Daddy was drunk again. He was lying on top of the kitchen table, which for some reason he’d dragged out into the living room, and his pants were undone. “Look,” said Karen, pointing. “Daddy’s thing’s hanging out.”
“You’re not supposed to look at stuff like that,” I said. “Go get Debbie and get upstairs.”
“You’re not my boss!” she said snottily. “And besides, I can look at Daddy’s thing anytime I want to.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You can’t!”
“I can!”
I looked at her, trying to narrow the slits of my eyes to look like Daddy when he was mad. “Who said?”
She got that smile that said she thought she had one over me. She pointed again, this time to Daddy’s head, lying sideways with the mouth open, looking like he was laughing but without the sound. “He did,” she said, smirking. “A long time ago, he told me. Debbie, too.”
I thought about calling her a liar, but suddenly I didn’t want to talk anymore. I couldn’t help staring at Daddy’s blue-black thing, gobbed with something wet and sticky-looking. As if it knew I was looking at it, it started to shrink back in on itself. Daddy snored. “How‘re we gonna eat tonight,” said Karen, “with Daddy on the table?”
I tried to find something smart to say, but all that came out was “Shut up,” along with a threat to beat Karen up that she knew was serious if she didn’t get upstairs or go outside or just disappear, I didn’t really care which, as long as it was away from me.