Page 18 of Dmitri

“Dmitri.”

“I’m Ryker, this is Knox.” He bounces the ball to me. “Winner has to get the losers slushies from the gas station. Deal?”

I bounce the ball to Knox, prepared to walk away. “I don’t have any money.”

“Neither do we,” Knox says, and bounces it right back to me.

We smile at each other, and the rage I keep siphoning from fades a little. Ryker smacks the ball out of my hand and makes a layup. Knox grabs the rebound and we’re suddenly playing like we’ve been friends forever.

A little while later, a third kid shows up on a bicycle with a Bluetooth speaker and cell phone. His name’s Vault, but I don’t get why they call him that and I’m not asking. He blasts music I like, and we team up on the court.

When it’s over, I’m tired and dizzy from starvation and dehydration.

“Hey.” Ryker looks over at me as he, Knox, and Vault head in the opposite direction from where I live. “Wanna spend the night at my house tonight?”

I’m not sure I should. But I don’t want to go home if I don’t have to. “Don’t you have to ask your parents for permission first?”

Ryker shrugs. “My mom won’t mind.” He tips his head towards the street. “Come on. Knox owes us slushies, then we’ll head to my place. Bet my mom’s got dinner already waiting. Hope you like spaghetti.”

I stall out, suddenly realizing how late it is. We’ve been playing ball all day. The sun’s almost set.

My dad is home.

Fear spikes in my system and I beat feet across the playground and back to my house without saying anything to Ryker or the others. My cheeks are numb by the time I pushopen the door and am smacked in the face with the scent of dinner.

“There he is!” My dad chimes in the kitchen. “You’re just in time, son. I almost ate your dinner, too.” His big smile suddenly drops and brow furrows. “What happened to your face, Dmitri?”

Oh. Right. My face. “Got into a fight.”

“Did you start it?”

Yes. “No.”

“Did you finish it?”

No. “Yes.”

“Atta boy.” Dad points at the empty seat between him and my mom, and I pull out my chair and fall into it.

She glares at me with a fork and knife in her hands. “You’re late.”

“Sorry.” I stuff a slice of bread with butter into my mouth.

Her expression is as cold as her voice. “Maybe you need a lesson on how to tell time.”

“Aww, leave the kid alone, Anya. He’s just having fun.”

“Fun. Getting into fights isfun?” She drops her silverware with a clank. “He will be just like you.”

My dad’s brow arches. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Always fighting. Always out late.” She snags her plate and mine before I get a chance to eat any of what’s on it. “He needs discipline.” She tosses my food in the trash and drops my plate in the sink.

“Anya.” Dad’s voice drops in a pleading tone. “He didn’t even get to eat his dinner.”

“If he wanted to eat it, he should have been home when I told him to be. Which wasbeforedinner.” She smacks the faucet and pours water all over my empty plate as she washes it.

Dad looks down at his plate and I know he’d slide it over to me if there was anything left on it to eat. But there isn’t. Mymom doesn’t make enough for leftovers or second helpings. She controls all the portions because she controls all the grocery money.

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