The first time I remember my mother kicking my brother, I was four years old. I thought it was funny. He was curled up tightly, knees to his chest. “He’s a soccer ball,” I thought, trying not to laugh. His face was crumpled up cartoonishly as he cried aloud, mouth open, as he rolled over and over across the floor with each kick.
I wasn’t the good kid, but I was the smart kid. I knew how not to piss off my mother. My brother was not so fortunate. He was constantly bumping into things, saying the wrong thing, not grasping his homework. I was sneakier. My mother knew this, and disliked me for it, but had less opportunity to hit me. I prided myself on the fact that I was protected, if not from her rages, at least from her violence.
One morning, soon afterward, I went to get myself milk. My mother was sleeping, which was when she was crankiest, so I decided not to wake her. I had never gotten myself milk before. I hoisted myself up onto the kitchen counter and stood, reaching to pull my pink plastic cup down from the cabinet. I wobbled, nearly losing my balance, but caught myself on the cabinet door. Carefully, I lowered myself down and then leaped from the counter to the floor.
I took the cup to the table and went back into the kitchen to get the milk. It was a gallon jug, and I had to hold it with both hands. I struggled all the way to the table, waddling from side to side with the weight of the milk.
I stood on the bench, heaved the jug up, unscrewed the top, and began pouring the milk into the pink plastic cup. I balanced the rim of the jug against the rim of the cup, leaning it carefully.
Suddenly, my arms faltered. The pink cup clattered to its side, milk splashing out across the table’s edge and all over the floor. It soaked quickly into the brown carpet, leaving a deep stain that slowly pooled outwards.
I had to get my mother.
The next thing I remember is her screaming. She knocked me to the floor and kicked me as hard as she could. I curled up tightly, knees to my chest. I was the smart kid, I had thought. It was only milk. She kicked me again and again.
I thought of my brother, of laughing at him, and of how ridiculous he had looked. I knew I looked just as ridiculous. “I’m a soccer ball,” I thought over and over, as I rolled across the floor. “I’m a soccer ball!”
