I didn’t hear a word of my last two classes, being lost in a haze of half-baked excuses. I finally settled on the two that Bruce was likely to go for: That I’d gotten into some fight, or I had mouthed off to a teacher.

Telling Bruce the truth was absolutely not an option. Even if Bruce believed that I’d been trying to apologize to the new girl, he’d see me as a weakling, which would give him even more excuses to push me around. On the other hand, either of the other two options were sure to set him off; I’d either be a disrespectful trouble-maker or I’d be some little bitch that couldn’t even avoid getting picked on at school.

No matter what I tell him, I thought as I walked home after detention, I’m screwed. I sighed as I reached the walk and made my way slowly toward the front door, my feet seeming to weight me down. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I realize I can’t hear the T.V…

I twist the handle and let the door open inward. The living room is cluttered; couch cushions on the floor and beer cans strewn everywhere… No liquor bottles, though, and no mirrors. Both very, very good signs.

I step slowly into the house, softly kicking the door shut and letting my backpack slip the floor in the entryway. “Bruce?” I call out, praying he’s not still high, “Sorry I’m late; there w’s this whole thing at school…”

Hearing grumbling and soft cursing coming from Bruce’s bedroom at the end of the hall, I move quickly toward the kitchen. I’m pulling out pans and ingredients for the dinner I’m cooking tonight when Bruce yells back, “What fucking time is it?”

I glance at the clock on the microwave as I yank the chicken I’d prepared from the refrigerator and yell back, “Four fifty-three! I’m makin' tha' chicken,” I tell him, thinking it’s a good idea to check, “Tha’s still okay, ain't it?”

I take the silence that follows as ascent and pour oil into a pan to heat and grab a few cans of green beans from the cabinet. I’m pouring them into another pan and adding butter and some bacon I’ve cut up when I hear Bruce’s thudding footsteps coming down the hall. I toss the empty cans in the trash with hands slightly trembling as he rounds the corner and stands at the edge of the kitchen, blinking at me.

“The fuck you been?”

There’s no trace of the vindictive anger in his voice that he gets when he's spun, and relief floods my body in a wave so strong my knees go weak. I steady myself and move to drop the breaded chicken in the pan.

“I had deten-“

“It’s the first goddamned day of school, and you had detention?” Bruce interrupts, and I sense more than hear him take a shuffling step further into the room. Every muscle in my torso tenses, and it’s a real struggle keep putting chicken into the pan in front of me instead of making a break for the back door.

“Yessir,” I tell him, my mouth dry, “I-I actually, got, um…” I have to work my jaw a few times, and end up rolling my eyes in resignation and force out, “Tw-two months…detention…” I take a steadying breath and finish, “Sir.”

Bruce takes another step, and the kitchen floor creaks under his weight. Every nerve in my body tingles, and I have a vision of being shoved face-first into the stove…

“What did you do,” Bruce hisses at me, coming to stand not a foot behind me, “On the first fucking day to get detention for two months?”

I adjust the stove and turn to face him, keeping my eyes carefully from his face. I can do this. Swallowing, I begin, “I got caught, uh, beatin’ up this kid tha’ got mouthy.”

Bruce gapes for a moment, then snaps, “What?”

“The li’l shit had it comin’!” I let my voice raise, then snap my mouth shut. Bruce raises his eyebrows, and I finish sulkily, “I didn’t even hurt ‘im that bad.” Turning to sullenly poke at the chicken, I mutter, “If he’d keep his fuckin’ mouth shut…”

I trail off, then stiffen, as if I’ve just realized what I said, and clear my throat. “It w's jus’ a misunderstandin' 'tween me an’ this kid,” I say, gripping the fork in my hand so tightly it’s biting into my hand, “An’ th' school freaked out ‘cause th' kid’s bleeding. The vice principal w's gonna expel me, but th’ kid admitted he threw th’ first punch. So she jus’ gave us both two month’s detention.” Bruce is quiet, apparently trying to work through what I just said, so I flip the chicken and stir the beans.

“You got in a fight at school,” Bruce finally says slowly, moving to the fridge for a beer, “And you made a kid bleed.” He pops the beer open and takes a drink. “YOU made a kid BLEED?”

I let some annoyance show as I turn to face him, licking my lips and forcing a nonchalant shrug, and Bruce narrows his eyes at me. I avoid his gaze, and he growls out, “Why you gettin’ into fights?”

"He said I w's hittin’ on his girlfriend,” I say, still not raising my eyes, “An’ he comes out at lunch and starts screamin’ a' me. I tol’ him t’ fuck off, an’ he throws a right, so I swung a left. He starts yellin’ tha' I broke his nose, an’ his friend runs fer a teacher." I let a sneer curl my lip on the last word, and hope Bruce buys it. I stare hard at the fridge, trying to keep a resigned but not fearful expression in my eyes, because I know that’s what Bruce is watching.

It's his little trick to catch me in a lie: if I let him see even a hint of fear in my eyes, I’m it means I’m lying, and I get hit. I’ve learned that showing him anything, anything, even anger, is better than letting him see weakness.

Bruce glares at me with narrowed eyes for a moment before bursting into laughter. I let my all-too-real confusion show full on my face, turning my head to look at him full on for the first time since he’s walked into the room. I watch him for a full minute, his harsh, mocking laughter like music to my ears. He’s not on high anymore, right, so his laughter has to be a good thing…oh, please let him really be sober...

Bruce’s laughter finally trails off, and he finishes his beer in a gulp, chuckling as he wipes his mouth and opening the fridge again. As he reaches in for a beer, I take the opportunity to pull the chicken from the oil so it doesn't burn (now is so not the time to push my luck) and place a few new pieces in, daring to hope that that’s the end of it.

Bruce pulls two beers from the fridge, still chuckling. He cracks one and downs half of it, smacking his lips and belching. “Don’t burn my dinner,” He tells me as he turns toward the front room, “And if your work around here starts to slack, you’re in for it.” The threat isn’t an idle one, and my heart begins to pound, my breathing jagged in my chest as I answer, “Yessir.”

Bruce chuckles again and walks out of the room, slurping down some more of his beer. Only when I hear him drop into his chair and turn on the T.V. do I let myself relax, my eyes closing in disbelieving relief. My muscles all feel weak and I’m light-headed, but I force myself to finish cooking Bruce’s dinner and take it to him. After I bring him a few more beers, I start on the chores, still marveling at the fact that I’m not being at least screamed at for screwing with Bruce’s schedule for two months.