Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“My t-tum-tum hurts. Can you m-make it better?”
It always aches when Daddy is in charge of dinner. Ophelia is only little, so she can’t cook, but since she’s the only girl in the house other than Mommy, Daddy said we either eat the leftovers in the back of the refrigerator or go with him when he visits his friends.
Since they’re usually bossier than Daddy when he drinks his special brown medicine, I picked leftovers.
Now I’m feeling sorry for myself.
“M-Mommy…” This plea comes out more like a groan than a plea. My tummy is more goopy than the homemade slime Dimitri got stuck in his hair at preschool last week. A bully tried to make fun of our last name. He said it was dirty. Dimitri punched him right in the eye. I don’t think his bully will pour green goop onto a Petretti’s head again anytime soon.
“I t-think—”
My warning comes too late. The week-old spaghetti I scoffed down because I was super hungry is now on the floor instead of in my stomach.
“Oh, n-no,” I whimper on an almost sob.
If Daddy finds out I made a mess, I won’t be able to sit for a week. He made Roberto’s bottom bleed with his belt last week because he spilled soda pop on the kitchen floor. It was a quick fix since the floor is covered by the ugly tiles Daddy brought back from Italy when Ophelia was born, but the bedrooms have carpet.
I’m going to be in big trouble.
“Hey, CJ, none of that. It’s okay.” The soft nurturing tone my mother uses almost hides the wetness on her cheeks when she bobs down in front of me.
Even with her face banged up, she’s really pretty. I don’t know if girl germs are true, but every time we go to the grocery store to pick up supplies, the men at the store act like it’s not a big deal to catch cooties. They watch Mommy like Dimitri eyeballs Jessica Rabbit from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. He’s only five, but he tells everyone when he’s a big boy, he’s going to marry Jessica.
If he does, I hope his hands don’t kiss her face. Daddy’s hands make Mommy’s face puffy and sore. Her eyeballs are almost as big as her cheeks.
After clearing away the chunks of regurgitated spaghetti wedged between us, Mommy whispers, “See. It was just a little mess. There’s no need to cry.”
When she brushes away the two salty blobs that escaped my eyes, I do the same for her. I am extra careful while skating my hand against her bluish skin since Daddy’s kisses look angrier than the ones he put there last week. Even with Mommy hiding in her room all day, the gash in her cheek is still wet with blood. One side of her lip makes it look like she got stung by a bee, and the blood running from a cut in her hair makes it look more red than blonde.
“I d-don’t think you should let Daddy’s hands k-kiss your face anymore.”
I stutter all the time. It’s a bad habit Mommy promises Daddy I will grow out of, but this one is more because I’m worried I’ll get in trouble for sticking my nose in adults’ business again. Daddy doesn’t like when I do that, but instead of kissing my face with his hands, he uses them on my bottom.
I nuzzle into Mommy’s hand when she curls it around my face. She pretends she can’t see the extra wetness in my eyes when she replies, “I have to let him kiss me, bubba. If I don’t, I won’t see you anymore.”
“W-Why?” I ask, lost. I go to school like a big boy, but I still see Mommy every day. Ophelia is too little to go to school, so Mommy stays at home to take care of her. That’s how I know the bump on her head last week wasn’t because she fell into the door like Daddy told Roberto and me. He pushed her. Ophelia said, and although she’s only four, she doesn’t tell fibs like Daddy. “If you g-go, we will come with you. R-Roberto said.”
Roberto is my big brother. He’s nine and knows more than any of us. He promised last week if Mommy went to live in another house like Daddy always threatens, we could go with her. His friend, Hayden, did that with his Mommy last year. His parents got something called a dimorce. Now his Mommy doesn’t cry every day.
“You could g-get a dimorce, then you w-won’t have t-to cry.”
Since my room is next door to my parents’, I hear Mommy cry all the time. It makes my chest hurt, and sometimes, little droplets fall down my face. I hide them like Roberto taught me. It hurts too much when Daddy sees them.