It was the second Tuesday of the month. In other words, the beginning of Dad’s week. No matter how many times I pretended to be sick, he picked me up anyway, against Mom’s wishes. Her wishes, my wishes, no one’s wishes mattered except the court’s, and the genie in the judge’s bottle that announced I’d be schlepped back and forth between parents, step-parents, and everything in between for another four years.
Months passed and things got harder instead of easier. Dad’s dogs hated me, so whenever my step-mom picked me up from swim practice, I had to wait in the backyard shivering like an asshole while she went through the front to lock them in a bedroom they probably called Suck It Up For Stacy.
She moved like a snail, was pregnant, but fat before that, so asking if she was pregnant way before she ever was didn’t gain me any brownie points with her or Dad. Speaking of brownie’s, they think I don’t know they add pot to theirs.
If you’re thinking I should tell someone, forget about it. My mom and step-dad smoke joints around me all the time, and around my baby sister Emma. Sure, babies like laughing, but sometimes I can’t tell if we’re all just high.
Mom like cats. Hers don’t like me either, but they disappear instead of trying to attack. Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll grow up to be a dog or a cat.