He says, “A family to support—my wife, a useless son, a daughter who behaves as though she’s mentally deficient—and you think the forfeiture of a commission is irrelevant?”

“No.” I hate it when he piles on the big words.

“No? Is that all you can say?”

Saying no is a skill ... I fight back the sickness rising in my throat. Once, when I was ten, I puked on his new shoes.

I’ll say whatever you want me to say. Since I don’t know what that is, since nothing I say will be right, I keep my trap shut.

“Pete had the nerve to call me into his office afterward,” Floyd says. “He lectured me on how to deal with difficult customers, implied I should have tried harder. One mistake and he treats me as though I’m worthless.”

I could say, That’s too bad. I don’t.

Floyd steps closer, so close I can see the stubble on his chin: he’s a man who has to shave twice a day. His breath smells of wintergreen.

“After Pete finished his spiel, he pretended to be a boxer, jabbed me a couple of times in the chest. He thought that was funny. Then, do you know what he said?” Floyd doesn’t wait for an answer. “That he saw you at the mall bullying a boy much younger than you. Is it true?”

“I only scared him a little. No big deal.”

“I’m Pete’s head salesman. According to him, your behavior reflects poorly on me, and therefore on GM.”

No use to run. Tried that.

I brace myself against the wall.

Slowly Floyd takes off his jacket and arranges it on the back of the nearest chair so the shoulders are level and the sleeves hang free. He rolls up his shirtsleeves. I hope Cassie stays in her room.

There’s a pause. A crack in time. His eyes and mine.

A blur of movement, whump, and I’m doubled over. Can’t breathe, pain roaring through my chest. Then he grabs a handful of my hair, yanks my head up, and starts slapping my face back and forth until I think my neck’ll snap like a chicken’s.

Tears—I can’t stop them—spring to my eyes, spill down my cheeks. He says, slapping as he talks, “I don’t need you jeopardizing my relationship with Pete. So this is my other job, to show you who’s boss. You’re crying like a baby ... How old are you, fourteen going on four?”

His fist sinks into my belly and I go down. I feel like I’m four. Sniveling and pitiful, a coward.

If I wasn’t a coward, if I fought back, he’d kill me.