Page 6 of Unsteady

“Don’t ever grab me like that again.” She bends a little more, and I want to ask her to keep it there because this is the firstanything,other than pain, I’ve felt in months.

But I can’t, because by the time I work a swallow down my throat and unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth, all three of them are gone.

TWO

SADIE

For me, Tuesdays are the worst day of the week.

“Sade, please.”

Tuesdays are paydays, which means my father is more inclined to outright ask me for money rather than drop hints or steal from our food budget.

“I can’t.”

I try not to look, focusing instead on staying at the top of the staircase and lacing up my sneakers, double-checking that my bag has everything I’ll need for practice, as well as clothes for the café. Stuffing an extra pair of socks into the side zipper pocket, I’m forced to look at him as I descend the rickety stairs.

“Just an extra few. I just need something to get me through the week.”

I try to remember that there was a time when it wasn’t like this. When my father was someone who loved us dearly—who put me, and even baby Oliver, first.

“I said, I can’t.” I try again, crossing my arms and wanting so badly to shove past him. His head is hanging lightly, hair shaggier now than it has been, but his eyes are still mine, despite how red-rimmed and dark they are. “Oliver needs new skates; his foot was bleeding yesterday from how tight his old ones are.”

My brother tried to hide it, but I caught him last night in the kitchen putting Band-Aids on his ankles.

My dad’s mouth tightens and I can almost hear the argument in his head, the line he walks so carefully. He’s never hit us, never physically hurt one of us. But his mere presence is enough to feel like someone is pressing down on my shoulders. He wants to argue that this is his house, it’s his money, but it isn’t really. Not anymore—not since I got a job at fourteen and saved every penny until I had enough to keep skating. Not since earning my scholarship that assured me I didn’t have to take a single one of his handouts, if they could even qualify as one.

My mother had money, from a trust her wealthy family had bestowed to her too early, before her habits got harder to break. She pays child support to my father, checks I work tirelessly to find in the mail before he can blow them on top shelf whiskey.

Once upon a time, I believed they were a cute romantic story; the rich girl falling head over heels for the boy from nothing. But now, I know better.

My mother doesn’t love anyone except herself.

And my father might love us, deep down, but he’ll always love his vices more.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop myself from reaching for the fifty in my jean pocket from tips the day before and slipping it into his hand.

“That’s all you can have from me for the week,” I warn, a swirl of anxiety threatening my stomach as his eyes light up. “I’m serious, I have to pay for Oliver’s skates.”

“It’s fine,” a raspy voice huffs, my brother sliding underneath my arm and into the kitchen. “I can stay in my old ones for another month.”

“You can’t, killer. Besides, you have a tournament coming up.”

Before I can get to it, Oliver fills up the filter and starts a cup of coffee for me. He keeps his back turned to the actual adult still stationed by the doorway, like he might bolt at any moment.

“When's your tournament?” Our father’s voice is shaky, eyes still a little bloodshot as he walks further into the kitchen, apprehension in his every move towards Oliver. When he’s drunk, he’s fearless, but sober he’s almost scared of us. “Maybe I could come—”

“Don’t bother,” Oliver mutters beneath his breath, cutting him off. I hip check him lightly as I grab for creamer from the fridge and happily take the to-go cup my eleven-year-old brother is already holding out to me.

“It’s next weekend if you wanna come to mine,” a sleepy Liam says from the kitchen door, before dragging his Star Wars blanket across the floor with him and planting a seat at the table. “Are you making pancakes again, sissy?”

I grab my bag from the table, slinging it over my shoulder before ruffling Liam’s curls from behind his chair. “Not today, bug. There’s some toaster waffles in the freezer for both of you, and your lunches are packed on the second shelf.”

Liam slumps dramatically in his seat. “No pancakes means a bad day, sissy.”

Oliver grumbles, harshly shoving the plate of already prepared cinnamon toast waffles towards his brother. “Eat and shut it about the pancakes.”

I pull his ear as I pass him. “Be nice,” I reprimand, before softening my voice and giving him a pat. “And thank you.”

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