On top of the belt beating, I got a month’s worth of restriction, which didn’t matter much to me since I practically lived on restriction as it was. I finally fell asleep two hours later with stale tears on my cheeks and anxiety for what would happen the following day churning in my stomach. It was only going to get worse once my dad got to the church and saw there were no flowers in the flower bed.

Four

Finn

I fucking hated flowers. I spent the rest of my night working on that damn flower garden, and I’d spent my last ten bucks on those damn over-scented weeds. I’d never been more thankful that Wal-Mart stayed open twenty-four hours or that I could flirt my way into the lawn and garden department after hours.

By the time I got back to my house, I was covered in dirt and exhausted. Everyone was gone and so was all the beer, which pissed me off pretty good. Instead of sitting around bitching about it, I went straight to my bathroom, got a shower, and crashed.

The next day, I slept way into noon. I’d decided to skip senior year and go straight to work for Uncle Lester, my dealer. He didn’t even have any nieces or nephews, but everyone called him uncle. The best thing about Uncle Lester was he dressed like a pimp from the seventies and had a porn star mustache. He worked it, though, and he was the man when it came to the ladies. He was a strange man, but he always made sure I had a full supply of wacky dust. It wasn’t honest pay, but it was pay.

With a busted head gasket and a blown tire, I needed whatever work I could get to get my car back on the road. In my mind, the band was my meal ticket, but if the worst happened and my band did nothing, I’d end up taking care of my mom and working some shitty job somewhere. I was born and bred for struggle.

I fixed myself a bowl of cereal in one of mom’s mixing bowls and sat on the couch, deep in thought. Faith. I couldn’t seem to get her off my mind. I wasn’t sure why I’d lied for her. Maybe it was because I’d seen her welts, and the thought of her getting more made me sick to my stomach. Or maybe it was because her dad seemed to piss me off all the time. It wasn’t that he was doing anything, but it was his “I’m the pastor so I’m better than you” mentality. He wasn’t better than me. Actually, I’d give the ounce of cush and the eight ball in my top drawer to say he was probably more crooked than I could ever dream of being.

I fixed my mom some lunch and made sure she had her pills. She was having an especially painful day, which meant she wouldn’t want to be bothered. Instead of sitting around and babying her to death, I smoked a bowl in the garage and headed out to get lost around the town.

It was days like that when I wished I had an actual job. I’d talked about it with my mom before, but she swore she needed me home more than she needed help financially. I understood and even though the thought of having money that I’d made legally sounded great, I couldn’t take the chance of not being there for her if she needed me.

Later that afternoon, the boys came over and we practiced for the rest of the night. We’d been invited to play at a new underground club called The Pit and we wanted to make sure we sounded kickass. It wouldn’t pay to play a shitty show, and we always had the hope that someone important would see us and take us out of our fucked-up situations.

I sang my heart out as Kevin, the lead guitarist, crushed my garage with his rips. I’d known him since the first day of middle school. He was the first friend I’d had for more than a few months. That was one of the worst things about being in the system and getting moved around so much. I never made any lasting friendships. I’d spent my life being passed by strangers and it was nice to have some loyalty in my life.

Reynolds, who could play the hell out of a pair of drums, was hitting the beats hard. He hated to practice, but he always showed up on time and played his heart out even if he was all geeked out half the time. We all had our vices, but I think he was developing a serious problem. His sudden appearance of nosebleeds made it hard to look away from his cocaine addiction. I was no saint. I sold the stuff and on occasion I’d down a line, but nothing as extreme as Reynolds.

Then there was the newbie, Tony. I’d given him the name Tiny, mainly because for a kid his age, he was fucking huge. The kid could play some bass, though, and he kept to himself. I could appreciate that. He seemed genuine and had yet to fuck me over in any way. In my world, that was enough for me.

I was confident that Ordinary Malice was going to go far. We’d already started attracting attention from the locals and playing bars even though none of us were twenty-one. Singing and writing music was my passion. I loved it and I’d give anything to be able to walk away from all the bullshit and make an honest living doing it.