Something I Am Not

SOMETHING I AM NOT

SOMETHING I AM NOT

by CHER GATTO

SOMETHING I AM NOT BY CHER GATTO

Published by Illuminate YA Fiction

an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC 27614

ISBN: 978-1-946016-69-0

Copyright © 2019 by Cher Gatto

Cover design by Elaina Lee

Interior design by AtriTeX Technologies P Ltd

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is is a work of ction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for ctional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for ctional purposes only.

All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark O ce by Biblica, Inc.TM.

Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas (LPCBooks.com): Eddie Jones, Tessa Hall, Linda Yezak, Brian Cross, Judah Raine, and Jennifer Leo

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gatto, Cher.

Something I Am Not / Cher Gatto

Printed in the United States of America

Praise for Something i Am not

Something I Am Not is a powerful story that captivated me from the rst chapter and didn’t let me go until I turned the last page. Billy’s journey will grab your heart, make you cry, and make you cheer. Realistic, inspiring, and a must read!

~Carrie Turansky Award-winning and multi-published author

Something I Am Not has it all—a colorful cast of characters, pulsequickening action, a hero you can root for—but what’s more, a redemptive message that will stay with you long after you turn the nal page. Cher Gatto gives one of the most relevant and poignant issues of our time a heartbeat, a face, and a name—Billy McQueen.

~Olivia Ciotta YA author

A gripping novel! Cher Gatto weaves heart-wrenching characters into a true-to-life setting of modern-day slavery and human tra cking. I honestly read this book in one sitting, mesmerized by the emotional twists! Highly recommended for both story and the awareness of what could be right in front of us!

~Eryn Johnson Social worker

Phenomenal story! Vivid and powerful. Moves at the speed of light.

~Stormie Conway Author at BHC Press

Blending eerie insight and gorgeous prose, Cher Gatto entwines a tale that captures the minds and hearts of readers from the very rst of its lines. Something I Am Not is so much more than a bit of entertainment, illuminating the depths of our souls as we walk with Billy through pain, doubt, fear, hope, courage, and glorious triumph. Welcome to the newest Must Read!

~Kim Woodard Osterholzer Author of A Midwife in Amish Country and Nourish and rive

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my husband, Peter, my greatest encourager and the best friend in my sandbox. Never could I have accomplished so much without you by my side.

To my beautiful children, Meagan, Sam, Maddie, Zach, and Noah, who may have given up the chance to graduate high school and college because their homeschooling mother began to write.

To my amazing parents, George and June Perry, who have been and always will be my greatest fans.

DEDICATION

To anyone living under the wrong “dad.”

May you nd freedom and hope in where you truly belong.

Divine love is rendered conspicuous When it shines in the midst of judgments. Fair is that lone star which smiles

Through the rifts of the thunder clouds; Bright is the oasis, which blooms

In the wilderness of sand; So fair and so bright is love In the midst of wrath.

C.H. SPURGEON

IBLAMED MY FATHER FOR it. For the mounting rage within me. at unrelenting surge that sought to consume. at turned me into something I was not. And I knew I was not. For there was something else. Something I could not get a hold of. Something that was not my father. Headlights crisscrossed. Loose gravel grated and popped under the ceaseless line of rubber tread. Vying for a spot in the warehouse’s dirt parking lot, the cars rolled in one by one. Blue sedan. Old Impala with a broken taillight. Marty’s white pickup truck. He never missed a night or wasted a moment in sobriety.

e forest of oak and maple surrounding the parking area o ered seclusion from Main Street, the hub of Kingston. Population 12,000. Quaint and colonial, yet progressive.

My father had done well purchasing the abandoned warehouse with every last penny from his winnings, every drop of sweat, and every broken bone. He poured out his lifeblood to remodel the old building, a relic from Pennsylvania’s industrial revolution, and transform it into one of Kingston’s most occupied watering holes, aptly named TKO. e sign ashed in uorescence over my head and above the door jamb in broad strokes. Smaller letters spelled out the acronym, Technical Knock Out, for the unversed in boxing idiom.

