My Father's Point-Based Game

Over the next two weeks, I lived like a servant, eager to do anything that would earn me points.

Waking up early to cook breakfast earned me 2 points. Mopping the floor earned me 2 points. Handwashing all the laundry earned me 5 points.

Even when my period cramp was so painful that I could hardly stand, I still crouched down to scrub the floor.

Cold sweat dripped down my forehead onto the tiles, and I quickly wiped it away. Points would be deducted if I made the floor dirty.

Esther lounged on the couch, snacking on popcorn.

A piece of popcorn dropped down to the floor I just cleaned. She laughed and said, "Oops, my hand slipped."

She smiled at me. "I'm helping you, Myra. If you clean it again, won't you earn another point?"

I remained silent and crawled over to pick up the popcorn. Patrick rushed over and stepped on my hand with his sneaker.

"I'll help too!"

He stepped hard. Dad, who was reading the newspaper nearby, glanced at us. If I retaliated, I would be "bullying my younger brother" and had 50 points deducted. If I cried, I would be "affecting family harmony" and had 30 points deducted.

I pulled my hand back, the skin swollen and red. "Thanks, Patrick." I squeezed the words through clenched teeth.

Dad nodded approvingly. "That's it. Siblings should always help each other."

He awarded me 2 points.

That night, I pieced back together the homework that Patrick tore apart.

I had to hand it in tomorrow, or I would be reprimanded by my teacher.

That would result in a deduction of 20 points at home.

I couldn't afford to lose any more points.

Not even one.

It was soon time for the mid-term exams.

I tried my best to do well.

My hands were shaking when I received my report card.

I was the top student in my grade.

I got a perfect score in every subject.

According to the rules, getting first place earned 100 points, and a perfect score earned an additional 100 points.

Adding the points I had saved up from doing chores day and night for the past two weeks, I had exactly a thousand points.

I clutched the report card and rushed home. The air felt sweet.

When I pushed open the door, my family was gathered around the TV, laughing.

Patrick pointed at an advertisement on TV and shouted, "I want that! I want those shoes!"

They were limited-edition sneakers worn by a certain basketball star. Each pair cost more than $400.

Esther coaxed him. "Those are too expensive. You don't have enough points."

Dad also said with a smile, "Patrick, we have to follow the rules."

I took a deep breath and walked up to Dad.

I gently placed my report card and point book on the coffee table.

"Dad, I'm the top student in my grade."

Dad picked up the report card, glanced at it, and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

I pushed the point book over to him. "Including the points for this reward, I have exactly one thousand points. Dad, you promised to make my wish come true if I accumulate a thousand points."

Dad set down the newspaper, his gaze dropping to the point book.

"Myra," Dad said slowly, "is this Olympiad math class really that important?"

"Yes, it is." I stared into his eyes. "It's my only wish."

The atmosphere froze for a few seconds.

Dad picked up the pen, ready to sign.

My heart was in my throat.

Suddenly, Patrick threw the remote control hard at the TV screen.

"I want those shoes! I want those shoes! I want them now!"

He lay on the ground, rolling around and crying his heart out.

"Everyone else has them! I'm the only one who doesn't! You don't love me at all, Gary! You're a terrible stepfather!"

The word "stepfather" hit Dad where it hurt.

Dad's face instantly turned red, and the anxiety of maintaining his "good stepfather" reputation flared up again.

Esther wiped away tears and remarked, "Oh, what a poor boy. If his real father was still here..."

Dad suddenly stood up.

He looked at Patrick on the floor, then at the report card on the table.

The application fee for the Olympiad math class was $400, the same price as the shoes.

He picked up the whiteboard eraser and walked to the whiteboard.

My eyes were locked on his hand.

No.

Please, no.

Dad raised the eraser, aiming it at the bright red "1000" under my name.

One swipe.

Two swipes.

Chalk dust fell.

That number that I had earned with blood, sweat, dignity, and countless late nights, disappeared, replaced by a glaring blank space.

"Dad?"