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Alphie sighed tiredly, leaned an arm lazily across the top of the steering wheel, and smacked his gums.

"Well what am I supposed to do about this if you won't talk to me, huh?" He looked at her, then looked away. "Geez," he said. "You're frustrating me here. What am I s'posed to do? If you don't tell me what's wrong, I ain't cold, we'll sit here all night waiting."

"Nothing, Alphie. Nothing. Everything's fine."

With his voice now full of concern, he asked, "You mean that? You're okay here?"

"Yeah," she said. "Sure. Take me home. Call me tomorrow."

"Maybe you're getting your period or something. Is that it?"

"Yeah, Alphie," she patted his shoulder. "That's my problem."

Aaron hated evenings. He hated his father going somewhere without him, as he often did after work, or supper, leaving Aaron at his aunt's and picking him up when the night was over. As much as he loved his Aunt Lue, he couldn't stand to come out of the school and see her car parked at the side of the road waiting for him as he had today. He and his dad used to play cards, or rent movies, they'd take walks by the river or go for ice cream in the summer when his mother was alive. They would all go.

Neither his Aunt Lue nor Uncle Gary ever mentioned where his father was, but Aaron knew he spent the evenings with friends at a bar. Aaron had been there before, nearly a year ago, and wondered why he couldn't go too. After his mother died, the waitress from there, Bea, came over to the house a few times and she and his dad would sit in the back room and talk with the door shut. Sometimes, when he'd heard the muffled sound of his father crying, he'd turned the TV way up until they'd come out. That didn't happen anymore because his dad spent more time at the bar, so no one needed to visit at home.

When Aaron had nearly finished his supper, his Aunt Lue asked him where his painting was from school. Aaron shrugged. "Show your Uncle Gary the painting." "It's downstairs," Aaron said, sounding as if that was too far away to bother.

"Don't I get to see it?" Uncle Gary asked.

He shrugged. "It's not so good."

"Doesn't mean I don't want to see it." Uncle Gary was smiling. It made Aaron angry.

"I can show you later," he sighed, exasperated, hoping they'd drop it.

"Mm," Aunt Lue said, noticing the tone in his voice. "What's it of?"

"A fish."

"A fish? That sounds like fun," she said. "What colour is it?"

"Blue, green and orange." He really didn't want to talk about the painting. He'd forgot it on the clothes pegs at school, but when he'd been about to get in Aunt Lue's car, Trisha Yardley had run towards him with the painting flapping in her hand. Aaron snatched it from her and jumped in the car without saying a word to her, which his aunt hadn't liked.

"You can't keep this up forever, Aaron," she'd said.

He'd looked at her, pretending he didn't understand. She'd smiled sweetly at him, but he knew she wasn't happy. "You know, kiddo? You're going to have to get some friends eventually," she'd said, though she had no idea what it was like for him at school. Being nice to Trisha Yardley wasn't going to help him find friends. Nobody liked Trisha, not even the teacher.

So the last thing Aaron felt like doing was showing his aunt and uncle the painting. "I want to watch TV until my dad comes."

Aunt Lue was going to say something but his uncle spoke first. "Sure, kiddo. I think the remote's on the floor. Don't step on it."

Aaron got up from the table and took his dirty dishes with him. His uncle messed his hair as he passed, but his Aunt Lue didn't say anything. Placing his dishes carefully in the kitchen sink, he had the urge to drop them, and call it an accident, but it was too late. He'd already set them down.

In the den, he turned the television on, but didn't really watch it. He sat on the prickly carpet, his arms stretched across the coffee table holding the painting. He could hear his Aunt Lue running water, then the dishes bumping together in the sink and the sharper clinking sound as they were placed in the drying rack. Other nights, he helped her with the dishes. She'd call to him to come help, which he liked, because they'd paint bushy beards and eyebrows on each other with the bubbles. He knew she was upset with him, for some reason, because she didn't ask him to come up.

He didn't know why she was angry with him. Maybe because he wasn't nice to Trisha Yardley this afternoon, though nobody liked her, not even the teacher.

Aaron took hold of the painting at the top edge and pulled in opposite directions, slowly so as not to make noise, splitting the fish in two. The paint was thick. Small bits flaked off like scales. He tore the page again, and again, watching the paint crack, then chip and fall in his lap. When the pieces were small enough, he tucked them in his pocket and brushed the scaly bits from his pants.