Creeps Read Online Free Page A

many times have I told you.”
    Wanda sits back and crosses her arms and stares into the living room as if the key to her escape might be there.
    â€œEat,” his mother tells her, but Wanda won’t, so his mother tells her again.
    Wanda dips her spoon in, stirs, fills it, and then drops the contents back into the bowl. Repeats. Gives their mother a look as if to say, I’m nearly eighteen and soon I’ll be able to do whatever I fucking well want .
    Wayne blows on his own spoonful before putting it in his mouth. Hacks off a chunk of dumpling. Looks over at his dad’s place, then at his mother. After a while he says, “Where is he?”
    No one answers, so he says, “His soup’ll get cold.”
    â€œPfft,” Wanda says.
    Wayne looks across the table at her.
    â€œDoubt he gives a shit about his soup right now.”
    â€œWanda,” his mother says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know what.”
    â€œWell how long does it take to pick up butter?”
    No one says anything.
    Wayne’s mother drops another dumpling into his bowl even though he’s not done with the first one.
    â€œWhere were you?” Wanda says.
    He looks up. “School. You should try it.”
    â€œFunny. What were you doing at this thing called ‘school’?”
    â€œAuditioning.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFor the play. Mr. Rollie says he needs really strong actors this year.”
    â€œMr. Rollie? He’s queerer than Sunday.”
    â€œWanda,” his mother says.
    â€œLoves the young ones too, I’m told.”
    â€œShut up,” Wayne says.
    â€œDon’t drop your script.”
    â€œMom!”
    â€œEnough, Wanda!” his mother says.
    Wanda laughs, bunched-together teeth in too small a mouth.
    Then it goes quiet save for his mother’s slurping. Afterwards she uses what’s left of her doughboy to sop up the dregs in her bowl. Licks her fingers. Saysto Wayne, “Your father’s brother was an actor. Was on TV and everything.”
    â€œUncle Philip?” Wayne says.
    â€œOr he used to be anyway. Then he drove a truck, or was it a taxi? What odds, he’s dead now.”
    â€œWhat shows?” Wayne says.
    â€œOh, goodness … I think he might have been in one about a wolf or a dog or something. The Littlest Hobo, I believe it was.”
    â€œOr, in Mr. Rollie’s case, The Littlest Homo, ” Wanda says.
    Before Wayne can tell her to shut up, the sound of his father’s car is in the driveway and everyone’s suddenly adjusting themselves in their chairs: his mother pushing hers in, Wanda sitting a little more erect, and half of Wayne’s bum off his own.
    The engine dies and a car door opens, then closes.
    â€œDon’t say a word,” his mother tells them.
    Wanda goes to put her earphones back in, but his mother glares at her. Then she gets up and goes over to the stove and refills Wayne’s bowl even though he didn’t ask for more. She puts it down in front of him.
    Boots on the porch. A hand on the door handle and a puff of air as it’s pushed open. Footsteps. A cough. Something falls on the floor. Keys? Another cough. More footsteps. Closer. Past the foyer. Into the kitchen.
    His father stands there: work shirt untucked beneath that nicotine-stained coat, woollen socks and strands of hair in his slits for eyes and soot in his moustache and a sway so slight it might not be happening at all.
    He comes over and takes off his coat and drapes it across the back of his chair and sits down. Smoke and cold and iron ore dust coming off him.
    Wayne’s mother squeezes her tea bag. Adds milk. Stirs and stirs until there’s a tornado inside her cup.
    His father reaches for a slice of bread, dunking its corner into his soup. He takes a bite and scrunches up his face. “Freezing, this is.”
    Wayne’s mother puts her cup down. “Been sitting there, hasn’t it?”
    â€œCould