“Yeah, well . . . anyway, what do you mean about Todd?”

“What kind of work do—I mean—does he do?”

“He works for UPS but he had to have shoulder surgery, so he’s been off work for a few months.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well, because of all the lifting he does, the doctor said he tore about ninety percent of his rotator cuff. He was pretty messed up.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. He has to go to physical therapy twice a week, but the rest of the time, after Mom gets home from work, they’re at church. They go three nights a week and twice on Sunday. I baby-sit Heather. The whole routine is driving me crazy. They even make me sing in the choir and I can’t sing a lick.”

I snort a little. “When’s he going back to work?”

“In another month or so. But he said he’ll have to be on limited duty for a while.”

“But he was strong enough to punch you?”

“I guess so.”

I grit my teeth. Try to regroup. Lighten up. “Can your mama cook yet?”

“Nope. Todd does almost all of the cooking and cleaning.”

“No shit?”

“I kid you not.”

“Does he do the laundry, too?”

“Only his and my mama’s.”

“Well, who washes yours?”

“I had to learn. I go to the Laundromat once a week. I have to buy my own soap powder and use my paper-route money for the washer and dryer.”

“You’re shitting me. Why they make you do this?”

“So I’ll be responsible.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I agree.”

“So—why you smoke weed?”

“I don’t know. So I won’t have to think so much.”

“You still getting good grades?”

“Sorta. I was getting almost straight A’s, but I got two B’s and a C last grading period.”

“It’s the weed, Jamil.”

“I don’t smoke it that much. I was just stressing. Didn’t really care what I got on my report card for a minute, but then I cranked it back up.”

“So Todd hit you and your mama just watched?”

“She asked him to stop when she saw that he’d hurt me.”

“He ever hit you before?”

“He threw something at me once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but he missed.”

“What’d he throw?”

“A bat.”

“A bat, huh?”

“Yep. What’s wrong with your hand?”

I try to ball it up into a fist but it won’t go. “I got a little arthritis.”

“But your fingers are really crooked.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you limp?”

“Afraid so.”

“What can you do to get rid of it?”

“Nothing, really. Just take pills that make the swelling go down.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes. It sure does, but I can deal with it. I’ve been dealing with it. Don’t have no other choice but to deal with it.”

“Do you have anything to eat?”

Fuck. I wasn’t expecting no company. I’m almost scared to go over there and open the refrigerator. But I do, just to put on a front, like I’m surprised not to find nothing when I open it. “I just got back from Vegas and ain’t had time to get to the grocery store. Your granny was in the hospital. She had a bad asthma attack. But she’s doing pretty good now. I don’t know what’s around here to eat.” When I open the refrigerator, it’s sad. It is empty. Not so much as a stick of butter, a slice of bread, no kinda drinks whatsoever. I should be ashamed of myself. I know it. I feel it right now. I open the freezer. I got plenty of ice. I get a dish towel and wrap some cubes inside and ball it up.