“You better tuck that shirt in, Billy, before your dad sees you.” e hefty bouncer at my side chucked me on the shoulder. “You know how Max feels about uniform.”

I made no move to sharpen my attire. My white dress shirt hung loose over faded jeans. Sleeves rolled up. I stretched on my stool in the open doorway and supported my back against the frame. Country music, cranked up a notch too high, reverberated through the walls behind me and ooded the night air with sound. e line that formed down the sidewalk pressed forward to get into the club before the ght. Tom McKinley and Nick Schroeder from high school bounced on their heels, checking and rechecking the length of the line. ey wore college fraternity sweatshirts to look older. I thought of leaving them to the bouncers, but they had seen me.

When they reached the entrance, they jostled one another back and forth to hand me identi cations of each one’s older brother.

“Cover is ten bucks apiece.” I handed back their IDs.

“What? Come on, man, it’s us,” Schroeder said. “Let us in for free.”

“Ruby’s down on Main Street has no cover. You could go there.”

Marty, the town drunk, shu ed past, forfeiting the long line.

“But that guy just got in for free.”

“He lives here.”

Twenty bucks slapped into my hand, and the two melded with the crowd.

When the le of newcomers dissipated, I left the job to the bouncers and entered the mayhem inside. An occasional hand reached out to ru e my hair as if I were still eight or to ask me if I had seen my father within the last few minutes. Someone always looked for him, and most of the time I had no idea where he disappeared to.

TKO set itself apart from the other pubs in town and drew a steady stream of locals and outsiders. Not because of the massive bar in the center of the room, nor on account of the scantily dressed cocktail waitresses, or the amateur live bands, or the billiard tables, dart boards, or large screen TVs. Not even the food could be accredited with its success, though the cook was a renowned chef from some acclaimed French school I could not pronounce. No, the big draw, unlike any other sports club of its kind—at least not anywhere near Kingston—was the small

indoor boxing ring Max had built the day we moved in. I supposed the ght would never be shaken from the man.

A bald-headed patron with a large paunch known only as “Tac” sidled up to me. His gray rayon suit gathered and puckered in all the wrong places. He pulled his arms and shoulders back to loosen the constriction and addressed me in a throaty timbre.

“What are the odds on this one, kid?” With a meaty hand, he swiped at his forehead, pushing back hair no longer there.

His toxic breath rolled my stomach.

“Ten to one. e house wants the New Yorker.” I lied as I had been instructed to do. “He’s fast on his feet and packs a wicked uppercut. Pound for pound, he’s your man.”

“Great. Count me in.” He shoved a wad of cash into my hand and shu ed away.

I recorded his venture in a small notebook I drew from the front pocket of my jeans and forced my way to the edge of the bar. Outright gambling was illegal in Kingston, but no one contested a friendly wager. In fact, the retired chief of police owned his own barstool and possessed a keen eye for potential victors.

Once a month, TKO invited a prize ghter of some repute, a friend or acquaintance from my father’s past, who could put on a good show. Admission and drinks were doubled, with standing room only on those nights.

On all other subsequent evenings, in place of karaoke I suppose, the club extended the privilege for open ght, where in ated machismo offered itself to the crowd and landed some drunk or boxing wannabe in the ring to be knocked senseless. Tonight’s no-name ght unexpectedly packed the house, emptied the bottles, and lled the till.

“Can I get you anything, Billy? Soda or something?” One of the immaculate bartenders set a napkin before me. Appearances. Dressed identically in pressed, stark white button-down shirts and khaki pants, all six of them, like shiny brass pennies, ipped bottles and mesmerized the crowds.

“Just water, Joe. anks.”

e circle of faces around the bar pushed in for more. Across from me, McKinley raised a glass of foaming beer and smiled wide. I turned away without acknowledging him and cursed his stupidity.

“Hi, sweet boy. You got plans later?” A silky whisper in my ear forced me to turn right into the arms of Isabella, one of the regulars since the beginning and one of my father’s many ings. He would sometimes leave me with her when he went out of town, hoping for some maternal in uence. Isabella could not be further from the mothering type.

