** Lessons **

He centered the old, beat up Ford between the lines easily, years of practice masking the tension she knew was evident by the stiffness of his blistered hands. Pressed on the parking brake and turned the key in one swift motion.
“Hurry up and don’t ask for anything,” he grumbled toward the windshield, “you’re gonna be late.”
She said nothing – fiddled with the crusty seat belt as he opened his door and slid into the parking lot.  The tips of her fingers changing from lifeless white to strawberry, and still, nothing.
“I said Hurry Up.”
She pressed harder and jiggle-pulled, holding her breath while silently sending a ten year old’s version of profanity deep into the saw-dusted cab.
“I ca- it’s s-stu-“ she stammered, just as the mechanism freed itself and sent her hand flying into the door.
“Goddammit – get out of the fucking truck!”
She did, then, shaking away the sudden surge of pain splayed across her knuckles, pressing the lock before slamming the door.
“I don’t know if your fucking mother left anything in there,” he criticized, “She never does, anymore. She’s probably got someone else she’s spending all my money on… God knows I can’t get her touch ME ever. Now hurry up, or you-”
His voice trailed off as he started toward the grocery store.
The girl took a deep breath before falling into step a few paces behind, using the crackling sound of her cleats as they sloshed through the rain soaked asphalt to drown out whatever else her father had to say.
 
Once inside, she kept her gaze on the blue and white checkered linoleum – dodging pairs of feet and shopping carts when they breeched the circumference of her confined world. Followed the sound of his work boots and the trail of whatever jobsite dirt that hadn’t already been washed away was left in his wake. Caught up to him at the ATM machine.
“-hafta pay the goddamn electric bill, too – bet she hasn’t even done that. Such fucking bullshit I swear to G-“
He was still grumbling as he reached into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet – stopped short then, his attention pulled away by the stack of cash that had been forgotten in the ATM’s receptacle.
“Well hey,” he sang quietly, his demeanor softening, “look at that…” – retrieved the money and fanned through crisp twenty dollar bills.
He whistled, shook his head.
“Five hundred dollars…” he counted, more to himself than anyone else.
“Five hundred dollars?” She gasped, hardly able to contain her astonishment at such a fortunate find.
They were alone, standing there, despite the crowd hustling around them. She watched her father intently as he remained motionless – the mound of bills sitting comfortably in those same tension-filled hands.
Searched his face for direction – found nothing in his far-off gaze. Waited. Waited…
“What are you gonna do with it, dad?”
He started at the interruption, blinked. Shook his head and frowned at the girl.
“What in the hell do you mean ‘what am I gonna do with it?’”
She tensed, confused.
“I mean the money…”
His face grew stern. Green eyes intense.
“Did I work for it?”
She hesitated. Shook her head.
“Did I do anything to EARN it?”
Again, she hesitated. And again, shook her head.
“So it’s not mine, is it?”
Her green eyes met his only for a second before retreating back into the safety of the world that existed between the confines of her own two feet.
“What am I gonna do with it…” he repeated, only half mocking. “Now you listen to me,” he said, taking on a more serious tone, “if you don’t work for something – it’s not yours. And you don’t take what isn’t yours. Ever.”
She nodded her understanding, and with that, he went about his original intent with the machine, pressing his card into the slot and punching in the PIN.
“Son of a mother fucking bitch you fucking lying piece of-“
“What?”
“Goddamn-it!”
“What’s wrong?”
<div style=”margin: 0in 0in 10pt”>“Nothing,” he snapped. “C’mon.”
He removed the card violently and stomped over to the bank’s customer service counter; she watched as he was greeted by the teller, a young woman who wore her hair in a tight bun and her face in a gesture of confusion as he motioned toward the machine where she stood and handed over the stack of twenties. The woman’s face changed from confusion to surprise. And then from surprise to gratitude as he turned to walk away.
“Tell your coach you forgot,” he ordered as he breezed past her, “and tell him you’ll bring the money next week.”
She said nothing in response. Followed the mud that was once again left in his wake.
 *                      *                      *
The ride to the practice field was silent. She said nothing about the money. And when he pulled into the parking lot, she opened and closed the door without a word and was sure to step away quickly so as to avoid the splash as he put the truck in gear and sped away.
 
