Report Card

SENSITIVE TOPICS: mentions of an abusive, alcoholic father.

Dad’s hand slammed the glass against the dining table. Instantly, it crackled and fell apart, the few remaining droplets of whiskey soaking into the wood. It was a common occurrence in our household, but the sound of glass shattering still made me flinch. Dad had gone through so many glasses over the years; I was surprised that Mom kept buying him more.

“What was that for?” I asked quietly. In his unoccupied hand, he held my report card.

“You failed math?” His voice roared throughout the room, the walls offering no relief as it filled the air. The house next to us slammed their kitchen window shut, glaring into our walls like it was my fault our dad was loud. “You know how I feel about kids who fail their classes,” he gritted through his teeth. The report card in his hand crumpled under the force of his anger, ripping right in two.

I looked away from my dad and toward the neighbor’s recently closed window. Glass had splattered across the dining table in every direction, so I moved my plate to the side, hoping that the shards didn’t infiltrate my mashed potatoes. “I…I can explain, Dad.”

“Explain?” he laughed, whiskey breath burning my eyes as he leaned into my personal space, “Explain? What do you have as a measly excuse for why you failed this time?”

Last semester, I had failed math for the first time. My teacher made me redo it this semester, only to get a better grade by a whole two percent. I was using multiple resources—online videos, textbooks, and even staying after class—but equations never seemed to stick in my head. The same teacher had proposed the idea of having my parents look into trying to get a diagnosis of dyscalculia, a real explanation for why I had been struggling. Still, my father had dismissed the entire idea and labeled me stupid, lazy, and stubborn.

I nodded at his question, trying to hide the fact that my jaw was quivering. With a gulp, I spoke up, trying to make my excuse sound better. “My tutor has been sick,” my voice cracked ever-so slightly, “she couldn’t help me study for the final in time. I did good on all the quizzes, but the exam was weighted too much and tanked my C to an F. I promise I tried, Dad.”

My mom, who was in the kitchen with my younger siblings, quickly guided them upstairs. She knew what was coming. It was the same thing every time. Excuses would turn into arguments, and arguments would go from verbal to physical in the blink of an eye. I watched as she guided them up to their rooms, and I knew I had to be strong for them. As the oldest, I had to show no fear. I had to prove to them that we couldn’t fear this hell-sent of a “man.”

I had to prove that I was a better influence in their lives than he could ever be.

Dad laughed again. It was a laugh full of mockery, as if he couldn’t believe my excuses. I knew I was in deep trouble once his whiskey-dripping lips pursed into a thin, pink line.“You’re telling me I paid her to get sick?” When I shook my head and stood up, he slammed his hand against the table, avoiding the glass shards still lingering. “Sit down!”

I sank back down, eyes darting straight into the ripped envelope that once held my report card. “It was an acci—”

I was cut off by a thwack to my cheek. I swallowed the sting away, Adam’s apple bobbing in my throat as if it were swimming in molasses. Whatever words were on my tongue died instantly as I sat silently in the chair, stunned but not entirely surprised. I kept my mouth shut, a metallic taste overpowering the dinner that had been interrupted.

“A 51% is not an accident, you stupid, stupid—”

This time, it was Dad’s turn to get cut off. Mom’s voice cut through the stairwell. A fire had been ignited in her, and she was tired of hearing this man disrespect her children daily. “Ever think about focusing on the other positives?” Her feet echoed against the carpeted stairs, stomping to show how fed up she was. Her once lightweight steps had turned into rage-filled stomps. “His other grades are outstanding. Did you see he has a 100% in English?” she cried out. “Or the fact that he got an award for his mile time in P.E?”

My eyes darted from one parent to the other. Dad’s hand, the one that had smashed the whiskey glass, curled into a fist, ignoring all the glass shards still embedded in his palm. “Don’t you know I prefer my wife not to talk back?” he gritted out.

“And don’t you know I prefer a man who cherishes his wife and kids?”

Mom continued to stand her ground. My younger siblings peeked their heads out from the corner of the stairwell. Grayson, who had recently turned ten and was finally starting to endure a growth spurt, tipped his chin up confidently at Mom’s attitude. I shook my head slightly at him to tell him not to intervene. Fern continued to hide behind Greyson’s legs, her six-year-old hands gripping his pants to try to hold him from running into the mess between my father and me. A small smile had formed on Fern’s lips at Mom’s words, eyes shining with the same attitude Mom was showing off.

“M-Mom!” I whispered to her, “W-what are you doing?” The last thing I needed was for Dad to direct the heat at Mom. Neither of us needed to dive deeper into the wrath of his alcohol induced rage.

Dad stood up from his chair, legs wobbling as he trotted toward the alcohol cabinet again. His gait was shaky—a testament to the many glasses of whiskey that had come before dinner. “A husband who cherishes his wife and kids,” he mocked under his breath. He opened the cabinet with such force that the hinges creaked. “You think I don’t,” he paused to hiccup, “cherish my dang wife and kids.”