She ipped her over-processed mane to one side and wrapped her arms around my neck, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. is close, her perfume overpowered me, and I coughed. As she moved against me with the pretense of a crowded room, her bracelets jangled, and my skin crawled.

“Just say the word, Billy.” She batted her eyelashes and pursed her lips. “You know you’re even more handsome than that father of yours. And if he leaves me alone for too long ... well, his son is a fair trade.” Her hand grazed my cheek with a feather-light touch. “Did he bring anyone home last night?”

“Get away from me.” e noise in the room swallowed my voice.

“Ooh, I love a boy who plays hard to get.” Her ngers drew through the hair at the back of my neck, and her words pressed close. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

“Isabella?” Max broke in, serious and stern beside me. His grip pinched my upper arm as he jerked me from her. He frowned at her and cocked his head in silent command toward a well-dressed man near the back of the room. Her smile faded, but with a swirl of her skirts, she danced o in obedience.

He turned his attention back to me. “Quit playing around with the ladies. We have work to do. What have you got?”

I handed him the notebook.

After perusing the pages, he slapped it back at my chest. “Okay. Tuck in your shirt. You’re a mess.” He cu ed the side of my head hard

with a forearm. “Don’t let this one get away. e odds are in our favor, and we can’t a ord to lose.”

My father always tensed right before a match, and despite his cool demeanor, the lines deepened in his face as he measured the crowd. He looked older to me, worn, and ... desperate, maybe. As if some force threatened to snatch it all away.

He slapped the bar with his palm, maybe in conviction, maybe for luck, or maybe just to signal the end of our conference. “When you’re nished with the bets, go tape that boy’s hands for the ght. And throw those minors out of the club before I slam you for it.”

e ghter’s name was Bobby Russo, in his early twenties and the son of an Italian immigrant. He had done some street ghting, but never in the ring. Fear registered on his face as I wrapped his hands in the locker room.

“Do you know my opponent?” He spoke in thick Brooklyn, his attention xed on the encircling white tape. Dark, sunken eyes with overly long lashes set above gaunt cheeks. A faint scar indented his brow. His taut lips pressed a pale line across olive skin like a strung bow ready to snap.

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Is he any good? I mean is there anything I should worry about?” He dgeted in his seat but kept his hand still in my own.

“Keep your head guarded. Don’t drop your hands. He’ll jab with his right, but it’s the left hook you have to worry about. He’s a southpaw, and it’ll come out of nowhere. Be careful.” Although we were alone in the room, I scanned the space to be completely sure. Leaking information like that was forbidden. No exception. No excuse.

“Do you think I have a chance?” he asked in a hushed tone. He was out of his league, having never been in a ring, but I searched hard for something optimistic to say.

“I don’t think anyone would care or even remember if you backed out now.” I stopped wrapping. “Look, why are you doing this anyway?

You don’t have to. It’s open ght. I’m sure there are a bunch of idiots waiting to jump in your place.”

He frowned at me. “I do have to do this, idiot or not.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Ten minutes, boys.” My father’s manager appeared and disappeared from the open door.

Bobby Russo pulled out of my grip. “You wouldn’t understand. anks for wrapping me up. I should be good from here.” He stood and left the room.

I did not nd out then what compelled Bobby Russo that night. It was a nasty ght. One I would not soon forget. Bobby never saw the punch coming. But I did. It struck violently, and his head snapped back with a crack. I heard it, like the snap of a branch. He fell and did not get back up. I stood frozen in the center of it all until someone screamed my name.

Bobby lay in my arms convulsing, eyes rolling back in his head, as I futilely tried to soak up the blood that poured from his nose and mouth. e fabric of my clothing absorbed what the towels did not. His body shuddered and lay still.

