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to fight to survive. Abel was big, too, around six-foot-three, long and lean. He hadn’t hit my
mom yet. He hadn’t hit me yet, either. But I knew he was dangerous. I’d seen it. Someone
would cut us off in traffic. Abel would yell out the window. The other guy would honk and
yell back. In a flash Abel would be out of our car, over to theirs, grabbing the guy through the
driver’s-side window, screaming in his face, raising a fist. You’d see the other guy panic.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
When Abel walked in that night, he sat down on the couch and saw that I’d been crying.
“What happened?” he said.
I started to explain. My mother cut me off. “Don’t tell him,” she said. She knew what
would happen. She knew better than me.
“Don’t tell me what?” Abel said.
“It’s nothing,” she said.
“It’s not nothing,” I said.
She glared at me. “Don’t tell him.”
Abel was getting frustrated. “What? Don’t tell me what?”
He’d been drinking; he never came home from work sober, and the drinking always
made his temper worse. It was strange, but in that moment I realized that if I said the right
things I could get him to step in and do something. We were almost family, and I knew if I
made him feel like his family had been insulted, he’d help me get back at the boys. I knew he
had a demon inside him, and I hated that; it terrified me how violent and dangerous he was
when he snapped. But in that moment I knew exactly what I had to say to get the monster on
my side.
I told him the story, the names they called me, the way they attacked me. My mother
kept laughing it off, telling me to get over it, that it was kids being kids, no big deal. She was
trying to defuse the situation, but I couldn’t see that. I was just mad at her. “You think it’s a
joke, but it’s not funny! It’s not funny!”
Abel wasn’t laughing. As I told him what the bullies had done, I could see the anger
building up inside him. With Abel’s anger, there was no ranting and raving, no clenched fists.
He sat there on the couch listening to me, not saying a word. Then, very calm and deliberate,
he stood up.
“Take me to these boys,” he said.
Yes, I thought, this is it. Big brother is going to get my revenge for me.
We got into his car and drove up the road, stopping a few houses down from the tree. It
was dark now except for the light from the streetlamps, but we could see the boys were still
there, playing under the tree. I pointed to the ringleader. “That one. He was the main one.”
Abel slammed his foot on the gas and shot up onto the grass and straight toward the bottom
of the tree. He jumped out. I jumped out. As soon as the kids saw me they knew exactly what
was happening. They scattered and ran like hell.
Abel was quick. Good Lord, he was fast. The ringleader had made a dash for it and was
trying to climb over a wall. Abel grabbed him, pulled him down, and dragged him back. Then
he stripped a branch off the tree, a switch, and started whipping him. He whipped the shit out
of him, and I loved it. I have never enjoyed anything as much as I enjoyed that moment.