Heart on a Chain (7 page)

“
No.”

“
Do you want to go…with me, I mean?”

I look at him, stunned. Is he asking me on a date?
No
, I laugh silently at myself, of course not. He’s just trying to be nice, to be my friend. My silence spurs him to speak again.

“
I could come pick you up. You know we don’t want you walking on those sore knees for a few days,” he teases, smiling at me.

“
No, I can’t.” There’s no answering smile on my face, and even I hear the quiet desperation in my voice.

“
Oh, come on, it might be fun and—”

“
No! I said no. I just…I just can’t, okay?” He’s silent following my outburst.

“
Is everything okay?” His voice is full of concern.

I keep my head turned away, not answering, not trusting my voice because I can imagine it, imagine sitting next to him on the bleachers, drinking a soda, almost being a
normal
teenager. I feel his gaze on me, though he doesn’t press me.

He stops at the place I’d had him let me off the previous day and I nearly leap from the car, not waiting for him to open it for me, slamming the door behind me, running toward home, ignoring my screaming knees.

Chapter Six

It’s the most
depressing weekend I’ve had—and I’ve had plenty of depressing ones to measure against it. Before it’s all been about what was at home for me, where this one is about what could have been
away
from home for me.

A week ago, I wouldn’t have even thought of it, but now I do. I can imagine it and it’s Henrys fault; he treated me like I was the same as all the other girls when he asked. I don’t know anything at all about football, don’t know if it’s something I would like or hate, so that isn’t the thing that has captured my imagination. It’s just the being there, among my peers, sitting next to Henry.

It doesn’t even occur to me to worry about the teasing or humiliation I might suffer by showing up in a social place where there’s less supervision than even at school, because somehow I know that if I’m with him, no one would bother me.

Mom’s particularly ferocious this weekend as well, probably because Friday had been Dad’s payday. He still hasn’t come home from work by Saturday night which means there won’t be much money left when he does get home—if any—because he will have drank most of it away. This means that on top of my misery at missing out on being with Henry at the game, I also have the added fun of being her target.

Dishes not being washed and put away quietly enough result in fingerprint bruises on my upper arm; causing dust motes to fly in the air earn me a punch in the chest that leaves me gasping for breath. Finally, on Sunday as she stands screaming in my face because I had eaten one of her candy bars—which actually is true for once, though in my defense I hadn’t eaten anything else all weekend and felt faint from being forced to stand in the corner for three hours straight—she reaches out and belts me below my eye, knocking me to the floor. Before she can harm me any further, we hear my father’s car turn into the driveway.

“
Go get cleaned up. You look a mess,” she tells me quickly. I’m well versed in the hide-the-abuse-from-dad game. Not because he cares about me, but because it just gives him more excuse for beating on her. I’m not going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. I hurry up the stairs, washing my face, seeing the already purpling bruise around my eye. I hear him come in, her accusations and then the yelling starts. I slip into my room, opening the window and crawling out to find refuge on my swing.

Monday morning I arise early and quickly shower and dress. I set a personal best record for being ready to leave, hurrying down my street and around the corner, where my feet skid to a stop.

In the drop off spot, Henry stands, leaning against the hood of his car, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded and head down, looking for all the world as if he’s in for a long wait. As if sensing me watching him, though, he suddenly glances up. When he sees me, a slow smile splits his face; he slowly unfolds and walks toward me.

“
Hey,” he calls, naturally, as if this is a normal occurrence for him to be sitting here.

“
What are you doing here?” I ask suspiciously.

He laughs.

“
Good morning to you too.”

I smile and shrug, embarrassed at being rude. “Good morning.” I look at him for a moment, and then ask again, “What are you doing here?”

He sweeps his hand to indicate the car. “Thought you might like a ride.”

I shift uneasily.

“
Did you think maybe I walk because I
like
to?” I ask, somewhat defensively.

He’s taken aback by that.

“
Really?” he’s baffled. “You like walking that far to school twice a day, every day?”

I look away, and then give a half-truth.

“
Yeah.” I do like walking
most
of the time, but only because the alternative is so unappealing. Some days it’s tedious, and sometimes my battered body makes it difficult, but it also gives me
me
time; time to think, to see, to feel and smell the world without anyone bothering me.

“
Huh,” he huffs, surprised and a little deflated. “Well, I thought maybe your knees…”

“
They feel better now.”

“
Oh,” he seems at a loss. The corners of my mouth lift slightly at his little boy look and I take mercy on him.

“
It was a really nice offer, though. I appreciate it.”

He still looks a bit pouty, and I can remember the boy he had been in our earlier years in grade school.

Suddenly he brightens and looks at me.

“
Maybe I could walk with you today. I’ll just leave my car here, and pick it up after school.”

