Suckerpunch by David Hernandez Read Free Book Online

should’ve done something, anything but cower in the corner and press my hands against my ears, which is exactly what I did. My dad lifted his hand again, swung again. I shook until I peed on myself, my jeans going dark down my pant leg, and I remember thinking, Now he will beat me.
    Not once did my dad turn his rage on me. It happened to Enrique too often to have to do with timing, and it wasn’t that I was lucky, either. It had something to do with what was inside of me. Or, rather, what was not inside of me. Maybe he recognized in Enrique what was his, not only the shape of his eyes and theslope of his nose, but his sharp tongue.
    Once, when a glass of orange juice slipped from my hand in the kitchen, I quickly dropped to my knees on the tile. I was already picking up the shards and crying when he found me. That’s okay, Mijo , he said. Don’t cry, Mijo. He joined me on the floor and, in a calm voice he rarely used with Enrique, he demonstrated how I should pick up only the big pieces, being careful not to cut myself, then used a wet paper towel to mop up the tiny shards we couldn’t see.
    I was ashamed for never defending Enrique, but I was also relieved my dad never hit me. I told myself that Enrique got hit because he talked back, but I knew it was more than that. My dad didn’t beat me because he knew I was weak, because he knew I punished myself enough.
    Until I turned thirteen, Enrique and I shared a room. We had a bunk bed—I had the bottom bunk and he had the top. On a day when Enrique was beaten, I felt him thinking hard above me. He would turn over and over and the bedsprings would squeak.
    You can’t sleep? I’d ask.
    Nuh-uh, he’d say.
    One time, when neither of us could sleep, I asked him if he could live anywhere on earth, where would it be.
    Antarctica, he said.
    Antarctica?
    They have lots of penguins.
    But it’s so cold, I explained. No one lives there, Enrique.
    I know, he said. I’d like that.
    I turned over and looked around our bedroom, the black outlines of the chair and desk, the deep navy blue of the window. In the corner, our Casper the Friendly Ghost night-light glowed a pale green.
    Good night, I said.
    What’s good about it? he said.

5
    W HEN MY DAD LEFT , he drove away in his inky black Corvette, a sleek thing with tan leather seats and gills above the front tires. We were left with a Chevrolet Caprice station wagon. The top half was light blue, the bottom half a blond wood grain. It was sky and desert on wheels. The steering wheel felt like a hula hoop in my hands. I had no chance of getting laid in a car like that. Absolutely none. Not that my introverted self was helping things.
    I pulled up to the curb under the shade of an oak tree. I looked around and checked my mirrors, making sure no one was watching me in this hideous thing I drove. The neighborhood was empty except for anold man watering his lawn three houses down.
    I hurried up the walkway and rang Oliver’s doorbell. Their one-story house had a backboard nailed above the garage, the rim bent so far down it was almost perpendicular to the driveway. From the street it looked like a red zero.
    Britt answered the door. He was already stoned, his hair full of cowlicks. The barrel of his starter pistol was shoved down the front of his jeans with the black handle resting against his white T-shirt. What up, Nine? he said.
    I pointed at the gun. Do you know how fuckin’ stupid that looks?
    Britt shrugged.
    Is that Nub? Oliver yelled out, his voice deep inside the house.
    He’s all messed up, Britt said, thumbing over his shoulder.
    I’m sure he is, I said, and stepped inside.
    Oliver’s house smelled like old leather and Pine-Sol. Two brown couches faced each other in the living room. There was a wooden coffee table between them littered with empty soda cans, crumpled napkins,and an open pizza box with one lone slice inside. Candles stood on opposite ends of the mantel