CHAPTER 2

THE PARADOX

The clamor had stopped a few hours before. Only the rhythmic tick of the clock and my father’s guttural snores interrupted the quiet. I forced my eyes open. I would have given anything for thirty more minutes of sleep.

e warmth from the electric heater in the center of the room barely reached the lumpy mat that masqueraded as my bed in the corner. I shivered as I threw o the cover and clambered to my feet. I folded back the blanket and tucked the edges underneath. My compulsion to put these things right was meaningless. No one checked to see if I made my bed.

I stole a series of furtive glances at the slumbering form on the queen bed that took up much of the single-room apartment. Not that he would stir this early. Yet I felt his eyes on me, even when closed in sleep.

We shared an old broken dresser, my father and I. ough capable of buying a new one, he chose not to. Priorities, I suppose. If there had been a mother, maybe it would have been xed. Maybe some fancy doily or a vase of owers would have been set on the dresser top, adding a splash of color to the only other decoration there—a faded black-andwhite photo encased in a cheap frame.

I picked it up, as I often did, bracing the plastic corners so it would not fall apart. e picture portrayed Max thirteen years earlier. Impressive. A sheen of sweat covered his body, and he held his middleweight championship belt over his head, his face still bruised and swollen from the ght. His sponsor stood proudly by him.

I was four the day of the picture. It was my earliest memory and my rst real boxing match. And it was Sunday. I remembered because I thought God would be disappointed I’d missed Mrs. Bailey’s Sunday school class and would be sure to punish me later.

e arena had exploded with noise, and I’d stood in the middle of it, eyes wide, taking it all in. Lights ashed. People jostled and shoved their way forward as one throng, arms and limbs moving to the same pulse, like a giant octopus. And at the center of the creature beat the rope-stringed heart with the violent blows of my father and another man. Bronze skin glistened over swells of muscle and straining tendons.

e people shouted my father’s name though they were strangers. I wondered at that. I did not know any of them. I knew only his trainer, and just barely. He put an arm on my shoulder and directed me through the mob. Pushing a wooden stool up near my father’s corner, he helped me climb onto it. en he draped a towel, embroidered with the letters MM, around my neck. I traced the silky threads with my nger. But when the ropes bulged near my head with the weight of the ghters, I startled and forgot about the letters.

e trainer handed me a bucket to catch my father’s spit. My arms, scarcely long enough to wrap around the metal’s breadth, strained with the bucket’s weight. Each passing moment transformed saliva to stone. Yet I beamed with importance, my small chest threatening to burst. At least until the splattering on my cheeks turned crimson.

When it was all over, Max leaned against the ropes and smiled down at me. “We did it, Billy! We won! Isn’t that great, son?”

I remember wondering what they had done with my father and who this man was with a twisted nose and pu y slits for eyes, who spoke to me through cracked lips.

Nightmares are born of less. And as I contemplated it at seventeen, allowing a four-year-old to watch his father get his face bashed in was not my idea of great.

e photo had captured the ashing lights along with my father’s messed-up face and radiant smile. I stood at his feet then, but the cam-

eraman had left me out. Each time I held the photo, I willed the lens to pan down, just once, to know for sure if the face, and its frozen expression, matched the recollection. To know if the light in the boy had been snu ed out then … or years later.

I set the frame back on the dresser and gingerly rubbed my cheek. Max still had a nasty right hook. I dressed and shoved last night’s clothing deep into the garbage can. No hope for removing the stains.

I stood over my father for a moment in the calm. His arm clutched the pillow, and one leg hung over the edge. I did not know the woman who slept next to him. e muscles on his broad bare back, still solidly de ned without the gym, rose and fell with each steady breath. His pro le seemed so serene and almost beautiful. e ironic paradox of my father. All my life I wanted to believe in him. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to be like him in many ways and yet nothing like him. I loved my father, and I hated him.

I crossed the cold linoleum oor, lifted the chain latch, and slid out of apartment ve. Clean morning air lled my lungs and dispelled the stagnant counterpart in a cloud of breath.

My sneakers had their place on the narrow balcony, one story high. Sitting on the top step, I jammed my feet into them and glanced along the row of closed doors. Apartments one through four. Assigned after last call to whomever my father granted the privilege.

