Scars. Part 9

"You sure?" Sandy asks, standing. "We'd be happy to have you."

"I'm sure."

Sandy shrugs, then goes to the living room.

I listen to his voice rise and fall, and I know she's giving him the third degree, probably for not calling her as soon as I got here.

I glare down at the table. She's probably not calling because she's worried about me. She's probably calling to make sure I'll be home before Dad is. Because he'd worry. "Don't worry your father"-I've heard that so many times. It's like she thinks he needs protecting-more than me.

He was devastated when he found out I'd been abused. He looked like the pain was going to rip him apart. But it was me that it happened to, d.a.m.n it. I'm the one who was raped-over and over and over again.

I press my fingers against my lips. I can't think about him right now. Can't think about any of it. I have to figure out how to keep seeing Carolyn. How to stay here. And Sandy isn't it.

I push back my chair and stand.

Sandy strides back in, then stops when he sees me. "You leaving already? I told your mom you'd be here for at least another half hour or so-"

Good. "Don't tell her I've left, Sandy, okay? I need some time to think."

Sandy puts his hands on my shoulders, gazes down into my eyes. "You're not going to do anything stupid?"

"I'm not."

Sandy kisses my cheek. "Then go have your half hour or so of freedom. But make sure you call me when you get home, all right? I don't want to be sitting up worrying about you."

"I will."

Out on the street, I flip open my cell. If anyone can help me, it's Meghan. I call 411. There's a lot of Ellises in the directory, but only a few are listed under a woman's name. I accept the first one.

"Yeah? Whaddya want?" a woman's irritated voice asks.

"Is Meghan there?"

"I dunno. Let me check." The receiver clunks down. "Meghan? Meghan, get your a.s.s down here!" The woman coughs, then picks up the phone again. "She'll be right down. Mind you don't stay on too long. I got an important call coming through."

"Yes, ma'am." Guess they don't have call waiting-if it's even the right number.

I keep walking, clutching my phone, trying to look confident in the dark-and unapproachable.

"Yeah?"

It's Meghan.

I grip the phone tighter. "Hi, Meghan? It's Kendra. Listen, do you know any place I can crash if I need to?"` "Why? What's wrong?"

"My parents. They're talking about moving out of the city. But I can't leave my therapist and the group-" And you. "I thought maybe if I can find some place to stay, they won't drag me with them."

"Well, you can crash with me if you're desperate. My mom would never know the difference."

I breathe out. "Thanks, Meghan." I snap my cell shut.

I'm not going to stop seeing Carolyn, even if I have to run away to keep on seeing her.

I start back towards home, and suddenly there are footsteps behind me-heavy and deliberate.

I spin around, but no one's there-just a torn chip bag fluttering along the sidewalk. I pound ahead, moving faster now, trying to pretend I'm not afraid, my heels slamming against the cement. My heart's pumping so hard, I think I'm going to choke.

I flip open my cell again, keep my finger on the speed dial key for Carolyn.

I hear the footsteps again-louder this time. I whirl around, peering into the darkness, the streetlights barely making a dent in the night. The cars and newspaper stands cast long shadows along the dirty sidewalk, shadows that a man could hide in. Broken gla.s.s glitters beneath a parking meter.

A m.u.f.fled cough explodes into the quiet.

I jerk my head toward the sound. I don't see anything at first. Then I spot a shiny black shoe sticking out from behind a parked car. My heart jolts like it's been shocked with a defibrillator; I turn and run as fast as I can toward home. A car pa.s.ses me, driving slowly. I dodge away from it. My breath rasps in my ears.

The porch light glows like a beacon. I run toward it, gulping air. I can almost feel him behind me, reaching for me. I race up the stairs, leap onto the porch. There's movement in front of me, a shadow rising to block my way.

"No!" I cry.

The shadow moves into the light, and I see it's just Mom. She grabs me by the arms.

I hiss with pain.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" Mom says, shaking me.

"I'm sorry!"

"It's dangerous for a girl out alone at night. For any woman."

I know! I keep the words locked inside; I don't want to scare her. Yet a tiny part of me wants to scream that it was a lot more dangerous for me to be with one of her friends-or with a teacher or an uncle or someone she knew-than to be out alone in the dark, chased by some faceless stranger.

Her fingers dig angrily into my arm, making my wounds burn-but I'm angry, too. I lift my head high. "I'm not moving."

"You may not have a choice."

You're wrong. "Is Dad in yet?"

"He just got in. Went straight downstairs to watch TV. He's more upset about the downsizing than he's letting on."

"I'll go look in on him."

"Don't you worry your dad about this. He's got enough on his plate right now without you adding to it. You hear me?"

I hear you. Dad always comes first.

16.

