A Blind Eye Read Online Free PDF

homework is lame . . . are you going to the football game tomorrow? That last was from Jay, my closest friend and the star wide receiver on the football team. He hated when I missed his games. He thrived on glory and praise, and if I didn’t show up to feed it to him, he might actually starve.
    The feeling was reciprocal. If not for Jay Jackson, I’d be curled up in the fetal position on the basement floor. No one besides Jay and his father knew the truth about my life in purgatory. In fact, most kids envied me. Money, car, no parental interference. From the outside, it looked ideal. From the inside, it burned me up. No pat on the back when I did something well. No swat on the butt to keep me in line. No one to care if I lived or died. Being left alone is not at all what it’s cracked up to be. So, Jay. He fastened me onto his safety line and dragged me forward—no matter how hard I kept slipping back.
    I was ninety-nine percent sure his dad, the bishop, made him do it. At least in the beginning. A special assignment to help the stray find his way back into the fold. Scary thing is, it worked. Jay was cool and friendly, and all the girls swooned after him for his athletic body and his rich, brown skin. He was by far the best thing in my life.
    After Mom died, Dad turned his back on the Church and turned instead to work, expensive wine, and severing all ties to his son. Consequently, I went through a pretty rough phase myself—doing everything wrong I could think of to get my father’s attention.
    I guess that’s when Jay’s dad made me Project of the Year. I hated it at first, but it didn’t take long before I felt relieved that at least one person cared. Jay somehow managed to turn me around, schlepping me to church and forcing me to wake up at the crack of dawn for early-morning seminary.
    Bishop Jackson made a valiant effort to save my dad. He came by the house a few times, but Dad never let him past the entryway. The last time he stopped by, my father met him on the porch. It was late, because that’s the only time you can catch Richard Morris at home. He left the front door open, and I listened from the top of the stairs as my father berated the bishop for caring, demanding he never speak to him of the Church, God, or his son ever again. That’s when I heard my father say, “Christian is free to do whatever he wants. He means nothing to me anymore.”
    Nothing. The word knotted itself around my neck and tried to strangle me. I was fifteen. I already knew how he felt, but hearing it spoken out loud, to the bishop . . . that was hard. When I told Jay what I’d heard my dad say, he sat in stunned silence for a full five minutes before stoically rising and punching a hole through the wall of his bedroom.
    â€œSorry I’ll miss your game, buddy,” I whispered.
    His wasn’t the only game I’d miss. Jay had convinced me to join the tennis team this year, and I’d be MIA for my own match too.
    I dialed my voice mail, but the first message was blank—the unidentified phone number. Whoever had called had hung up without saying anything.
    The second message was Jay’s. “Dude, where are you? Flaky much? I thought we were going for tacos.” I laughed out loud then stopped, remembering Scarlett was sleeping upstairs.
    The other message was the one from my dad. “Son, it’s your father.” Son? When did he ever call me that? Had he finally forgotten my name? “I’m worried about you. Call me.” Worried? About me? Not likely. Worried about the stolen money, I’d bet. And no thanks on the call me option. That was a tie I was willing to sever.
    I shoved the phone into my pocket and grabbed a pillow and a sleeping bag from the closet. The scraping of the sliding door sounded loud in the quiet of the night as I headed out to the backyard. I had an old hammock out there, and it was my favorite place to sleep—when it