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“We can take it from Timothy’s grocery fund. That boy eats too much and we waste enough money on him as it is.”
Tim stared at the empty cabinets, stomach growling and head pulsing. He hadn’t thought his parents would cut him off completely, thought he would have to ration a bit, thought they would still provide for him.
But it wasn’t just the food. The AC maintained optimal temperature for the artifacts, though there was no electricity to run the stove or the lights or the heaters or carry a charge to the outlets. There was no water to bathe with or steal drinks from the sink when the bottles ran out. Tim had shelter from the elements and a bed to sleep in, and that was it.
What happened when winter came? Would the blankets and sweaters be enough?
Anger burned in his lungs and pricked at his eyes, bitter resentment building more than it ever had in the thirteen years he’d lived here. He wouldn’t even know it had been intentional if he hadn’t overheard their conversation: would have given them the benefit of the doubt at every turn, believing they loved him even though they seldom showed it.
What had they been expecting him to do? Get a part time job to support himself and all of the bills? He was minor; he wouldn’t get the hours or wages to make enough to keep the house going, if there was even an establishment that would ignore the age minimum. Or maybe they were hoping he’d take to roaming the streets and then he’d conveniently not be their problem anymore.
Well.
Tim thought bitterly to himself.
He didn’t ask to be born. Didn’t ask to be a show pony they didn’t pay attention to until they could parade him around at galas.
If they didn’t want “problems”, they shouldn’t have had a kid.
Tim felt like a man possessed as he beat at the name on his phone and stalked to the nearest tchotchke they’d hauled from Morocco, or Peru, or somewhere. It rang and rang, bouncing off the hollow manor walls, like a ghost trying to be remembered.
It ended.
Tim pressed the speed dial again, having expected this. That realization, that his parents never answered his calls on purpose, gouged something out of his heart and set his rage on fire. He furiously blinked back tears, intent on keeping his throat unclogged and steady. He wouldn’t let his parents hear it as anything but.
The call rang itself out.
Tim pressed the speed dial again, intent at annoying his parents at the very least.
It rang and rang and rang. No one answered.
When he tried a fourth time, it cut out after a single chime, and Tim barked out a rough laugh, a jagged thing that was anything but humorous. Jack had blocked him.
Fine. They’d do this the hard way.
Tim bounded his way up the stairs and marched into his bedroom with purpose. The laptop he’d built himself—and kept hidden when his parents were home so they couldn’t confiscate it when he was in trouble—was already on his desk and he grabbed it, took the bus to the nearest cafe with free wifi, and flipped it open.
The only reason Tim hadn’t siphoned funds from his parents accounts as he was going hungry, was because they watched them like a hawk. They liked seeing the numbers go up and they’d notice interference.
Instead of taking their money, however, Tim froze them out. He knew exactly where to get funds for food and bills.
It was during early fall, when the leaves were turning reds and oranges and yellows and purplish browns, that the muffled roll of tires and slamming of doors filtered through the walls. Tim flicked his gaze up, and then back to his book, delicately flipping to the next page.
Once dainty and performative, heavy steps clomped up the front porch. Tim focused on his book as a key jangled in the lock, the door was tossed open, and heavy sighs announced his parents’ arrival as they stepped into the foyer. Tim heard them shucking their boots, and rose an eyebrow at their lack of decorum.
They entered into the main of the house, and paused in the archway. Tim could feel their eyes on him.
He didn’t look up. He refused to greet them first, like the pathetically desperate kid he’d been just months ago. As if they had expected him to do so, to demonstrate his fealty like a robot programmed to be the perfect son, they said in unison: “Timothy” with affronted expectation.
Tim flipped to the next page.
“What are you doing on the couch; come help with the luggage.” Jack demanded.
Tim ignored them.
“Timothy!” His mother snapped, more high-strung than usual.
“I suppose a “hello” was too much to expect from you.” Tim drawled dryly as his gaze roved over his page.
“. . .Excuse me?” His father said.
“Timothy.” Janet said tightly, and he could tell she wasn’t looking at him as she said this.
Ah. She’d noticed quick.
Her voice hardened. “Where are our artifacts?”
At this, Jack also looked around, stiffening.
“Oh those?” Tim said nonchalantly, just to bother them. “I sold them.”
Silence befell them, and Tim finally looked up.
Jack and Janet could only be described as haggard. Their clothes were rumpled and hair unwashed. Dark circles rested under their eyes, and their faces--incandescent with incredulous wrath--were worn and tired.
This probably had something to do with their accounts constantly barred(for some reason, the bank couldn’t figure it out and explained it must be a glitch, and were working on it), their stint in jail for suspected fraud, being thrown out of the rented house they could no longer pay for, the lack of abundance of food, and the multitude of hoops they had to jump through with local enforcement just to get home.
Tim smiled innocently. “Nice trip?”
“Timothy Jackson Drake!” Jack bellowed, red in the face, and seemingly too worked up to know how to follow through.
“How dare—“
“You see.” With a clap of his book snapping shut, Tim did the one thing he strived not to do most: cut his mother off mid-sentence, and Janet and Jack balked. Their obedient son wouldn’t behave like this. “For some reason, none of your credit cards were working and I couldn’t contact you.”
They blinked at him.
“I’m too young to get a job, and I didn’t want to make trouble for you by catching the attention of CPS if I tried to do so.”
His parents blanched.
“You taught me resourcefulness was a virtue, Father, and I sold the artifacts so I wouldn’t starve to death.” Tim held his cheerful smile, like the ones he wore when he was five and hoping for praise for doing something smart. The “death” part was a bit dramatic, Tim would’ve figure something out, but he was making a point. It made a better one than simply breaking the things, like he’d originally aspired in the height of brash emotion. He’d wanted his parents to hear it over the phone. Still kinda did.
Slowly, he let the smile fall, tone smoothing to a monotone. “Or do you want me to call up the police and let them know there was a misunderstanding?” He was more than willing to do it with eight back-up plans to keep him out of the system.
Tim saw it in their eyes: the inkling that their misfortune was perhaps more than happenstance. They had no way to prove it, no grounds to accuse him, and eyed Tim like they’d never seen him before. Like a beast they realized they had never truly tamed: only provoked.
“No that’s. . .that’s fine, dear.” Janet wavered. “Well done.” She choked out.
Up until they died, his parents didn’t dare to test him again.