Daisies || Max Mayfield

12: Car

"What was that all about?" He asked, backing out of the driveway.

"You were gone for four extra hours," I said.

"I'm sorry, Nancy threw up on herself, so we had to find someone to lend her a shirt, and then Jonathan caused some trouble, and then I got in a fight-"

"A fight?"

"Yeah, just some guy being a dick to a girl in band. He called her trumpet fingers."

"How is that an insult-"

"Not the problem." He interrupted. "Are you okay though?"

"No."

"What happened?"

"I thought you died!"

"Why would you think-" He froze. "Oh, shit Daisy I'm so sorry-"

"Yeah, the last time someone came home late, it was in an urn," I muttered.

"Oh god." He muttered. "I assure you, it's gonna be okay. We just gotta pick up some stuff from the house, and find somewhere to sleep."

"Mike said you never sleep at the house," I said. "You're always with Nancy."

"Did he?"

"You lied." I frowned. "You said you sleep at the house, and he doesn't care."

"Yeah, I did lie." He replied. "I did lie, do you wanna know why?"

"Why?"

"Because the last time I slept there, some shit went down. Some real bad shit. I should've never brought you in the first place." He groaned. "When we go in, get your suitcase. Just throw it in the backseat."

"You haven't slept there in a year."

"I know. I know, Daisy. Because every time we go back, you know exactly what happens. And tell me if I'm wrong, but I'd rather not get yelled at, or abused, or almost murdered just trying to sleep there. Our dad is fucked up, got it?" His knuckled were white on the wheel.

"Then where do we go?" I asked. "Why did you agree to take me in, if we literally so not live in a house!"

"Dad did that. He signed the papers as soon as he realized money was involved." He explained. "He signed the papers for a fucking welfare check. Three hundred dollars a month, to abuse another kid."

"Oh, and you didn't say anything? It's been two days!"

"What did you want me to do, get you and just say, hey, our dad only wants you for the money so he can buy beer and prostitutes." He glared at the road, pulling into the driveway.

"Fuck."

"Sorry." He brushed his hair back. "Get your bag and leave."

"Okay," I replied. I got out, following my brother to the back of the house. The screen door was still there.

He pushed it open, holding it for me. I stepped inside.

We walked quietly to our rooms, where the tv was blasting, and a fat lump was sitting in a chair in front of it. 

I thanked myself for not unpacking the previous days and zipped the bag shut. I picked it up, going back to the hall.

Steve's room hadn't changed. It was full of junk, and the walls were painted gray. A few sports trophies had been added to his shelf, but he ignored them and was busy packing a duffel bag.

He glanced at me. He held up a finger, then opened his closet and threw all the clothes hanging up in the bag, hangers still attached. He zipped it shut, then reached for one more thing in his closet. A bat?