You're fourteen years old, and your dad has just lost another job. Gayle is already out of the house, living with her boyfriend, and it's just you and your mom and your dad living in the tiny house in Forest Hills now. You've found ways of coping -- parties and drinks and friends -- but it doesn't take away the immediate pain or panic when he breaks out into another drunken rage.
After four drinks, he always slurs about how he wants to write the next Great American Novel. After six drinks, he snaps at you for being a little shit, an ingrate of a daughter, a whore. After seven, he talks about his failure, but once the bottle of Jameson is empty, he grabs your wrist and hits you hard across the face. You try to tug away, but his grip is strong, wrapped tight enough around your wrist to make it hurt. You bite your lip to prevent a cry because that's what he wants. Eventually, you manage to break free and run up to the safety of your locked room.
You're considering just staying in, but you told Flash you'd go to that party with him, and what better way to cheer yourself up than that? As you stand in front of the mirror, your thick red hair framing your face, applying concealer to the rising mark on your cheek, you wonder if anyone else suspects a thing. If Peter, your next door neighbor and your oldest friend, knows. But that's not the point tonight, and you climb out of your window to find a good time.