Page 37 of Backlash

“His abuse came in all shapes and sizes. The more he drank, the more physical it was,” I admit to her. “My kid sister was the only one he never touched, I made sure of that.”

Her eyes close for a second. Is she pitying me? Imagining me as some poor kid being shoved around? That’s the last thing I want. But when she finally speaks, it’s to tell her own secrets. “My dad never gets physical. He just reminds us exactly how much or how little we’re worth to him, and of all the ways we disappoint. He was nicer to my mom. At least, when we were around. I guess it didn’t matter in the end.”

“I’m sorry about your mom,” I say, and every bone in my body means it.

“Why does the shitty parent always make it out alive?” she asks, then quickly covers her mouth like her own words horrify her.

“Because men like our fathers are rats. They run from danger. They’ll do anything to survive.”

“Sterling,” she says in a gentle voice, “why were you in foster care?”

She’s skipping ahead, but I can’t blame her for not wanting to hear about the years of abuse. It’s not easy reading. “I ran away,” I tell her. “At first I was able to crash with friends, but their parents’ patience ran out pretty quickly. One even tried to get me to go home.”

“Did they know why you left?”

“Yeah, but they all had problems of their own, and having a kid around eating more food and taking up more room wasn’t helping anyone. Pretty soon, I just moved to the streets.”

“You were homeless?” Her words are brittle, like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Hey, it wasn’t so bad,” I say, trying to play it off. “I learned to fight—that came in useful last night.” I wink at her, but she doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile. “There’s a lot of places to go in New York when you’re on the streets. It’s not so bad.”

“Where did you go?” She scoots an inch closer to me on the couch.

“During the day, school or the library.”

“You still went to school?” she asks in surprise.

“Not the runaway fantasy of most kids, right? But there was always a hot breakfast and lunch there. Food’s food.” I shrug.

Her lip trembles and she bites down on it again.

“I went back and checked on my sister a couple times a week. I couldn’t help it,” I say. “Dad was usually out at whatever bar he hadn’t been banned from yet. One night he stayed home instead. I didn’t know he was there until I climbed in the window and heard him raging. My sister she was in her room, crouched between the bed and the wall.”

Suddenly, I’m back there.

Stale cigarette smoke lingers on the wallpaper. No one’s bothered to change Sutton’s sheets again, and her clothes are dirty. Usually, Mom is more on top of taking care of her, but judging from the shattering glass and cursing coming from the kitchen, she’s occupied with Dad. I kneel down next to Sutton and lift the chin she’s tucked against her knees. “Hey kid, you okay?”

“Mom didn’t feed me dinner tonight,” she whispers.

A cold chill races up my spine, but I force myself to smile at her. “I’ll get you dinner. Why don’t you find some clean pajamas?”

She shakes her head, shrinking down again.

“Come on, kid. I’m here. It will be okay. Let’s just find you some pajamas.”

“Sterling…” Her eyes are as round as the moon outside and shining with tears. “I had an accident.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “All the more reason to get cleaned up. I’ll stick around tonight, okay?”

She bobs her head and timidly gets to her feet. I notice the smell then.

It’s been a few days since I came to see her. I’d managed to snag a bed at a good shelter across town and hadn’t wanted to lose it. It looks like she hasn’t had a bath since then. Her hair hangs in stringy strands around her shoulders. There’s a slight rumble and I realize it’s her stomach.

“What did you eat for breakfast?” I ask her.

“I snuck out yesterday and got some cereal.” She bites her lip before carefully pulling a small box of cereal out from under her pillow. It’s the tiny, individual size they give out for school breakfast some days. I take it and see she’s eaten maybe half of it. My own stomach churns on the full meal I’d gotten at school this afternoon.

“Is this all you’ve had?” I ask. “Did you eat at school?”