B
utch hoped that his mother would be off running another one of her lame errands and not fussing around the house. That was the last thing he needed right now. She’d take one look at his busted lip and swollen cheek and end up giving him the third degree. She’d want to know what happened, who did it, why he got himself involved in another situation like that in the first place. Then, after the interrogation, she’d dote on him, treating him like a baby.
whatwhowhyBut unlike his mother, Butch’s father would want to know if he got any good punches in, proud that his son was involved in a playground brawl. He’d press Butch for details, then only be disappointed that his boy didn’t fight back, didn’t swing a single punch, that he ended up on the ground crying in front of all the other kids.
