Con Academy by Joe Schreiber Page B

morning.”
    â€œYou want company?”
    â€œWish I could. It’s kind of a business breakfast.”
    â€œOn
Sunday?
”
    â€œThe Lord’s business won’t wait.” Dad gives her a smile, his voice oozing charm. “I need to be alone this morning. How about I call you this afternoon?”
    â€œYou didn’t seem to mind me so much last night,” the woman says, pouting.
    â€œThat’s because he was drunk,” I say, stepping out of the bathroom to make my presence here known. The woman kind of gapes at me, and I just look back at her. It makes me think of the line from that old Rod Stewart song:
The morning sun when it’s in your face really shows your age.
    Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “Rhonda, this is my son, Billy, the one I told you was a student at Connaughton. Billy, meet Rhonda.”
    I stay where I am while she glances at my father, then back at me. For a second the only sound is a TV playing in another room. Canned laughter.
    â€œYou found your scarf,” I say. “Was there anything else you needed?”
    Rhonda opens her mouth and then quickly snaps it closed, hard enough that I can almost hear her lipstick flaking off. My father slips an arm over her shoulder and ushers her out the door, murmuring something reassuring about calling her later. He shuts the door behind her, then spins back to me, his arm shooting out to grab me by the collar, yanking me toward him.
    â€œWhat was that?” he says sharply.
    â€œFunny,” I say. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
    Dad leans in until I can count the veins on his nose. “Listen, you snot-nose little punk. You might think you’re some big noise up here in the middle of nowhere, setting up a scam for this Rush kid. But if you start getting delusions of grandeur, you’re gonna end up face-down in the dirt before you even know what’s hit you.” He shakes me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Are we clear?”
    â€œLet me go,” I say, jerking myself free, and somewhere underneath my pounding heart, I can feel that old familiar thickening in my throat, the hot, salty heaviness of unspoken anger rising up in my eyes. It’s weakness, and I hate myself for feeling it, but I can’t make it stop. “Why do you always have to do that?”
    He glares at me with disgust. “I didn’t even grab you that hard.”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m talking about.” I glance at the door and try to ignore the stench of cheap perfume, but it’s so strong now that it makes me want to puke. “Mom wasn’t like that.”
    â€œNo,” he says. “She wasn’t.”
    â€œThen why do you always do this?”
    Dad sits down on the side of the bed and rubs his face with his hands. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, and for once it’s actually comforting. Finally he looks up, stretching out his cheeks as he glances at me, and draws in a deep breath. “Billy . . .”
    â€œForget it,” I say, and head for the door. “I’m leaving.”
    â€œJust hang on, kid, okay?”
    â€œI’ve got homework,” I say, not looking back. “I’ll call you after I talk to Uncle Roy.”
    And I step out into the cold air, where my lungs start to loosen and I’m finally able to breathe again.

Thirteen
    O N THE BUS BACK TO C ONNAUGHTON, I TRY TO PUT MY thoughts together again. I don’t want to think about any of what just happened, but I know if I don’t, it’ll all keep festering in the back of my mind—Dad, the empty bottles in the motel wastebasket, and the women like Rhonda who appear to be drawn to him no matter where he goes. Dad has a penchant for the women who seem least like the woman I remember as my mother. I wish I could hate him for it, but instead it just makes me feel sick and sad. Involving him in all of this was a necessary evil, so in the end