Cracked Read Online Free Page B

shut.”
    I stay silent and wish my eyes could drill holes into her skull. I wish the cigarette smoke would pour out of the holes and. . . .
    “Are you listening to me? What are you, deaf ? You stupid? Don’t you have something to say?” she barks.
    Gotta love my mom. She yells at me because she wants me to keep my wiseass mouth shut. Then she yells at me because I have nothing to say. She’s a confused woman.
    I shrug my shoulders and squeeze my hands into fists, pushing them deeper into my front pockets. I watch as she stands on her toes. Then she reaches up and smacks the back of my head. I instinctively pull my hand out of my pocket and rub my head.
    “What did you do that for?” I ask her.
    “’Cause you’re a shit, that’s why. A stupid shit. Don’t shrug your shoulders at me either. You gonna keep your mouth shut round Pop?”
    “I guess,” I say.
    She stubs her cigarette out, and we go our separate ways.
    It isn’t until the bike ride home that I figure something out: My mother was trying to protect me. She kept saying she wanted me to keep my mouth shut around Pop. Of all people, my mom knows that keeping your mouth shut around Pop means your chances of getting your ass beat drops big-time. At least that’s what I think. It’s the only way she knows how to look out for me, other than threaten and yell and curse and insult me.
    I realize something else as I pedal: My mom taught me that guys who hit girls are weak. I know my pop doesn’t feel that way. He rules his roach-infested castle with his fists. And my mom has been on the other side of his fury many times. He won’t punch the ladies. That’s where he draws the line. Instead, he prefers to open-hand slap, shove, and verbally beat down the loves of his life, the apples of his eye.
    It’s funny that my pop blames me for my grandmother’s death. No, seriously, it’s funny. I was half-asleep on my bed/sofa one night when my mom and him were wasted and got into a shouting match about it.
    “It wasn’t Bull’s fault thah mom died. You shoon’t tell him’nat,” my mother had gargled, a beer can in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
    It had taken my pop like thirty seconds to respond to that mouthful. “You gettin’ knocked up like a whore unner tha boardwalk’s what broke her heart.”
    I had squeezed my eyes shut. I remember I was nine and had known it was about to get ugly. I’d heard the crumpling of aluminum and then felt a crushed can pelt me in the calf.
    “That kid cryin’ every single goddamn second of its life is what killed my Bonnee. First you broke her heart, and then he killed her.”
    I’d heard a chair slide across the kitchen floor, and then my mom screaming, “You killed Mommy! You killed her. Not me, not Bull. You beat her up the day before. I saw you do it! She hit her head when you shoved her. I . . . I . . . saw.”
    I’d opened my eyes to a squint—I didn’t want either of them knowing I was awake. I’d watched my drunk mom pound on Pop’s arms and back, and then slide down onto the floor while he just sat there. He hadn’t hit her back. He’d drained his beer, crushed the can against the table, and threw it directly at me, again. That time it hit my foot, but I’d stayed perfectly still.
    I distinctly remember having to swallow the smile that had threatened to form on my fake-sleeping face. Up until that moment, I had been convinced that I really had killed my own grandmother. That she really had died from nonstop infantcrying. It had been pounded into my skull for nine years. Kids believe what their parents tell them. Kids believe what their grandfathers tell them even more. And my grandfather had a way with words.
    I actually had to turn over on the sofa to face the wall so I could let the smile out. I didn’t kill my grandmother. It wasn’t my fault. My pop killed her, not me. I’d repeated it that night until I fell asleep.
    It had ended up being a pretty decent night for me.

Victor
    I HAD BEEN