Trust
“Just so you know, she wasn’t always like this,” Kenny says.
We’re taking turns throwing rocks into the part of the creek that passes through the back of Getty Square. I don’t want to say anything about his mom. I actually wish I can pretend I didn’t see anything. His life definitely sucks way more than mine.
“I got mad pictures of her and my dad from back in the day. She wasn’t always like this,” he repeats.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask, genuinely curious. We’ve never talked about his dad. I just figured that either Kenny didn’t know who his dad was or that his dad was dead. Either way, I always thought it would’ve been rude to ask, but I take the opportunity now since he brought it up.
“He’s locked up. Some prison way upstate.”
“Do you write him?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t k
