After my mom comes home from work, I wait outside on the front stoop, picking at the crumbling concrete along the edge of the top step until a shiny, new, black Ram hemi grumbles its way up the driveway.
A man my height only with dark brown hair instead of my dingy blond climbs down. He’s got plenty of muscles and walks like he knows where he’s going today, tomorrow, next year.
When I was little, younger than Janey, before I knew better, I adored my uncle, his confidence and strength. Loved it that he took extra time with me, treated me special.
Now I despise him. But I don’t dare ever let him see that, because we have nowhere else to go. My mom and Janey wouldn’t last long out on the street. It’s my job to keep them safe. That means keeping my uncle happy—and King, his invisible not-so-silent partner.
“What’s up, Jesse?” my uncle asks, strolling up the front walk and staring down at me like I’m a little kid with a skinned knee. Like next to him, I’m nothing, a klutz who can’t even keep from tripping over his own two feet.
He wants me to think that. To remember my place. After almost four years of living in his home, eating the food he puts on the table, he doesn’t have to say anything. I know what we owe him.
What I owe him, for taking care of my family when my dad walked out. But sometimes, between him and King, I wonder if there’ll be anything left of me when they finish taking what they want.
Today, finally, I know the answer. If I give in to King’s demands, there won’t be anything left. He’ll own me, body and soul. If I give in to him, I’m as good as killing myself—only I have no choice but to stay alive in order to protect my family from King and my uncle.
Who am I kidding? I’m screwed. Totally, completely screwed. In every damn sense of the word.
All’s that left is to save Mom and Janey.
My uncle nods his head, passing me by, and I know he wants me to follow. Wordlessly, he leads me inside, shedding his coat in the front foyer, calling “Hi!” to Janey and telling my mom that we’ll be working out in the basement. He speeds down the wooden steps, barely touching them.
I close the heavy door behind me and trudge down. The basement is partially finished with cheap paneling and linoleum flooring. There’s a weight bench and heavy bag, along with a scruffy old recliner, TV, workbench, and shelves with tools and half-finished projects.
By the time I reach the bottom, he’s taken his flannel and T-shirt off and is straddling the weight bench, doing bicep curls with a dumbbell. I know he probably already spent time at the gym at the firehouse this morning before coming home to catch a few hours’ sleep and then leaving again. He’s a people person, hates being alone in the house. So when he gets up in the middle of the day after a shift, he likes to go and “hang out.” Janey’s seen him stop by her school, watching the kids out playing, but she thinks he’s checking up on her, thinks it’s cool to have an uncle who cares so much.
When I was a kid like her, I used to think that too.
He raises the weight slowly, gaze fixed on me watching him, veins popping along his muscles. He likes it when I watch. I indulge him, sinking into the recliner across from him. He smiles and lowers the weight, then repeats the motion.
“You going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks. “If not, get over here and we’ll pump iron.”
He’s not talking about lifting weights.
I shift uncomfortably in the recliner, but it’s so old and worn the movement makes me sink in deeper. I remind myself that my last hope, my only hope, is my uncle. I need to smother my anger and convince him to help me.
So I tell him what happened today. About Janey and the man with the knife. About what King wants me to do next.
“Wow.” He finishes his set, lowers the dumbbell, and wipes his chest with his T-shirt. “That’s a tough one. What are you going to do?”
“Whatever King has over you, it can’t be worth Janey’s life.” All my frustration and fear flash over into my voice before I can stop it.
Without using his hands, he pushes to his feet, standing over me. I edge back in my chair.
“King has nothing on me.” His voice has flared from polite “don’t care, but I’ll listen” to “don’t you dare go there” edgy. His hands bunch into fists that make the muscles he just worked bulge even more. “You think I’d ever take that kind of shit from anyone? Let a creep like him blackmail me?”
“Then why—” I trail off, my world teetering, making me feel seasick as the pieces finally fall into place. I thought my uncle hated King because King was using him just like he used me. But no. “He pays you. You do this for money.”
“Not only money.” He yanks his T-shirt over his head, shoving his arms through the sleeves. “I love you. And I love my sister and Janey. A firefighter doesn’t make shit—especially not when three more mouths to feed show up uninvited on my doorstep. And you, you were so lost. You needed a man in your life, someone you could look up to. Everything I do, I do for you, Jesse.”
I’m silent, trying to swallow my anger, but it’s not going down easy. Then the logic behind his words catches up with me. “Wait. You’re saying I’m to blame for all this?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know what arrangements you made with King—it’s none of my business—but a man has to take responsibility for his own actions. I never did anything with you that you didn’t want, Jesse. You never said no. And look at the good that’s come from it. Your mom and sister have a safe place to stay; they’re not homeless out on the street. You’ve got food, clothing, hell, I even gave you my old truck. How many sixteen-year-old kids have it as good as you? I sure as hell didn’t when I was your age.”
I blink. The world fractures into puzzle pieces as my eyelids close and open and close and open. Each time, I expect to see it go together in a way that makes sense, but it doesn’t. I open my eyes and my uncle is still standing there, truly believing I wanted everything that’s happened to me these past few years, that I asked for, that I even…liked it.
I taste burning in the back of my mouth and don’t have enough spit to wash it away. I hang my head, try one last time. “What are we going to do about Janey? I can’t let King hurt her or Mom.”
“Of course you can’t. They’re your responsibility. You have to follow through with whatever you promised King. Man up, Jesse.” He’s impatient, as if we’re talking about me backing down from a scary leap off the high dive, like when I was six and he climbed up, jumped with me, holding me safe.
Maybe not so safe. After, alone in the changing room, was the first time he insisted we shower together. I was so young and dumb. I didn’t tell anyone, scared no one would ever love me or think I was special the way my uncle did.
“I-I can’t…” My voice shakes away the rest of my words.
He doesn’t hear. He’s pacing back and forth, full of energy. “I’ll help you. We’ll go over to the car show this weekend, start looking.”
“Looking?”
“Sure. For your new friend. A kid who needs a role model, someone who can show him the ropes, let him know he’s not alone.” He stops behind me. My shoulders tense, but all he does is ruffle his fingers through my hair and kiss the top of my head. “Don’t worry, Jesse. It’s still you and me. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
His phone rings and he grabs it. “Gotta take this.” He runs up the steps, leaving me alone in the basement.
The door slams shut behind him and I’m still sitting there. Frozen. Like the coward I am. The light from the naked bulb overhead burns against my eyes. I close them but they still sting. Warm, salty tears escape. All I can think is: this is my fault.
I deserve whatever happens to me—I’m weak and sick and stupid and every name King or his clients ever called me. I can handle that. Can handle anything King—or my uncle—wants to do to me.
Standing, I rub my face against my shoulder, leaving a wet, gray trail on the white cotton of my tee. What I can’t handle is something bad happening to Janey or my mom or some other poor kid because of me.
I sniff hard and move to unlock my uncle’s toolbox. Not the big one on wheels. This one is a heavy, red steel one that sits on the lowest shelf along the back wall, hidden in the shadows. He doesn’t know I know the combination, but I saw him open it last time we came home from the shooting range. He has a few guns, but the one I take is the smallest: a snub-nosed .38 revolver. So small, I can hide it in the palm of my hand or slide it into my pocket.
King and my uncle are right about one thing: It’s time for me to man up. Time for me to accept responsibility for my actions and deal with the consequences—even if it means ruining the rest of my life.
What other choice do I have?