but he kept his thumb pressed hard on my muscle.
“What the hell? Are you
deaf
, P’teen-uh?” Brady went on. His spit hit my cheek. “Didn’t hear me calling you? You scared the shit out of me just now.”
“Well, I—I was scared too,” I finally spoke. My voice quaked. “I—I thought you left me—”
“So you just don’t answer?”
“Hey, come on. She was just scared.” One of the otherboys came over patted Brady on the back. “Shake it off, man.” So there they were trying to console him. But Brady was bent on getting the last word.
“I should’ve never brought you out here in the first place.” He waited, sneering at me. Disgusted. “Get back to the car,” he said. He turned me, gave me a shove. In case I hadn’t gotten the message, he grabbed the end of my braid and threw it at my back.
I slipped on the bloated apple as I stepped out of the ditch. That sour smell stayed on my boot all the way home.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Eighteen
A LL F RIDAY NIGHT AND INTO S ATURDAY MORNING , I kept picturing the man who let me go. Asleep or wake, I’d picture his kind face—the sweet, sleepy eyes, and think,
He could be dead because of me
. In some horrible, dystopian layer of my own thinking I believed that he
was
dead, and it made my breath halt. I told myself,
But that did
not
happen; he’s okay
. But the next moment found me running the same little mental movie of that night, and feeling another big wash of guilt.
Brady called on Saturday. I lied and told him that my parents weren’t going to let me go out. He was mad that I wouldn’t sneak out. He reminded me that he’d included me in a night out with his friends, as if I could forget that. But Iknew he blamed me for the bad turn the night had taken. If he brought it up, I would never be able to forge an apology. We’d end up fighting. I held fast. I was staying home.
Saturday afternoon I climbed into a hot shower, fixing to scrub away my bad feelings, I suppose. I drew the bar of soap along my upper arm and
wham
—something hurt like hell. There, I found a blue bruise with a lump in the middle of it, the very size of Brady Cullen’s thumb. And now it was throbbing. Well, served me right for being a miscreant, I thought.
I dressed in cruddy sweats and a hooded fleece after my shower. Staying-in clothes. I did all the homework I hated most. I even studied for a math test. Then I stared out my bedroom window, watched the sun beginning to settle on the treetops. I longed for the scent of petroleum. Unit 37. Cowboy.
You’re an idiot
, I told myself.
The only place you know to find him is the auto shop, and he won’t be in there on a Saturday night. He probably has a date. He’s heading out to a bar. He’s a grown-up and you are a dope who plays road pranks with stupid boys. Stop thinking about him
.
There had to be something I could feel good about, something to be in charge of. I hauled out the newsprint pad with my dozens of sketches for the
Steam & Bean at 66 Green
. I split away the pages and stuck them on my wall. I stood back and looked. Not bad. I began to think and work, and finally, I felta normal, quiet breath make its way through me.
A while later came our household war cry. “Hoya! Hoya! Hey-yah-hey-yah!” My brothers came flying into my room and threw themselves into handstands on my bed, then came bouncing down on their knees.
“Ack! Mini-man alert!” I pretended to protect my artwork, arms spread wide.
“Bampas says to tell you to they’re going out. You have to babysit us tonight,” Favian said. He began to jump on my bed, hands making swipes toward the ceiling. My bed pillow caught air and landed on my night table, which was always piled with art mess. Magazines, glue stick, and a big pair of scissors all slid to the floor.
“Ack! Enough!” I said. I restacked my materials.
“Yeah. And you owe us,”
“What the hell? Are you
deaf
, P’teen-uh?” Brady went on. His spit hit my cheek. “Didn’t hear me calling you? You scared the shit out of me just now.”
“Well, I—I was scared too,” I finally spoke. My voice quaked. “I—I thought you left me—”
“So you just don’t answer?”
“Hey, come on. She was just scared.” One of the otherboys came over patted Brady on the back. “Shake it off, man.” So there they were trying to console him. But Brady was bent on getting the last word.
“I should’ve never brought you out here in the first place.” He waited, sneering at me. Disgusted. “Get back to the car,” he said. He turned me, gave me a shove. In case I hadn’t gotten the message, he grabbed the end of my braid and threw it at my back.
I slipped on the bloated apple as I stepped out of the ditch. That sour smell stayed on my boot all the way home.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Eighteen
A LL F RIDAY NIGHT AND INTO S ATURDAY MORNING , I kept picturing the man who let me go. Asleep or wake, I’d picture his kind face—the sweet, sleepy eyes, and think,
He could be dead because of me
. In some horrible, dystopian layer of my own thinking I believed that he
was
dead, and it made my breath halt. I told myself,
But that did
not
happen; he’s okay
. But the next moment found me running the same little mental movie of that night, and feeling another big wash of guilt.
Brady called on Saturday. I lied and told him that my parents weren’t going to let me go out. He was mad that I wouldn’t sneak out. He reminded me that he’d included me in a night out with his friends, as if I could forget that. But Iknew he blamed me for the bad turn the night had taken. If he brought it up, I would never be able to forge an apology. We’d end up fighting. I held fast. I was staying home.
Saturday afternoon I climbed into a hot shower, fixing to scrub away my bad feelings, I suppose. I drew the bar of soap along my upper arm and
wham
—something hurt like hell. There, I found a blue bruise with a lump in the middle of it, the very size of Brady Cullen’s thumb. And now it was throbbing. Well, served me right for being a miscreant, I thought.
I dressed in cruddy sweats and a hooded fleece after my shower. Staying-in clothes. I did all the homework I hated most. I even studied for a math test. Then I stared out my bedroom window, watched the sun beginning to settle on the treetops. I longed for the scent of petroleum. Unit 37. Cowboy.
You’re an idiot
, I told myself.
The only place you know to find him is the auto shop, and he won’t be in there on a Saturday night. He probably has a date. He’s heading out to a bar. He’s a grown-up and you are a dope who plays road pranks with stupid boys. Stop thinking about him
.
There had to be something I could feel good about, something to be in charge of. I hauled out the newsprint pad with my dozens of sketches for the
Steam & Bean at 66 Green
. I split away the pages and stuck them on my wall. I stood back and looked. Not bad. I began to think and work, and finally, I felta normal, quiet breath make its way through me.
A while later came our household war cry. “Hoya! Hoya! Hey-yah-hey-yah!” My brothers came flying into my room and threw themselves into handstands on my bed, then came bouncing down on their knees.
“Ack! Mini-man alert!” I pretended to protect my artwork, arms spread wide.
“Bampas says to tell you to they’re going out. You have to babysit us tonight,” Favian said. He began to jump on my bed, hands making swipes toward the ceiling. My bed pillow caught air and landed on my night table, which was always piled with art mess. Magazines, glue stick, and a big pair of scissors all slid to the floor.
“Ack! Enough!” I said. I restacked my materials.
“Yeah. And you owe us,”
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