Suckerpunch by David Hernandez

added.
    Sonic Cow.
    The Polyphonic Cow.
    Cows of the Stone Age.
    Yeah, and the Cows, Enrique said.
    We all looked at him. Even Oliver turned around for a second. The Cows? he said. That’s the best that you could do?
    Enrique shrugged.
    We drove on in relative silence. There was the soft hum of the engine and the pop of Ashley’s bubble gum and the occasional yawn from Enrique. I imagined there was probably a whole mess of other kids out there just like us, who listened to the same music and wore the same faded jeans, kids who drank the same beer, puffed on the occasional joint and laughed in the gray smoke, whose fathers died or beat them up. I looked at the empty field to my right and imagined all those kids standing there, the whole dissatisfied throng, T-shirted and disheveled and angry at the world.
    Â 
    I was there the last time my dad beat Enrique. I was there and saw it coming, how they circled around each other all morning, brooding, the air sizzling with tension.
    Are you going to clean your room today? my dad asked from behind the newspaper.
    Maybe, Enrique said.
    What do you mean maybe ?
    I mean I might clean it or I might not clean it.Enrique opened the refrigerator and took out the milk.
    I think you might want to if you know what’s best for you.
    Oh, you know what’s best for me now?
    Watch it, my dad said, peering over the paper.
    I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating leftover pancakes from the Pancake House, my heart beating fast.
    My Zoloft is what’s best for me, Enrique said, uncapping the milk and pouring it into a glass. Without that, I’m screwed. And I wonder why I’m so fucked up.
    Don’t talk to me that way, my dad said. He put down the newspaper and walked briskly toward Enrique. Who the hell do you think you are, huh?
    Enrique opened the fridge and put the milk back and turned around and faced my dad. I’m Enrique Mendoza, he said. I’m fifteen years old. I’m half Argentinean and half Peruvian. I live in Cerritos with my brother, Marcus, my mother, Nora, and my psychotic fath—
    My dad’s fist landed square on his mouth and Enrique fell backward, slamming against the fridge. He covered his mouth and when he removed it therewas blood all over his lips and chin.
    A few weeks earlier I’d made a promise to myself that the next time my father hit Enrique I would jump in for a change, I would make him stop. But I stayed out of it like I always did, cutting my pancakes with the side of the fork, wishing I had the guts to do what my mind was screaming: Stop him . Fuck your pancakes and just stop him.
    Enrique spit blood on the kitchen floor. See, he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You’re psychotic.
    My dad raised his fist and punched Enrique on the mouth again. There was a crunching sound like pebbles under a tire. Enrique was on the floor holding his mouth, the blood dripping steadily now onto his shirt. Then my dad lifted his leg and kicked him in the stomach and when I heard Enrique moan, I jumped from the table—yes, finally I did something, finally I put down my fork and scooted back so the chair legs screeched, finally I stood—and lunged at my dad and put him in a headlock. Enrique grabbed his legs and we wrestled him to the floor, grunting, our bodies banging against the cabinets, the dishwasher.I heard the glass door open and my mom shouting, What’s going on? Stop it, stop it!
    Motherfucker, Enrique growled. I could see the bloody destruction of his mouth, the large gaps in his teeth.
    My dad flailed and cursed, an elbow caught me in the ribs, and the pain was an electric current through my body. I tightened my grip around his neck and he squirmed and coughed. My dad was choking and I didn’t care. No mas, Marcus , he wheezed.
    I let go. We all stopped and the only sound was the sound of our collective breathing, of my mother’s quiet whimpering in the living room. Enrique rose and stood