She turned to me and grabbed about a yard of my T-shirt fabric. "Oh my hell, Jenna, you have a shape, you know. You should show it now and then. Ethan might appreciate that." "Ethan is very familiar with my shape, thanks." I pulled my shirt back. "How many boyfriends have you had, Jenna?" "Counting Ethan? Let's see. One." "How many boyfriends have I had?" "We've all lost count, Steph." "So take my advice," she said, resting her long, slim arms on my shoulders. "Cameron is all mysterious and tall and obviously into you, and Ethan will feel threatened any second now, if he doesn't already. Make sure he knows he has nothing to worry about. If you want to keep him, that is. If you'd rather have Cameron, fine, just don't drag it out. Trust me -- that only makes things worse." "Cameron isn't 'into me,'" I said, removing her arms from my shoulders. "It's more like ... I don't know. It's hard to explain." "Well, whatever you want to call it, there's something going on between the two of you. Everyone can feel it." She handed me a towel and picked up hers. We walked out of the locker room, Steph looking back at me over her shoulder. "And if you don't want Cameron, help Katy get him. it's the least you can do." When I got home, Alan was sacked out on the couch with his laptop. I nudged him over and sat down. "Mom's still not home from work?" "Shortage on the floor, too many patients, not enough nurses. The usual." I chugged from my water bottle. "Good workout?" "I guess." "She feels terrible, you know," he said, peering over the top of his screen. "You have no idea, Alan. There's so much more to the story, stuff she doesn't..." I stood up to keep myself from saying anything else. "Forget it. I need to shower." I make myself not look at the window. Is there a screen? I can't remember. My hand is still on Cameron's beating heart. He does not say a word. Leave, I repeat. He isn't laughing anymore. Now his arms are folded. All right then. Here I go. He takes a step backward. Now he turns and puts his hand on the doorknob. I'm leaving. He is through the door. With one glance back, staring directly at me with hard eyes, See me leaving? The door closes behind him. I run to it and push the lock button in. When I turn, Cameron is still on the bed, frozen. Get up. I see that the window does have a screen. Scissors, I say. Finally he understands, gets up, and goes straight to his dresser drawer instead of his desk. What he comes up with are not scissors but a knife, a big one. I stare at it for a second wondering why he has a big knife in his room. I open the window. Cameron starts to cut the screen. Hurry, I say. Hurry. Cameron cuts the screen with the knife. The doorknob wiggles. You locked me out I can't believe you locked me out You know it would be easy for me to break this door down . . . just one good shove. Cameron's father's voice is still big, almost like he's right in the room with us. Cameron cuts. I pull. Then the knife slips and falls behind the bed. We look at each other and his dad pounds the door again. I take the window screen and pull as hard as I can. Pieces of wire poke into my hands, stinging me and drawing blood. For the first time I start to cry. Because I know if we don't get out it's going to be bad. And then it's quiet on the other side of the door, which feels almost worse than the pounding. I keep pulling the screen even though my hands hurt so much. / got it, I say. There is a hole in the screen big enough for us to climb through. You go first, he says. He helps me out and I land on the dirt. My ankle hurts, and so does my head, where a little bit of my hair got caught and pulled out. Cameron climbs through and lands next to me. He takes my hand. We run. As my eight-years-later self, I stood under the shower and let the water stream over me. I could almost feel my hands still stinging from the window- screen wires. There should be scars, I thought, and lifted my hands to my face to examine them. There should be
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