Page 16 of Dmitri

I want them back.

Shame hits me hard, and I try to understand how the fuck I got this way…

My mother flicks her cigarette ashes into a dish. “Where are you going?” Her Russian accent is always stronger when she drinks.

I keep my head down and pretend like I didn’t hear her.

A drinking glass flies across the living room and smashes against the wall. My fight-or-flight response kicks in and I freeze.

“Answer me, Dmitri.”

“T-to my friend’s house.”

“Where is friend’s house?”

“Up the street a little.”

Mom stares at me from her chair, the silence spreading down my spine like ice. Finally, she says, “Be home before your father.”

“I will.”

Scurrying outside, I book it to the playground that’s further out of my neighborhood because the one close by is for littler kids. I don’t have any friends. I just needed to get out of my house because Mom’s on her third glass already this morning and she gets meaner as the day goes by, even though she’ll be sober by the time my dad comes home from work.

Out of breath from running the entire way to the better playground, I drop into a swing, panting. The rusty chains squeak, grinding my nerves. Mad that I’m stuck and lonely, I kick the mulch under my feet. Great, my shoe has another hole in it. My big toe is showing.

In the fenced off grass ahead of me, there’s a bunch of kidsplaying soccer. Their parents obnoxiously cheer for them and there’s even a snack stand because spoiled kids can’t do shit without French fries, hot dogs, and candy.

My stomach growls.

Hopping off the swing, I make my way over to the fence and climb it, then head to the back of the line for the snack stand.

Fishing a crumpled dollar from my pocket, I straighten it out as best I can while waiting for my turn. I took it from my mom’s purse when she passed out yesterday. Scanning the price list on the board, I pick an affordable option.

“What can I get you, honey?” the woman asks from behind the counter.

“Chips.”

“That’s seventy-five cents.”

I hand her the money and get my change, thrilled to have something to put in my empty belly this early in the morning. As I head back to the swings, I look over my shoulder and see two kids about my age laughing and pushing each other around.

“Can I spend the night tonight?” the shorter one asks.

“Yeah, sure,” says the other.

Three little kids squeal from the slide at the playground, and one hops on my swing.

Great, there goes my peace and quiet around here.

Bypassing them, I detour towards the basketball hoops. My stomach growls, as if sensing I have food in my hands and demands I open the bag immediately. Which I do. People say you can’t eat just one chip, and I agree. I’d eat a dump truck full if I could. The salt and vinegar chips make my mouth pucker, but I can’t stop shoveling them in. But now I’m a little thirsty. A quarter won’t buy me a drink.

My spit is free. That’ll work.

Sitting against the fence, I dump the rest of the chips into my mouth and stuff the empty bag into my pocket.

The two older boys start playing basketball together. The court is a wreck; the ground is all torn up with weeds growing out of the cracks, and the netless basketball rims have broken backboards too.

“Shit,” one of the kids says when the ball rolls over to where I’m sitting. I glance at it and don’t move.

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