Then

Alexandra

15 years ago

I 'm thirteen.

I'm not a baby.

So why does it matter that my stepdad hates my guts or that my mom doesn't seem to see it?

I'm old enough to take care of myself. Most of the time, that's exactly what I do. It's just me and Aaron when Mom and Keith are at work or out at the bars. Neither one of them pays much attention to me and Aaron as long as we're quiet and we stay out of sight.

"Out of sight, out of mind." That's what my Grandma Ruth used to say.

But today is my birthday, so I'm feeling extra feisty. Aaron remembers and brings me a cupcake from his school lunch. It gets a little squished in his backpack on the way home, but I don't care. The prepackaged little treat is the best thing I've ever tasted. The two of us split it in half in my room.

"Happy birthday," my little brother tells me.

"Thanks."

"Are you going to make a wish?"

"We don't have any candles."

"Doesn't matter." Aaron grins at me. "You can still make a wish."

There are so many different things I want to wish for that choosing just one feels impossible. I want to wish that I didn't live here. I want to wish that Keith was gone. I want to wish that Aaron and I could feel safe and protected and not so very alone all of the time.

Most of all, I wish my dad was still alive to protect us. It's my thirteenth birthday today, which means I've celebrated five whole birthdays without Dad. They never get easier. If anything, the world seems even more damaged every year that passes.

"Just one wish?" I need ten. Twenty. I need a thousand wishes to escape from what Aaron and I are going through every day, but I know before he answers that I'm out of luck on that front.

"Just one." Aaron nods, solemnly looking at me.

I close my eyes. I make my wish, but I don't tell Aaron what it is. When I open my eyes again, he's smiling brightly at me. He's got crooked teeth and a freckled nose, but he's sweet, and I'm lucky to have him as my brother.

"Did you make one?"

"Yes."

" we can eat the cupcake now."

Together, we eat our halves of the little cupcake. We're careful not to get any crumbs anywhere. We can't risk anyone finding out that we ate food without permission. School food is supposed to be eaten at school. Keith doesn't like us to bring anything home. again, Keith doesn't like us eating. Period. He thinks kids are a waste of money. He thinks we shouldn't be able to eat "his" food in "his" house. I'm old enough to know that my dad's money is what pays for the food and the house. When he died, Mom got his savings account. Keith has wasted most of it away.

I know the word I would use to describe Keith.

I would say monster.

Only, I can't tell anyone because I know that if I complain, something will happen. I don't know what, but I know it would be something bad. Aaron and I don't have anyone but each other. When Isabelle Cranford told her teacher that her mom's boyfriend was hurting her, the cops took her away. They sent her to a foster home and her sister went to a different one. Neither girl ever came back to school.

I can't let that happen to me and Aaron.

I just can't.

Carefully, I take the cupcake wrapper and ball it up so it's really tiny. I take a piece of notebook paper, wrap it around the plastic, and ball it up, too. I crumple up a few other pieces of paper and put them in the trashcan next to my little desk. If anyone happens to look in the trash - and they will - it will just look like I've been struggling with my homework.

We hear the front door open, and slam shut. Keith. He's home early, and he's angry. Aaron's eyes widen and he gestures to my lips.

"Wipe your mouth," he says quickly. "Crumbs." Shit.

Quickly, I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth. It's just in time because sure enough, Keith comes barreling into the room. He doesn't even knock. He just barges in like he owns the place, which he doesn't. My dad bought this house a long time ago, back when he finished college. I know because he was really proud of it, and he used to tell me all about it. He would always say that what he really wanted in life was for the four of us to be happy.

That was Dad's big thing.

Happiness.

Now his money pays the bills. Mom and Keith both work a little, but I know it's not enough. None of it's enough. Unlike my real dad, Keith doesn't care about joy or gratitude. He only cares about "the bottom line." As long as he can go get drunk at the bar and pretend that he doesn't have stepkids, he's fine.

"Hi Keith," I say, greeting my stepfather. His hair is messy. He looks sweaty, like he was working, or maybe like he hasn't showered. When was the last time he showered?

"What the hell are you two doing home?" Keith growls at us. He thinks we're annoying. I've read stories about people whose stepdads kill them. I saw an episode of this TV show where that happened once. The stepdad kills the kids so he can be alone with his new girlfriend or wife.

Keith doesn't know it, but I sleep with a knife under my pillow. Just in case. I want to believe he's harmless, but you never know. I've seen news reports at school that say you're most likely to be killed by someone you know.

"We get out of school at three." I try to keep my voice even and calm. Keith looks for any excuse to get angry and punish us. Most of the time, this means no dinner. Aaron and I are always hungry. Always.

"Don't you smart off to me."

"We're sorry," Aaron says quickly. I want him to be quiet. Small. I want him to make himself tiny so that Keith doesn't turn to him. If Keith is in the kind of mood where he feels like smacking someone, I want it to be me and not Aaron.

I don't want him even looking twice at my brother.

Keith turns to him and raises his hand. He never needs a reason. He'll find one. This never happened when Dad was around, so I don't know why Mom decided to rebound with this guy. Losing our dad was bad enough. It wasn't even like he had cancer, or we had a chance to say goodbye. One day, he went to work, and he just didn't come home. The cops said the car wreck was bad enough that he died on impact and didn't feel any pain, but I watched their eyes when they told my mom this. I didn't believe them. I still don't.

Death always carries pain.

I step between Keith and Aaron just as his hand comes down. He nails me right in the cheek and despite my feet planted firmly in the carpet, I go flying into the wall. My head hits the picture of a lighthouse my grandmother bought me when I was little and cracks the glass.

I see stars.

Pain radiates from my cheek. I run my tongue over my teeth. They all seem to be there, but I taste blood. He hit me harder than he ever has before. And he was going to hit Aaron.

My brother is silent as I land on the floor, and so is Keith.

"Watch your fucking mouth."

he's gone, and Aaron and I are alone.

"You should have let him hit me," Aaron whispers.

"I would never let that happen."

The next day, Aaron tells his teacher that Keith has been hitting me. My black eye is bad enough that everyone believes him. The cops come and they take us to separate foster homes. Nobody has room for a sibling set. Even though Aaron and I are torn away from each other, neither one of us cries or begs or pleads.

Somehow, I know that this is the last time I'm going to see my brother.