Damage - A. M. Jenkins [0]
Damage
For those who are struggling; for those who have made it through; for those who have been left behind
Contents
Chapter One
It’s all yours. Your hands rise, fingers spread, ready to…
Chapter Two
Sure enough, the first week of practice is like sliding…
Chapter Three
The alarm clock has been going off for a while.
Chapter Four
Apparently God was trying to tell you something, the other…
Chapter Five
The first game is an away game.
Chapter Six
You pick Heather up early in the evening. You’ll take…
Chapter Seven
The next morning is Sunday. Sunday always gathers own momentum;…
Chapter Eight
That night you dream you’re driving the pickup with Heather…
Chapter Nine
By the time a few weeks have passed, you’re feeling…
Chapter Ten
Used to be you’d hang around practice to give Dobie…
Chapter Eleven
Sixth game. Final score: Panthers, 21; Bulldogs, 10.
Chapter Twelve
In the field house Monday afternoon, Dobie seems okay. He…
Chapter Thirteen
It’s a comfort to watch Heather get dressed.
Chapter Fourteen
You keep thinking about her all the way home, through…
Chapter Fifteen
The air has caved in on top of you.
Chapter Sixteen
“Are you okay?” Heather asks.
Chapter Seventeen
Late the next afternoon you enter the field house with…
Chapter Eighteen
You see Heather for a brief moment between classes try…
Chapter Nineteen
When you finally get home, you pull up the gravel…
Acknowledgments
Praise
Other Books by A. M. Jenkins
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
It’s all yours. Your hands rise, fingers spread, ready to feel the firm scrape of the football, ready to pull it to you, ready to tuck it safely in.
But the ball bumbles against your fingertips. It lurches away, and that beautiful spiraling pass ends its life in a series of ugly bounces across the field.
Then there’s just a football lying untended on the grass, just that—and your empty hands.
When you open your eyes, the joyless feeling has already crawled onto your chest. The ceiling of your room presses you down into the mattress. The air settles in your lungs so heavy that it’s almost too much trouble to breathe.
You kind of remember having some bad dreams, but you can’t remember what they were. You just lie there, flat as the faded streak of afternoon sunlight that slants through the western window and impales your bed.
It’s almost night. You’re supposed to pick up Curtis and Dobie, so the three of you can go out. Your eyes move, skimming the room, trying to grab hold of anything that will break the suction of the bed.
A newspaper clipping tacked to the bulletin board. It’s a black-and-white head shot of a guy in a football jersey, and underneath in bold print:
AUSTIN REID: PRIDE OF THE PARKERSVILLE PANTHERS
That picture smiled out of the sports section during last year’s state semifinals. Now it smiles out over the bedroom.
It’s you.
Shoot, that guy in the picture there wouldn’t lie around on a Saturday night. He wouldn’t think how it’s too much trouble to breathe.
So you roll slowly to sit up. Get to your feet. Lumber down the hall, past your sister Becky’s room, into the bathroom. Stop in front of the sink. Raise your head to look into the mirror.
The guy reflected back at you is the same one from the picture. Only he’s not smiling. And he hasn’t got a jersey on. Not even a shirt. But still, that is him—dark hair, straight white teeth, a strong jawline, a nose that’s not anything special.
You lean forward, looking into his eyes. They’re blue.
What do other people see when they look into them—those eyes in the mirror? Are they flat? Cold?
Or just nothing at all?
You look harder, trying to feel anything for him. You try to get him to smile, to see if that will help.
All you can get is a dull stare.
Your gaze slides down to your own hands. Even now they can almost feel the football bulleting into them. Your hands are big, strong. Like your dad’s hands, you remember, even though he died when you were only three. That’s what you remember about him; strong hands, lifting you