Alive

Chapter 27

Oliver

"Unacceptable."

I hold my pillow over my head, gritting my teeth at the sound of the door closing behind him. But it doesn't do any good. Dad strides across the carpet. I can hear it in the swish of his pressed suit. It's not as loud as his anger, though. Angry. Like he always is.

"Straight D's," he says, then lowers his voice, speaking through his teeth. "Straight D's. And this is what you do about it? Play hooky? Whine about your feelings?"

"I thought you had a business meeting," I mutter.

"Dinner," he corrects me, checking his silver watch. "You've got fifteen minutes."

"I'm not coming down," I say, rolling over to face the wall. And I stare at it. The stupid dark pink mom insisted on having it painted. Said it accents the light grey tones or whatever. She calls it crimson, but I know pink when I see it.

"Not coming down," Dad repeats, then hisses out that irritated laugh. I guess the only laugh I ever hear from him. At least when he's talking to me.

"No," I say.

"This is non-negotiable," he says. He stands, crossing to my closet and pulling something out. "You will put on this suit, and you will march your ass downstairs and join us for dinner."

I'm quiet for a minute. Mostly because I can't do this right now. I can't fight him, and I can't put the suit on, either. Not after puking my guts out all afternoon. This new prescription is a dud.

"I'm sick," I say.

"Get up," he says. "Now."

I squeeze my eyes shut, work up the strength to do something. I struggle for a minute, and it's even harder when I hear him laugh. That same disgusted laugh as he watches.

"I said get up." He grabs my arm, yanking me toward him. And my vision gets blurry as another wave of nausea floods me. I clamp my hand over my mouth, twisting out of his grasp so I can make it to the trash can. But Dad kicks it away. It clatters against the wall as he throws my suit at me. "Put this on. Be downstairs in five minutes."

My head spins as he walks toward the door. And I try to do it. I want to be good. But I can't really see straight, and he's just turned the doorknob when it happens. I can't help it. At least I manage to throw the suit aside as the puke comes. Splatters onto the carpet. Although it's just acid and drool at this point.

"Dad," I say, but then I just cough. I need water. "I really don't feel great."

I pick up my glass, close my eyes to take a sip. But I don't get one. Dad rips it out of my hands. Slams it down on the bedside table and then grabs the front of my shirt, twists it as he yanks me up toward his face.

"Tough," he says, shaking his head. "The world doesn't wait around for your feelings. You know where we'd be if I didn't go to work every time I didn't feel like it? Life is hell, Oliver. Grow up and get over it."

He lets go, grabbing the suit and shoving it against my chest. His eyes are wide, and I can see his teeth as he talks.

"Put this on."

I close my eyes, try to stop shaking. Try to shove down the nausea. Try to get up and do what he says. He's right. I know it. But my legs won't move. My eyes won't focus. It's like I'm dead, or something. I don't know.