I descended the wooden stairs. e evening’s rain had turned the parking area to mud, and the night air froze it in place. I sprang over a rut dredged by a car tire and pulled the keys from my pocket. e jangling announced my arrival to the roaming stray I had named Mange, a terrier-shepherd cross that adopted the club as her home—or at least the kitchen, where the sta tossed her scraps out the back door each night, unbeknownst to my father. Mange was the closest I had come to owning a pet, minus the gold sh I brought home from a birthday party, third grade. Max ushed it before it was belly up. Said he was allergic to sh and it cost too much to feed.

e dog trotted up to me, but with no gift of food, she declined my rub and followed a scent in the opposite direction.

I unlocked the bolted door to the warehouse and pushed it open to a ghostly stillness. e walls divulged the drunken revelry hours before with the lingering stench of cigar and stale whiskey. Somehow, it never ceased to weave its way into the fabric of my clothing.

A sticky lm covered the hardwood oor and grabbed at the soles of my sneakers from the entryway to the maintenance closet. Swabbing up the spilled liquor, blood, urine, and vomit from the night before constituted my morning chores.

Most days, I skipped breakfast.

I mopped the ring and scrubbed until my hands felt raw, while Bobby Russo lay in a coma on the third oor of the general hospital.

e prognosis was poor. ough the stains faded little by little, the images did not. ey ashed uninvited, like a movie screen with no o switch. I could not shake them. Yet my father would say it had been a good ght. Dramatic to watch that kid fall. And drama was always good for business.

As if my very thoughts had summoned him, Max’s voice boomed across the empty room. “Good morning, Billy.”

My muscles tensed, detonated even before my brain engaged. I never expected him out of bed this early, especially when he had company. He sauntered across the club’s oor, shirt unbuttoned, torso ripped, and an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He settled down on a barstool and ran his ngers through his thick, dark hair. ere were signs of graying, even at thirty-seven.

Growing up at his side, watching him struggle and ght his way to the top to become a champion and a thriving entrepreneur, I had, despite my fear of him, a respect for my father and a longing to be accepted by him. Yet, more times than not, I strove after the wind to belong in his world. Sometimes, when his mood was right, he would dress me up and take me to the nest restaurants, show me o to all his cronies we met on the street. He would lavish me with new clothing or expensive gifts and spontaneous getaways in fancy hotels. en, as quickly as it came, like the full-moon tide, he would forget about me for months on end.

e surge would retreat, leaving in its wake the small tide pool creature

to shrivel and die in the evaporating waters. I often thought it would have been better had the tide never come in at all.

“Gimme a drink, will ya?” A clear demand couched in a question.

“It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

He chuckled. “Since when did you become my mother? Just get me a drink … and a light while you’re at it.”

I walked behind the bar and rummaged for a lighter. e barstool squeaked as he stretched back in his seat, arms behind his head, watching my every move. He cleared his lungs with a cough. “You have football today?”

“Yeah. Every day.” I was surprised he didn’t know this.

“ e big game’s coming up in a few weeks, huh?” He tapped the unlit cigarette on the wooden bar. “You ready for it?”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t let me down. I expect a good game. We’re playing o it with Saturday night’s ght. Get some football dads to duke it out in the ring. What do you think?”

I shrugged. Of course, my team’s ability to pull o a win would bene t him in some way.

“Feeling okay today?” He jutted his chin toward my cheek.

“I’m ne.”

“Good, ’cause I need help getting the apartments ready this afternoon. Some foreigners are using them. A school exchange program.”

“School exchange?”

“To better the community, you know?” He chucked a balled napkin over the bar and into the garbage can. “After football practice, then. You can clean the apartments with Isabella.”

“What?” My chest tightened. “Isn’t there something else you need me for? I can clean the bar. Or the kitchen. Whatever.”

“No. I need you upstairs in the apartments.”

