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JASON HAD NO IDEA HOW HAPPY I WAS THAT HE DECIDED to buy us fast food on the way home. There was never anything for my brother and me to eat after we got home from school. Therefore, if we skipped our meals at school, we usually went hungry.

  Jason is such a great friend, I thought as I practically inhaled my food. Somehow I couldn’t help but wonder why, despite everything that Jason had done for me in the two years that I had known him, Howie was always the one whom I considered to be my best friend. I never said it aloud of course, but I think we all sort of knew. The same way the kids always knew who their parents’ favorite child was even if the parents never said it.

  As usual, Jason dropped me off at the beginning of the long dirt road that led to my parents’ house. I once fed him a lie about my father not wanting us to be friends because he thought Jason’s family considered themselves too good for the “common folks.” My father was a notorious jerk and a drunk, so it didn't take much effort to sell Jason on that lie. The truth was, neither I nor my father had ever seen or interacted with Jason’s father or any other member of his family. I simply didn't want Jason to see my parents’ house because at the sight of it, he would have been able to tell that my family was extremely poor. Even Howie had never actually been to my place. Howie’s family wasn’t nearly as wealthy as Jason’s, but they were definitely better off than mine. I suppose I kept this secret because I just didn’t want anyone to judge me— not even my friends.

  As I approached my shack of a house, I noticed my older brother PJ sitting on the porch. “PJ” was short for Phillip Reaper, Jr. Though he was named after our father, PJ was nothing like him. Phillip, Sr. was a tall, broad shouldered man who was built like a middle linebacker. PJ was as thin as I was and he only stood around 5'8” tall. He hid it well, but he was also a lot smarter than he let on. When he was 14 years old, he had managed to build a computer from scratch in the basement of our house. As he got older, he started spending most of his time down there on his secret computer, doing God knows what.

  He glanced at me through his long, stringy hair as I neared the front steps. His hair looked terrible. He had only started growing it three months ago but it was already touching his shoulders. Mom asked him to cut it countless times, but he had gotten to a point where he listened to very little of what my parents had to say. He wouldn’t argue or shout with them, though. Most times he would just ignore them until they gave up and left him alone. On some days, he would even ignore me.

  “Hey, PJ,” I said as I reached the first step. I opened the front door and entered the house after he looked away without responding. As small kids, we had been very close. Before I met Howie four years ago, I used to consider PJ my best friend, but I guess things change. I suppose his business in the basement had become more important than me.

  I greeted my parents as I entered the front room and pretended not to see the fresh bruises on my mother’s left forearm. My father never hit her in the face when he got angry. I suppose he didn’t want to leave a mark in a place that couldn’t easily be covered by clothing. Mom would usually hide her bruises before we got home; therefore, I guessed those must have been fresh.

  I trudged up the stairs without looking her in the eyes because I couldn’t stand to see her hurting. What hurt me the most was that I was so powerless to stop it.

  My room was just as junky as I had left it but I didn't care. Why bother cleaning a shack? That’s what I would always say whenever Mom would get on me about not taking better care of my room. I could see in her eyes that it hurt her whenever I said that, but I was too young and dumb to realize that I shouldn't have given her a hard time just because she wasn't in a position to give us everything we needed.

  It was early, but I started getting ready for bed. I always went to bed early on the bad days because doing so made it seem like the next day would come sooner.

  “Tomorrow will be better,” I mumbled as I flopped down onto my twin sized bed. That’s what my mother used to say. Despite anything that would happen, she would always have that outlook.

  I still wonder if she really believed that to be true.