I head down the stairs slowly, past all the maps Dad has papered the wall with-maps of places he's never been. Laughter blares from the TV. The scent of glue and paint rises up to greet me; he must be working on his model soldiers. I peer through the banister. Dad isn't watching the screen or working on his soldiers; he's holding his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

I take a step back. I've only seen Dad cry once in my life-the night he found out about the abuse. My legs wobble as if I'm ill.

I don't know whether to go back upstairs and pretend I never saw him or to let him know I'm here. I turn and sneak back up the stairs, then thump back down them as noisily as I can. "Dad! Hey Dad, where are you?" I pause at the corner, give him another few seconds to compose himself, then head into the rec room.

Dad's sitting up-his gla.s.ses back on, his face composed. Scattered on the table next to him are the bits and pieces of his model soldiers-arms and legs and torsos-ready to be glued together, and little jars of acrylic paint. Dad turns down the volume on the TV and sets a soldier's head down on the table. "There's my girl! You're always so busy, I feel like I never get to see you any more."

He holds out his arms. I lean down to hug him, then flop beside him on the sagging couch and kiss his rough cheek. Dad chucks my chin with his strong hand. "How have you been holding up?"

I hear the footsteps in my mind again. I clench my hand until the scabbing wounds part, the pain jagged. "I'm okay." I look at his watery, reddened eyes and his blotchy neck, and I want to ask how he is. But I know I can't-not without him realizing I saw him cry.

Dad searches my eyes. "You sure?"

I pick at a tear in my jeans. "It's been hard lately, but nothing I can't handle."

"I know you're strong, honey. You don't have to prove it to me."

"I wasn't, I was-" Trying to protect you.

Dad shakes his head. "I know you think you always have to put up a front for your mom and me. I don't know where you get that from-"

From you guys!

"But you don't have to, Kendra. We're your parents. We want to be there for you."

Maybe you do. Mom sure doesn't.

Dad rubs his jaw. "I know you must be upset about the idea of moving-"

"It's not that, Dad." I pull away from him. "It's about leaving therapy and my friends. I need them right now."

"I know you do." Dad bows his head. "And you deserve it. It's just...." His voice trails off.

"It's okay, Dad. Mom told me. But listen-I can pay for the sessions myself. I just have to be able to get to them!"

"And that means you don't want to move."

I nod, hope rising inside me. "I'm sorry, Kendra, but that's something I can't control. I can't pay the mortgage, and-"

"I thought you guys paid that off years ago?"

Dad looks startled. "We did. But when things started looking bad at work, I took out another mortgage. Thought I'd start up my own business-but that didn't work out. I'm just a d.a.m.ned failure, any way you look at it."

I've never heard him talk like this. It scares me. "You're not a failure, Dad."

"I am. My daughter needs therapy, and I can't even provide it for her."

I don't know what to say any more. Dad laughs feebly. "Here I am, gabbing away, when I should be listening to you. That therapist of yours-you really feel she's helping you?"

"Yeah, I do."

"And you think it's important to keep seeing her?"

"Yes. I told you, Dad, I can pay for the sessions."

"But you can't pay the mortgage. Look, I'll go to the bank again, see if I can't work something out. Okay? I don't want to move, either. Your mother and I were married here. I ever tell you that? We were so young and so in love-"

I cross my legs. I don't want to hear this.

Dad stops, clears his throat. "I'll talk to the bank tomorrow. Now, you go upstairs and get some sleep. Leave the worrying to your mom and me."

As if I could.

17.

I wake up feeling like I haven't slept. My eyes ache, my mouth tastes funky, and I feel sluggish. I want to roll over and go back to sleep. But then I think of Meghan and get myself to school.

Meghan finds me at my locker before the bell rings. "I'm serious about my offer," she says. "But you'd better be sure you want it. Living with my mom is no picnic."

I wonder if the bruise on her neck's faded yet. I touch her arm gently. "I know."

Meghan kicks at the floor. "You wanna hang out at lunch?"

"Of course!"

I think about Meghan in every cla.s.s. I try to make her the only thing I think about. Because right behind her smile and her amber smell is the fear that I'll lose Carolyn. And beneath that, the sound of those footsteps keeps echoing through me, like a threat.

In every cla.s.s, I dread opening my backpack, but each time, there's nothing new. I touch the blade in my pocket, needing to know it's there. I just have to get through the next two cla.s.ses, and then Meghan will be with me, obliterating everything else.

Mr. Blair comes to stand beside me. He's staring down at my math paper. I follow his gaze. I've drawn hands in the margins of the page. His hands-reaching, grabbing like claws.

I shove my math book on top of the drawing, covering it.

Mr. Blair makes a sound deep in his throat.