THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. My eyes flash open
and my heart pumps in my ears. The cops. No, the boyfriend. Sometimes he knocks in the morning to confuse me into opening the door. I blink when I see the shadow of curtains against a window. Curtains. I’m not home. I inhale and the fresh oxygen mixes with the adrenaline in my bloodstream. Old habits die hard.
“Elisabeth,” Scott says from behind the
door. “Wake up.”
Shit. Six in the morning. Why can’t he leave me alone? The bus doesn’t arrive until seven-thirty. A half hour is plenty of time to get ready for school. I roll out of bed and pad on bare feet to the door. The bright light from the foyer hurts my eyes so I squint and barely comprehend that Scott’s shoving a bag into my hand. “Here. I got your stuff.”
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I wipe the sleep from my eyes. Scott
wears the same T-shirt and jeans from last night. “What stuff?”
He drops his I-mean-business glare and my lips tug up. It’s a look he gave me when I was little, especially when I wouldn’t eat my vegetables or when I begged him to read to me.
Scott’s answering smile is hesitant. “I went by your aunt’s and picked up your clothes.
That Noah guy was there last night and he showed me what was yours. I’m sorry if I left anything behind. If you tell me something specific maybe I can swing by one day after work.”
I stare at the bag. My stuff. He got me my stuff and he talked to… “How’s Noah?”
The hesitant joy on his face fades. “We
didn’t have a heart-to-heart. Elisabeth, this doesn’t change any of my rules. I want you to settle here in Groveton and let your old life go.
Trust me on this one, okay, kid?”
Okay, kid. It’s what he always said to me, and I find myself nodding without realizing it.
A habit from childhood—a time when I
believed that Scott hung the moon and
commanded the sun. A bad habit for a teenager.
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I stop nodding. “I can wear my clothes?”
“Skin has to be covered and no rips in
indecent places. Push me on this and I’ll burn every stitch in that bag.” Scott inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Breakfast in thirty.”
I cradle the bag in my hands like a newborn.
My stuff. Mine. “Thanks.” The gratitude is stiff and awkward, but give me credit—I said it.
I SLIDE THE LOW-RISE, faded blue jeans to my hips and a contented sigh escapes my lips.
How I missed you, old friend. Jeans that hug a little too tight. Small rips on the thighs. The other pair, the pair I really love that has rips right below my ass, Scott would soak in gasoline. I carefully fold them on a hanger and store them in the closet.
For the first time in two weeks, I feel like me. Black cotton tee that clings to my waist.
Silver hoop earrings in my ears. I change the hoop in my nose for a fake diamond stud. As I check myself out in the mirror, I revel in the lightness because I know the moment I step into that kitchen, I’ll grow heavy again.
Right at six-thirty, I enter the kitchen. The red breaking of dawn splatters across the sky.
Scott fries bacon at the stove and the smell HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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makes my mouth water. Allison is perfectly absent.
I take a seat at the bar that has a glass of orange juice and a plate. I assume the other place setting is for him. In between the plates is a stack of buttered toast and sausage patties.
“Is it turkey or tofu or whatever you try to pass off as food?”
Everything in this house is healthy. I pick up the toast and smell it. Hmm. White bread and it smells like butter. I stick out my tongue and barely lick it to see if it is. Scott laughs.
Embarrassed, I roll my tongue into my mouth and close my eyes in ecstasy. Mmm. Real butter.
“No, it’s not turkey. It’s real. I’m tired of watching you not eat.” He places a plate of bacon and eggs between us as he sits. “If you’d try Allison’s cooking, you’d see it’s not half-bad.”
I bite into the toast and talk between bites.
“That’s the point. Food shouldn’t be half-bad.
It should be all good.”
Scott assesses my outfit before spooning
some scrambled eggs onto his plate. “I like the stud. When did you pierce your nose?”
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“When I turned fourteen.” I help myself
to bacon and sausage while staring at the eggs.
Scott made great eggs when I was a kid. Too bad I told him I hate them.
“Your mom wanted one. She talked about
driving into Louisville to get one several times.” Mom liked to talk to Scott while Scott raised me. She moved into Grandpa’s trailer when Dad knocked her up and her mom kicked her out. Scott was twelve when I was born.
My heart sinks. Mom never told me she