My brows furrow.

“
But how will you get back here to get it?”

“
I could walk back…with you…you know, if that’s okay….” He trails off and with shock I realize he’s feeling
unsure
of himself.

“
Okay.” My quiet answer surprises him—me, too, if I’m being honest. He gazes at me for a minute, gauging to see if I’m accepting because I want him along or if I just feel pressured. Whatever he sees in my face satisfies him, and he nods.

“
Alright. Let me grab my books and lock up.” He does that, hurrying back to my side. “Do you have a special route you take?”

I nod, serious. “Yes, I like to take the one that gets me there.”

He looks at me for a minute. I can’t keep the grin back. He bursts out laughing.

“
Yeah, I guess that would be a good one.”

He grabs my books from my arms, lifting his shoulders. “My mom would kill me if she thought I wasn’t being an absolute gentleman for even one second.” Well, that would explain his opening the car door for me.

He matches his longer stride to mine as we walk. He glances aside at me, opening his mouth to say something. The words never come. He stops abruptly and I stop with him at the alarmed look on his face, glancing behind me to see what has him worried. Has someone seen him walking with me? Looking back at him, I see it’s me he’s staring at.

“
What?” I ask.

He reaches out, laying his hand lightly on my cheek, thumb lightly skimming just above my cheekbone.

“
You have a black eye.”

I jerk away from his touch, bringing my own hand up to replace his, covering the side of my face, making my hair a veil between us as I drop my head. I’d mostly forgotten about it. I had covered it with some concealer earlier, though apparently I hadn’t done a very good job.

“
What happened?” I hear the anxiety in his voice.

“
Just being my usual clumsy self,” I lie. “I fell against the doorframe.” The lie rolls easily off my tongue, having told it many times before.

He reaches out and pulls my hand away, turning my face toward his, examining it with the same care and concentration he used before when he had examined my scraped hands. He looks skeptical about my story, but doesn’t question me further.

“
You need to be more careful,” he chides gently. “Does it hurt?”

His unfamiliar touch is doing funny things to my head, making it hard to think, so I pull away again and continue walking.

“
No. I had forgotten about it until you mentioned it.” He steps quickly to catch up to me. I can feel his gaze on my face, my cheeks heating up. He’s silent.

“
Does it look that bad?” I ask when the silence lengthens.

He doesn’t say anything for so long I finally risk a peek at him. He’s looking at me with an intense watchfulness. He sighs.

“
No, it’s really not that easy to see.”

“
You saw it,” I accuse.

“
I’m pretty observant, probably more than what’s normal.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes.

“
Have you ever thought of becoming a doctor?” I ask.

He jerks in surprise.

“
What makes you ask that?”

“
I don’t know, you just seem sort of doctor-ish, you know, like today with my eye and last week when you were cleaning my hands. You just seem really concerned about injuries.”

He smiles. “Actually, I have thought about that. I’ve thought about it a lot. Enough that I have my schooling planned to send me in that direction. My dad’s a veterinarian, so I’ve spent most of my childhood watching him heal—animals, anyways. I always wanted to be like him, be a vet, you know? But even though I really like most animals, I’m not passionate about them like him, so I thought maybe I’d be better with people.”

I try to imagine what it would be like to have a dad you admire so much that you want to follow in his footsteps.

“
I remember your mom a little bit,” I tell him. “She always came on field trips, and I remember her being in the classroom for parties and things.”

“
Yeah, she’s a good mom. It’s a good thing I have younger sisters, because she would miss having little kids to spend all her time on.”

Tightness grips my throat. I vaguely remember my own mom once being like that. What a horrible child I must have been to have killed that kind of caring. I clear my throat, pushing those thoughts away.

“
I remember one sister; your mom always brought her in a stroller. You have more now?”

“
That was my little sister. She’s ten now. I have another sister who’s thirteen. Maybe you don’t remember her because she was in school herself. And I have a little sister who’s three; she was sort of an oops. Pretty embarrassing for a fifteen year-old boy to have a pregnant mom. But, what can you do? Besides, she’s a really cute kid.”

“
No brothers?”

“
No.” He laughs. “My dad says he and I live in an estrogen ocean, which isn’t too bad right now, but just wait until they’ve
all
hit puberty.”

I laugh. He looks at me, embarrassed that he said that, then looks away.

“
What about you?” he asks. “Any brothers or sisters?”

“
No,” I say, thinking as always of the little brother I should have had, the little brother who’s death had destroyed my mother.

I still have memories of life when it was good. That’s both a blessing and a curse, as the saying goes. A blessing because in the darkest of times those are what I cling to, what I dream about and re-imagine my life to be. Sometimes that’s all that keeps me hanging on.