The Rules of Life

“Been a long time since you’ve called me that,” my father, Paul Miller, said. He stood from where he’d been sitting, on a bench outside the office. My dad isn’t a small man. He’s over six feet tall and jam-packed with muscles. He’s an ex-footballer who would have gone pro if he hadn’t knocked my mom up in high school. Grandpops raised him right and he stood by my mom. But I always thought he resented having to give up his dream of playing football. And when I came out a girl, he had to give up his second dream of having a son follow in his footsteps.

I shook my head. “Yeah, well,” I said, “Don’t get used to it, Paul.” I hadn’t called my dad ‘Dad’ in years, not since I went into middle school. But it had just slipped out. Usually we had an arrangement: he stayed out of my way and I stayed out of his. Seeing him here, in school, was startling and the first thing into my mind was the first thing out of my mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Paul ran his fingers through his still dark hair and straightened up to his full height. Most people found him intimidating. Mom called him a teddy bear. “Your principal called me,” he said. “He said you got in a fight and that you’re suspended and to come get you.”

“That bastard,” I said. He’d already decided to suspend me before he’d heard my side of the story.

“Watch your mouth, McKinley,” Paul warned.

I rolled my eyes. “Like you’re one to talk, Mr. ‘Eff’ You,” I retorted. His eyes darkened, like they always did when he was rearing for a fight. But this couldn’t happen here, not at school. And when the bell rang a second later, he grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the door. It wasn’t all nice like Mr. H had been, but rough and his fingers dug into my muscles in a way that would probably bruise.

Paul wasn’t usually like this. When I was little, he doted on me completely. Even though he’d wanted a boy so badly, he always told me I was better than any boy. But the thing was, he had a nasty temper. He’d never physically hurt me, or my mother, but I’d gotten more than a few emotional bruises from when he and Ma would go at it, and then later, when we’d go a few rounds at the screaming match. Unlike my mother, who never got riled, I was exactly like my dad. We were evenly matched and even though he’d never hit me before, I’d taken a swing at him. Back then, my punches were sloppy. After that fight, he taught me how to properly punch. “If you’re gonna punch someone, you need to learn how to make it count.” This was the first time it’d gotten physical and I was sure it was because we couldn’t have it out during school.

When we were outside, I shook his hand off my arm, which was surprisingly easy. “I can walk fine,” I said through clenched teeth, “thanks.” Paul didn’t say anything, just marched to his car, a shiny red Challenger. He was a fan of American muscle. I got in the passenger side and slammed the door closed with more force than was strictly necessary. Paul’s jaw clenched, the muscle jumping out on the side, before he started the car.

He broke the speed limit by ten miles per hour, ran three stop signs and two red lights and we made it home in record time. Paul stalked inside our house, where I knew he’d throw things around for a bit before yelling at me. So I took my time. I carefully took off my seatbelt and made sure my backpack was zipped up and checked my reflection in the side mirror. My hair was still blonde and my eyes were still blue and I still looked the same as I always did, although my face was fuller than it had been a year ago.

There was a loud crash from inside and it was time to face the music, before he decided to take his anger out on something other than dishes. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders and headed for my house. We lived in a development so all the houses were pretty much the same, with only slight model variations and different colors. Our house was light green with off-white trim. It looked exactly like the one six houses down and across the street. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve come in from the other street and accidently tried to get into that house. But I was only brought home twice by the cops for “attempted burglary”. And the owners didn’t even press charges.

Paul was sitting on the couch when I walked in, broken plates in pieces on the kitchen floor. I put my backpack down on the floor and took a seat across from my dad. Then I waited.

“What were you thinking?” he asked. At first, his voice was calm. His anger had been taken out on the plates but it was only a matter of time before it all came back. “Starting fights in school?”

“I was thinking,” I began, “that Travis Elton is a fuckwad and he deserved to be punched in the face. I’m just sad I didn’t get to do it twice.” I pressed my lips together, wincing at the pain of my lip. It was slightly swollen, which would seriously hurt my argument skills if I had to slur around that fat thing.

Paul stood up. “I told you to watch your mouth,” he snapped.

“And I told you you’re a fucking hypocrite!” I yelled back. I was standing too, and even though I barely stood over five feet, and he was well over six, I could still seem just as intimidating and held just as much anger.

“I’m your father, McKinley, and you won’t talk to me like that,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. His hands were clenched into fists and if I didn’t watch it, we’d have a hole in the wall very soon. But what fun is fighting if you’re just going to half-ass it?

“Some father,” I said sarcastically. “You’re yelling at me for getting into fights when I know you got into fights when you were my age.”

“You’re a girl, McKinley. I was a boy and a football player and I could hold my own,” Paul said, his voice getting louder. “If your lip says anything, it’s that you can’t fight. Knowing how to punch someone isn’t the same as being able to protect yourself!”

I groaned. “Quit it with your ‘girls are weak’ bullshit. Did you not see that asshole? He was worse off than I was and for your information, he didn’t hit me. I slipped and busted my lip. That son of a bitch never touched me so stop singing that same chauvinistic tune.”

Paul reached out and with speed I forgot he had, he had a grip on my arm again. “I told you,” he hissed, “to watch your mouth.” He was close enough and my body reacted without thinking. He may have taught me how to punch but my mother had told me to never underestimate the power of girl-fighting. And slapping was girl-fighting. Paul backed off immediately, surprise in the blue eyes I’d inherited.

“Back off me,” I snapped. And then I ran upstairs to my room and slammed my door in the juvenile way, locking it behind me. I gave a scream of frustration and tossed things around. Pillows, books, basically anything I could get my hands on, until my room was a mess and I was sitting on the floor, seething. If Mom was here, maybe I’d be able to talk to her. Maybe she’d be able to calm Paul down. She always remained silent when he yelled at her but in the end, she knew what to say and he would always calm down with her around. Every time we fought, I was reminded of how much I wasn’t like her. We only fueled each other’s fire.

I grabbed a stuffed animal off the floor beside me and chucked it as hard as I could. It hit the pictures on my wall and sent them crashing to the floor. Downstairs, the pacing footsteps paused. I knew what Paul was thinking so I opened the door and screamed, “I’m not doing drugs so don’t fucking worry!” And slammed the door again. The pacing continued and flopped on my bed. But I couldn’t calm myself. My body thrummed with the energy that the anger had given me but there wasn’t anywhere I could go. I didn’t have any friends and even if I did, they’d all be at school anyway. My backpack was still downstairs, so I couldn’t do any math. I really needed new outlets.

Figuring a walk was better than sitting here, stewing in my rage, I forced open my window and wiggled out onto the roof. I didn’t know where Paul was downstairs so I couldn’t use the porch railing to get down which would mean I would have to climb the tree by the side of the house and drop into the neighbor’s yard. Hopefully they were at work. Somehow I didn’t think being brought home by disgruntled neighbors would earn me any favors.