 *                      *                      *

Two hours later, she waved goodbye to the last of her teammates and kicked absentmindedly at a dirt clod. It was dark out, despite the flickering of field lights. Scanned the parking lot for her mother’s mini-van. Tossed her water bottle into her soccer bag. Sighed. Started walking home.
 
 *                      *                      *

She could hear them from three houses away. The revelation should have surprised her, but it didn’t. She’d always suspected. Neither of her parents noticed when she walked in the front door – too busy making sure the other knew the extent of their current hatred. Her dad towered over her mother’s small frame, his face red and throbbing as he belittled the woman he’d fallen in love with when they were kids back home, playing on the baseball field in their small town. Her mother cried.
The kitchen chair was turned over and she righted it. Scanned the contents of the near-empty cupboard. Looked up to find her little brother.
“You want some macaroni?”
His blond hair fell across blue eyes as he shook his head.
“No milk.”
“We just got milk! How is it gone?”
He shrugged. Pointed.
“Dad threw it.”
She glanced into the kitchen toward the direction of his small finger – frowned at the splattered wall and puddle of white liquid on the floor. Chewed her lip.
“Hotdogs?” 
 *                      *                      *

He loved hotdogs. One of the very few things she could both cook and always get him to eat, along with pancakes – though only of the frozen variety, and as long as there was ample ketchup.
The plate was hot when she pulled it out of the microwave and slapped the last two pieces of bread around the meat. She cleared away a stack of past due bills and cut-off notices, waited for it to cool down before sliding it across the counter toward her brother.
“Did you wear the plastics in your shoes today?” She asked.
He took a bite, getting more ketchup on his cheeks than anywhere else. Spoke with his mouth full.
“No. I hate those things. They hurt my feet.”
She tried to ignore the slamming doors in the other end of the house.
“Mom said you still have to wear them.”
He frowned. Changed the subject.
“I played with Dennis today.”
She stole a discarded piece of crust.
“Oh, yeah?”
He took another bite.
“He said his sister could beat you up.”
<span style="font-size: medium”>She sighed.
“I didn’t know he had a sister.”
Her brother nodded.
“Well," she shrugged, "probably.”
The answer annoyed him.
“And we found a bike.”
She frowned, “A bike? Where?”
He was proud then. Knew he had her interested.
“At the jumps.”
“Well…what did you do with it?”
Now it was his turn to shrug.
“Dennis’ dad let him take it home. It’s a Redline.”
Their parents brought the fight into the living room, then, and she hurried over to the sink to wash her brother’s plate and wipe up the milk before they engulfed the kitchen, as well.
“Go brush your teeth and go to bed,” she called over her shoulder.
Her brother grumbled something about not being tired.
“Then brush your teeth and go play your game.”
He hesitated before sliding off the bar stool.
“And – hey…”
He paused. His blue eyes open wide.
“You guys should take that bike back.”
“What! Why?”
She thought for a moment, remembering.
“Because it’s not yours. It belongs to someone else. And you didn’t earn it.”
He stared at her in disbelief. Defiant.
“So?”
She put her hands on her hips then, exasperated.
“So put it back where you found it or I’m telling mom.”
He stomped his foot then but gave in to her threats and promised to put the bike back where they found it the next day before retreating to his room to fall asleep with a controller in his hands.

She made her way to the room she shared with her sister, bending down along the way to scoop up their fat tom-cat.

And there they lay in bed, his purring a soft lullaby as she lazily stroked his fur, listening to the slamming of doors, the calling of names, and the heaving sobs of her mother, thinking about the differences between Redline bicycles and ATM machines.

"Hey," she whispered toward the bottom bunk where her sister lay, "you awake?"

A moment passed while her sister stirred.

"Yeah. What."

She turned over onto her side, careful not to squish the cat.

"Dad found five hundred dollars at the store today."

The bed shook as her sister shifted below.

"What did he do with it?"

She breathed heavy. Blinked against the darkness.

"Gave it back… like you’re supposed to."

The room was still as the girls listened to the muted shouting – tried to pick through the parts of their father they were meant to hold on to…

And as they fell asleep, trying to forget the parts that they weren’t.