Page 7 of The Other Half

Why on earth would he volunteer to do most of it? I’d never expect that, I don’t mind pulling my weight for group projects. I guess he thinks I’m too “spoiled” to do that, though.

I nod, even though I’m not convinced that it’ll be easy at all.

Chapter 8

Oliver

When I walk into Oakley’s room I expect more pastel colored walls, Prada bags, maybe a stockpile of shoes. What I don’t expect are floor to ceiling shelves filled with old books and music. Her bed is covered with a colorful patchwork quilt that’s sort of similar to the one my mom sewed for me when I was little, and she has these funky knick-knacks sitting all around the room on every surface. Weird, little figurines that look aged and worn, and none of them really match each other. The walls are painted bright yellow and covered with random posters that aren’t framed. Her room is a stark contrast from the rest of her house. Instead of polished, white walls and chandeliers, she has a very casual space that’s a bit weird and unorganized.

I feel kind of guilty for assuming she was a standard rich bitch when I first got here. It’s hard for me not to hate all rich people by default. When so many hardworking people like my parents just barely scrape by, it isn’t fair. Plus most of the rich kids at our school are complete douchebags, constantly rubbing their money in everyone’s face and making sure to show it off any chance they get. But so far Oakley’s done none of that. Before today I had no clue she came from money, so she definitely doesn’t brag about it at school. She doesn’t hang out with the other rich kids either, which is strange.

We begin working on our project. I can tell she’s already bought everything we need, and now I can see why that was no problem for her.

I hear a door slam somewhere else in the large house, it must be at least 10,000 square feet. Her room alone feels nearly as big as my entire house. I’ve never been to this neighborhood before today, much less inside one of the homes within it. It’s exactly what I expected though, giant houses with unnecessary, flashy shit inside and out. I haven’t met her parents yet, and I’m hoping I won’t have to. I have a feeling they wouldn’t much care for me or where I come from. And I can guarantee the feeling would be mutual.

Loud voices are coming from the floor below us, they’re definitely yelling but I can’t make out the words other than a few curses coming from the male’s voice.

“I am so sorry, please ignore that.” I look up when I hear Oakley speak. She has a distressed look on her face and her cheeks are flushed. At that moment I recognize what it is we’re hearing, her parents, and they don’t sound very happy.

“Should I go? You think they found out a guy is up here?” I ask with a smirk, halfway joking but also genuinely curious.

“Oh god, no. They just do this all the time, it’s not about you.” After she says this she looks embarrassed, like she wants to take it back. “I mean not all the time, but you know, parents…” she adds, rolling her eyes in an attempt to appear casual.

I honestly don’t know. My parents are a lot of things, but they aren’t the type to yell at each other. If they’re mad they deal with the problem and move on. I guess I’m lucky in that regard, my parents have always treated each other with respect. I hear the sound of something shattering, possibly a plate or a glass.

“Damn. They sound pissed,” I utter, not really knowing what to say. I don’t want her to think I’m judging her, I couldn’t give a shit less what her parents do. I figure they’re the type of rich people who can’t stand not getting their way, it’s no wonder they yell about any slight inconvenience.

“Yeah. I mean it’s totally annoying, but he doesn’t sound drunk at least.”

“Oh. And that’s a good thing?” I ask, slightly confused by that disclosure.

“Yes, he’s a hundred times angrier when he’s drunk. I’d much rather him smash dishes than lay actual punches.”

I’m a bit stunned by what she’s just revealed to me. I hardly know this girl and she’s admitting that her father hits people when he’s fucked up?

The thought of him hitting Oakley crosses my mind, and I’m instantly filled with rage for some reason. I’m not sure where this sudden protectiveness comes from, but it’s like I feel almost obligated to keep her safe. Fuck that guy, any man that hits a woman is a complete scumbag.

“He hits you..?” I’m trying not to let my anger show. I barely know anything about this girl other than her name, and that she likes seventies music, but for some reason that’s enough for me to know I already hate her dad.

“No, not me. My mom, sometimes.” She pauses and I study her face, waiting for more of an explanation. “I shouldn’t have told you that, I don’t know why I did. He just has trouble controlling his anger,” she rambles nervously, twisting a strand of her blonde hair around her finger over and over. I can tell she regrets opening up about such a personal situation with someone who’s practically a stranger.

I’m slightly relieved to hear she isn’t the one getting hit, but the situation still bothers me nonetheless. I’m not sure what to say next, I don’t want her to think I’m a white knight trying to sweep her off her feet or something, because I’m sure as hell not.

After a moment of internal conflict I open my mouth again. “Look, I know we don’t really know each other… But if you ever need a place to stay, you’re welcome at my house. Any time. Your mom too, for that matter.” I try to keep my voice even and void of too much emotion, but it’s probably obvious that I’m concerned for her safety. Why, though? Why do I care? I don’t even know her. Five minutes ago I was giving her shit for being wealthy, and now I’m offering her a place to stay?

She peers up at me with a genuine look of gratitude in her somber eyes, a slight smile pulling at her lips. All of the animosity between us from earlier has seemed to suddenly dissipate. “Thanks.”

Chapter 9

Oakley

Tonight the energy in my house feels different, more hostile than usual. I feel this nagging urge to accept Oliver’s offer to text him. But did he really mean that, or did he just say it because he pitied me in the moment? Why should he feel sorry for me anyway? After insinuating that I’m nothing but a spoiled brat, I was surprised he had anything nice to say.

For some reason, though, when he was here I felt better. Safe. Safer than I usually do in my house, strangely enough.

It’s been hours of ongoing yelling back and forth between them. I’m laying in bed with my head encased with my pillow so that it covers my ears, even though that does little to stop the sound from coming through. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my sweaty hands soaking the pillow that I grasp onto.

Over the years, what started as fear for my mother’s safety has morphed into a fear for my own as well. He’s never laid a hand on me, but I wonder if he drank just a little bit too much if that would change.

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