“ en I’ll do it myself.” My breathing quickened. “I don’t need help.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll do it together.” He leaned in, elbows on the bar. “And if you play nice, maybe she’ll iron your shirts for you.”

I felt sick.

“How’d you like the ght last night?” He stuck the cigarette between his teeth and waited for the light.

I held up the ame and saw it re ected in orbs of translucent green, sharp and piercing. I dropped my gaze under his scrutiny and busied myself with mixing the drink without answering. I scooped out ice. en, grabbing a bottle in my right hand and the soda gun in my left, I lled the glass, half rum and half Coke, just the way he liked it.

I set his drink down in front of him and stepped out of the bar to my mop again.

After a minute or two, he slid o the stool and approached, the ice rattling in his glass.

I knew he expected an answer. e question was not as casual as it sounded. I also knew, even before Bobby Russo lay in a coma, that my father was a cheat. at nothing appeared as it was, and that most of the ghts were thrown, xed, or mismatched to his advantage. It was never about the best ghter, the bravest or the strongest, like I always wanted to believe. It was all about playing the crowd, and at that, my father was a genius. Handsome, intelligent, and conniving. He had it all gured out, like the odds of a roulette wheel, alluring and calculated. e worst part was that on this occasion, I had assisted him. I’d sold out the kid from Brooklyn, his fate secured with every bet I pocketed in his favor.

“Was it worth it?” I said with him too close and wished I hadn’t.

“What kind of answer is that?” A menacing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, not yet given full discharge.

“Did you make enough money to pay for his life?” I pushed the mop bucket from me. Soapy water sloshed on the oor. I took a step back for his step forward. I did not want to be afraid of him, but I was.

His eyes darkened, eclipsing color, and the muscle in his jaw popped in and out as he circled. “ at kid put himself in the ring, son. It was his choice to ght, not mine.”

“He didn’t know what he was up against. He never had a chance.”

“No? Really? ’Cause I’d say he had some chance.” He chuckled to himself and emptied his glass in the last few gulps. “Either way, you’ll get over it. e rst death is always the hardest.”

“He’s not dead.” I balled my hands to stop the buzzing.

“He will be.”

“And you put him in that ring.” I tasted the venom on my tongue. “ ere would be a murder charge if anyone knew the truth.”

I had crossed the line. I knew it seconds before the glass sailed past my head and smashed against the wall behind me. My mistake was to turn as it shattered, taking my eyes o him.

In a ash, he slammed my chest against the wall, twisting my arm behind my back. My bruised cheek absorbed the shock of the paneling as his other arm locked my head in place. With every move against him, he pushed my arm higher until I feared my bone would snap.

“Not so tough now, are you?” His words hissed through his teeth inches from my ear. “You’ve got big words, Billy, and nothing to back them up. You want to make threats, you better have the steel to stand behind them.” He yanked me from the wall and tossed me onto the oor. With a knee pressed into my spine, he thrust my arm higher.

“Get o . You’re gonna break my arm.” Beads of sweat formed on my brow.

“ at’s right. I could take it all away right now, Billy. One crack, and you’ll be nothing. A broken arm for a busted quarterback. You’ll be sloppin’ puke the rest of your life.”

White-hot pain seared through my shoulder. “Get o me!”

“I’ll get o when I’m nished.” Unresponsive to my agony, he continued, “Where’s your sympathy for your old man, huh? Your own esh and blood? You wanna side with some punk kid who waltzes in here begging for a thrashing, huh? Do ya?”

e pressure blinded. His words rained down on me, blurry and indistinct.

“Answer me, or I swear I’ll break it.”

“No … I don’t.”

At the moment the tendon could not withstand it, he released me.

I cradled my aching arm into my chest and squeezed my eyes shut.

Crouching over me, he waited until I had the guts to open my eyes. A short laugh escaped him—a brief thanks for playing the game he always won.

“Don’t forget your place, boy.” He straightened and spat down in my face. “Looks like you’re still just catching my spit.”

e humor he found in the joke echoed through the empty room and triggered a t of coughing as he walked to the door. “Clean up that glass before school.”