Page 12 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Chapter Six
Summer
Rob’s crappy beater car buzzed down the street. Whenever I heard it, I wondered how it passed inspection since Germany had such strict noise laws.
I’d stepped inside, more than eager to get away from my unexpected audience and hunched into a ball right on the mat where I usually wiped my feet. I wrapped my arms around my knees and held myself close, wishing the shuddering, cold sensation would flee.
The pounding in my chest halted my progress. Why had Dennin come to my house? How had he even known where I lived? And why did he think I wanted him up in my face?
I counted to ten, breathing in and out through my nose. Finally, I shifted to my knees, then slowly stood. My vision grayed out a little, but I blinked it away and moved to the kitchen. I poured some water into a glass and shuffled to the table where I slumped down on a chair and guzzled the drink.
My mind stayed blank a few minutes, just static lines, until the thought of Rob and Nicholas Masters returned. They must’ve seen Dennin blocking me against the door. But I could’ve handled him. I really had been seconds from kneeing him in the groin. I didn’t think of myself as violent, and I wouldn’t resort to that unless I had no other choice.
Did Rob and his friend think I couldn’t take care of myself? I didn’t need their help, and while I could admit now I was thankful for it, that itch between my shoulder blades hit home. That nasty feeling I knew would come arrived just on time, even if logically, I could accept they’d helped me and I was glad I hadn’t incapacitated the creep at close range.
Debt. I owed Rob and Masters now. The thought sat bitter on my tongue.
The first time I understood that nothing comes free, I was nine. The librarian, Mrs. Mason, had fed me dinner—somehow, she’d found out we didn’t eat much in the evenings. School kept us fed during the day, thankfully. My father worked nights most of my childhood, my mom worked all day, and there was this dead zone where the five of us just floated around, hungry, searching the fridge’s contents for what we could do with it—until the bigger kids were out of the house and scrounged wherever they went, I guessed. By twelve, I’d learned to cook decently well, even with ingredients like bargain hotdogs and canned beans.
But at nine, after a full month of decent meals, my father found out. And I learned that the kindness of the librarian was something bad—something to feel ashamed of and ugly for. I’d argued that she wanted to help me, so why couldn’t she? That had just made him more angry, and he’d raged about how he wouldn’t raise his kids to take. That the problem was less in the giving, though he had plenty of criticisms for Mrs. Mason, but in the weakness and stupidity of taking. He’d taken a belt to me, and I’d had to hold my breath when I sat down for two full weeks.
But hunger drives a kid to do crazy things, and maybe Mrs. Mason was crazy too. She still fed me—she’d leave a little cooler packed with whatever food she could keep hidden thirty paces into the woods behind the library. That lasted a while longer than the first time.
My older siblings didn’t glance back at me once they left home, each of them already saddled with babies instead of college, bills instead of dreams. My younger sister had taken whatever I brought her and never asked where it came from. I used to think she knew, but in retrospect, I think she sensed she’d be better off not knowing in case our parents found out. Somehow, they always did, and I was the one that took the brunt of the punishment.
Those lessons literally beat into me the shame that owing a debt created. Years of therapy had led me toward accepting that it was my father’s shame that’d driven him to make that mindset so clear to us kids, but it didn’t mean I’d shed the visceral response whenever I sensed I owed someone. After a time, it was probably for the best my older siblings didn’t attempt to help, because I doubted I could’ve stomached accepting it then.
I’d gotten over the worst of that in college, recognizing my ability to succeed in the world might be hampered by some of the messed up mindsets I grew up with. But of course, meeting with the counselor every few weeks didn’t exactly cure me of all wrong thinking.
I didn’t know how I’d pay Rob back, but at least we were friends. He was a good man; I genuinely believed that. But that didn’t make his help free. And even if it was free in his mind, it wasn’t in mine. Luckily enough, the dinner in the oven tonight was for Masters, whether he liked it or not.
Resolve renewed, I stood, ready to get on with it and put the mess behind me. First, I’d get the food packaged up. Then, I’d deliver it. Hopefully, he’d answer the door in something more than he had on last time, and I would be able to thank him for the intervention and clarify I owed him nothing.
Yes. That would do it. That’d make things even again, and we could all move on.
* * *
The door swung open quickly after I rang the bell. Towering, massive Nicholas Masters stood holding the little furball in one hand and looked at me.
Just looked.
Seriously, the guy was not much for talking.Fine.
“Dinner?”
He blinked. His lips pressed together and he squinted a little, then nodded. “Thank you.”
“Well…” I shuffled around on the porch step, words crawling up my throat without permission. “Now we’re even.”
His head cocked to one side. “Even?”
Pshhh. Like he didn’t know. Like anyone didn’t keep track. “For helping me. Now we’re even. So… don’t mention it. And… thankyou. Have a good night.”
I whirled around, ready to retreat, but his voice stayed me.
“Ms. Applegate.”
I whipped back toward him. “Yeah?”
