Eight Years Old

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and Tommy was sitting outside. On the front lawn and under the maple tree. It was raining; had been raining all day. Drizzle and five-minute breaks of fat and fast and rolling rain. Tommy's legs were in shorts, knees gripped to earth. He was wearing his jacket. And the maple tree was old and thick and full.
Tommy could hear Momma from the house sometimes. The windows were open and there were no curtains hung up yet. Momma was still unpacking.
Momma was swearing.
"Fucking piece of shit," she would say, and Tommy would repeat it back, whispered into his chest.
Tommy had not spoken to Momma all day.
Nor had he spoken to Aunt Lynn the two times she had already been over.
Nor had Tommy ate breakfast that morning.
And Tommy had not went into the new house for lunch.
Because he did not care if it was pizza. Or who had paid for the stinking shit.
In fact, the only person Tommy had spoken to all day was the friendly delivery boy, bearing the pizza.
When the friendly delivery boy stepped out of his car and said, Hey, buddy. I like rain, too, Tommy had snarled at him, Fuck off.
The best part of Tommy's day was giving the finger to the little blonde-haired girl who rode back and forth, on her bicycle. All day long. In the rain.
Tommy thought she was stupid.
Tommy hated everything.