide the food in the pockets of the coat, the shelf milk in the boots and close my closet door. There’s still a few dollars in change, and I hide that in the other boot, in case I get hungry again.
Sitting on my bed, I begin my homework when I hear the front door slam shut. Holding my breath I wait for Dad to come into my room. Hopefully he’s in a good mood, although that hasn’t happened much lately.
I sit on my bed, looking toward the door. Please let him be in a good mood. Please let him be in a good mood.
Dad pokes his bald head into my room. He looks at me sitting on the bed and snarls at me. “I’m going out,” he says, with anger clear in his voice.
“Okay,” I answer, not really able to say anything else to him.
His heavy footsteps disappear down the hallway and I let out the breath I was holding. Looking down at my advanced math book, I do the work set and more. As I’m lost in a calculus question, I hear Dad lock his bedroom door then his footsteps start up the hallway again.
He stops at my door, and he’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He just looks at me, and I watch his features change. For a split second I think he wants to tell me something. And hopefully, that something is him begging for me to forgive him. Because I would, in a single heartbeat. He’s the only Dad I’ve got, and somewhere deep inside the anger, deep inside the hard man he is – he loves me. I’m sure of it.
“I won’t be back until Monday,” he says, squashing any dream I may have of him being a good father.
Today being Friday means I’ll have to go without food for the entire weekend. It’s common for him to go and leave me with nothing in the house. The ladies at the thrift shop had said to me, if I ever needed anything to go to them, and thankfully, they’ve fed me a couple of times. But I’m sure I’ve worn out my welcome at the thrift shop. I’m grateful I found that twenty, and have some food to see me through the weekend.
“Okay,” I answer Dad. There’s not much I can say. At least I know when he’s not here, he can’t yell at me, or tell me how ugly or stupid I am.
Dad takes a step into my room, and I brace myself for whatever it is I’m about to encounter. “Here,” he says taking his wallet out of his pocket. The beautiful leather wallet is fat and holds a big stack of bills. I simply keep looking at him. “Get something to eat, I know I haven’t had a chance to go shopping yet.” He hands me fifty dollars and keeps looking at me.
Have I missed something? Is this a joke? Is he going to snatch it back and yell, Gotchya?
I keep looking at him, not reaching for the note, because I’m sure there is a part of him getting angry at me. “Here,” he says, thrusting the fifty closer to me.
“Thank you,” I say, hesitantly taking the money.