Repent (The Disciples 3)

But today, I need to find Dolly. Judging from the way my dad smells, he’s been drinking, so it will be easy to sneak out.

“He’s fine, Christ.” My dad drags me and his girlfriend out the door into the bright sunshine and the black Mustang.

I hop in the back so that the current tramp can have the front. Lying down, I clutch my backpack to my chest. He drives like someone’s chasing him, and of course, he has to stop at the liquor store first without even asking if I’m okay.

I don’t care. I’m tough, but sometimes I wish he acted like he remembers I’m alive or even in the car.

Finally, I feel him run over our curb and stop. “Get up. If you got to puke make sure you hit the toilet, or you better clean it up. I got club business, so I’ll be back later.” He says all this as he opens the back seat for me to exit, a bottle of something wrapped in a brown paper bag clutched in his hand. His eyes are bloodshot, so I get out fast. I’d rather not give him any reason to hang around.

I hightail it into our small house, which I do my best to keep clean. But my dad and his girlfriend have been having a lot of parties, so it looks pretty bad right now. I make my way to the back, where my room is, and shut the door as I hear my dad’s bike start up.

Running to my window, I look out at our dead yard. There’s nothing but yellow patches of weeds and motorcycle parts littered around. Not that our place is that different from anyone else’s on our block. Everyone knows everyone. Half the neighbors are either part of the Disciples or they know someone who is.

My dad takes a swig of whatever is in the bag and hands it to his skinny girlfriend. She drinks then gets on his bike as he starts it up. It’s super loud and I can hear it rumble in my room. As he guns it out of the yard and down the street, I smile.

“Perfect.” He should be gone all night. If Dolly’s upset, I’ll bring her back here. I know she’s not at her house. I know it. She’s at the gym, and I need to go.

Grabbing my backpack, I dump all my school stuff out on the floor. Except I reach down for the bubble gum machine and the gold certificate and throw on my jacket for Dolly since she gets cold and I don’t. My dad says it’s the Irish in us—we’re hot-blooded. Swinging open the door, I jump back as a rat runs across the floor.

I swear when I get older, I’ll never live like this. Never.

Entering our small kitchen, which is covered with dirty dishes and cockroaches, I swing my backpack onto the counter and watch them scatter. I reach for a banana. I’d bring more, but we only have one and some white Wonder bread. It’s likely stale, but who cares? I’m bringing Skippy peanut butter too and a knife and some paper towels. I look around for some water, but all I can find scattered around are crusted-over food and tons of plates. I can’t even tell what’s on them. It also looks like my dad and his friends decided to use the windowpane as an ashtray; there are so many cigarettes butts on it.

“I hate this place.” I jump on a cockroach. Swinging my backpack over a shoulder, I start to run, not even looking back to see if the door shut.

Nobody would be stupid enough to go inside. My dad is the Road Captain for the Disciples, so he gets respect and no one bothers us.

I don’t respect him though, and he hates me since I look like my mom instead of him.

I guess. At least that’s what he’s always complaining about: My hair is not red enough. It’s a much darker shade of red than his. I have blue eyes like my mom. He has brown, and on and on.

One of our neighbors, Sunny, is sitting outside. He’s an old-timer who used to be in with the founders. He’s been sick for a while. I’m surprised he’s able to come out. His white, shriveled legs are turning red from the sun. I cough so that I don’t completely start laughing. He’s in his underwear.

“Where you going, boy?” he rasps. He has some creepy tube attached to his nostrils. He still smokes though.

“Nowhere.” I pull out my bike. It’s the one thing I wanted for Christmas and was shocked when I got it.

“Fuse know you going out?”

“My dad’s busy. You need anything?” I look into his yellow eyes. He looks so small sitting in the lawn chair next to God knows what in his yard—it looks like dirt and years of dog poop.