“Watch it...watch it.” His voice a low hum like a mosquito. She tried to block him out and concentrate.
Don’t tell me what to do! That’s what she wanted to say, to scream, but she didn’t have the guts. His presence was unnerving. It made her chest feel tight and uncomfortable. With her vision blurring, she couldn’t focus on the ball even if she wanted to. Skye wound his arm and then the ball was hurtling her way. It seemed like a fist was coming to punch her in the face—Skye’s or Taured’s. She dropped the bat as she swung; it slipped out of her slimy fingers, landing with a plunk on the ground. The ball hit her on the shoulder, and she was too stunned to cry out. Her shoulder was hot, a dull sting that grew into fire. She stood there, cradling her hurt arm, tears stinging her eyes. A strange sound was coming from somewhere behind her and she swiveled, confused, the pain so intense a single line of tears was soaking into the neck of her T-shirt. Taured was laughing so hard he was bent over. It was a belly laugh, so filled with joy that anyone who heard it would suppose he’d heard the most fantastic joke. You’re the joke, Summertime, she thought.
“You dropped it!” he shouted like a madman, spittle flying from his lips. He walked away like he couldn’t stand to be near her, clapped three times, then suddenly turned around and came back faster than he’d left. He was angry now. She’d seen him like this before, with other people. Why hadn’t it bothered her then? She’d thought they’d deserved it, just like most people probably thought that now about her.
“You know what to do, Summer, pick up the bat. You can’t afford not to.” He swung around to everyone else, spread his arms wide as if he were an Old Testament prophet. Perfect for The Taured Show. “None of us can afford to drop the bat when God hands it to us. You cannot let fear dictate what you do.” He turned back to her, the smile still on his face, but something else in his eyes. When she just stood there, staring at him, he said it again: “Pick up the bat, Summer. Swing again.”
Her fingertips tingled as she bent to obey him. Her face felt funny, like it was frozen despite the heat. She tried to arrange her expression into something besides horror, but everyone was staring at her and it felt like too much. Taured’s eyes on her felt like too much. She covered her eyes with her palms, pressing. She didn’t want to pick up the bat, she didn’t want to do it again.
“Pick up the bat, Summer,” he said. “Or else...”
Or else what? She’d have to eat broth for a month? Did she care what he punished her with? She thought of isolation then, and a small shiver crept up her spine; she did care. She was afraid—especially for her mother.
Maybe that was why she didn’t pick up the bat—she couldn’t, she was clutched in anxiety’s grip, her heart racing so quickly it felt like it was going to rap right out of her chest—ra ta ta ta. Taured’s hands circled her wrists, gently at first, and then his grip bit down harder and harder until she wanted to scream out for him to stop. Before she could open her mouth, he yanked her hands away from her face. She could smell his breath, the soap he’d used to wash himself that morning. His face was suddenly so peaceful, and she hesitated, thinking that maybe he wasn’t mad at her, but then she looked into his eyes and the pupils almost felt like they were reaching for her. She tried to look over his shoulder to find her mother, though she knew Lorraine wasn’t there. The silence alarmed her. Everyone was watching to see how this would play out.
“Pick up the bat,” he said again, this time so close to her face his spittle landed on her cheek. She tried not to have a reaction, because that’s what he fed on. Keeping her face stony, she bent to retrieve the bat from the ground. Her fingers scraped across the dirt, and then she was upright with the bat in her hands. The grains of sand steadied her grip, soaking up the damp on her palms. Taured stepped back and Summer took her position, her back as straight as the endless Nevada horizon. The strain of holding back her tears was stinging her nose.
Taured delivered one curt nod to Skye, who looked to Summer like he couldn’t wait to do it again. The next time the ball hit her in the stomach. The third time, it broke her nose.
There was blood; Summer wasn’t sure where it was all coming from, but when she touched her face, her hands came away dripping.
“Taured, she needs to see a doctor, a real doctor.” Her mother’s voice was pleading and urgent.
“Is our doctor not good enough for you, Lorraine? Is there a reason you’re so eager to leave here?”
Summer was barely able to see through the pain. His voice was loud, agitated. They were inside the cafeteria; she recognized the lights on the ceiling. Someone had propped her in a chair and her mother was holding a towel to Summer’s nose.
“M-kah,” Summer said. “I’m okay” gone wrong. “M-kay.” She didn’t want her mother punished because of her. Grabbing the towel out of her mother’s hand, she held it there herself, crying out when she nudged the wrong place and lightning-sharp pain careened through her head. She looked at Taured first. He was still in one of his cat-and-mouse moods; she could see it on his face.
If Lorraine argued with him, she’d be taken away from her injured daughter and punished in isolation. That’s how it had been: to disagree was to be sent to solitude for a day or two, “to cool down,” or so he called it. What he meant was: here’s a few days without food, water or light to reconsider your stance. When her mother had come back from her last mission trip and had confronted Taured with what Summer told her, Lorraine was sent to solitude for four days, after which she wouldn’t speak about what had happened to Summer or about her time in solitude. “There’s nothing to say,” she said when Summer asked. “We need to get out of here. And when the time is right, we will.”
Summer had immediately understood that she and her mother couldn’t talk about their plans to leave for fear of being overheard. She stared at him silently, the answer burning in her eyes but held wisely on the tip of her tongue.
Their old Tin Crap had been sold long ago, “for the financial benefit of the compound.” So Lorraine, with no access to a car and being twenty miles from the nearest hospital, took her fifteen-year-old to the infirmary, where Sara’s father had seen to her.
Summer would remember his words exactly, the hard-to-cover excitement on his face as the latex of his examination gloves slapped cheerfully against his skin.
“It’s just a small break.” He asked her to turn her head from side to side, which hurt to do. “I don’t want to cause more harm by trying to reset it.” He leaned back decidedly, though he’d barely examined her. Her fifteen-year-old horror seemed like vanity—she’d have to look like this, a crooked nose for the rest of her life.
Her mother lowered her eyes and said, “Tom, she’s a child, like Sara. She cannot be punished because of my decisions.”
Summer didn’t understand what her mother was talking about. And by the time she would, her mother would be dead.
“Your decisions affect everyone, Lorraine.” And then he dropped two pills onto the metal counter and walked out, his back sending a clear message.
Her mother gathered her from the bed—scooping the pills into her palm, her petite frame so strong in the moment she had to be—and dragged Summer back to their room, locking the door behind them. She pressed her fingers to Summer’s lips and said: “You know I trained a little as a nurse. I didn’t make it through the program, but I know a little bit. Do you trust me?”
“Yes, Mama.” She allowed her mother to push the pills between her lips, taking a sip of water to wash them down. At one time, her mother had wanted to be a pediatric nurse.