Damage - A. M. Jenkins [33]
Tweeet! Coach’s finger points to you.
You explode.
The next thing you know, Curtis is lying on his back with you on top of him. You don’t look at his face, just get up quickly; Curtis is slower, but Coach is already blowing his whistle again and then suddenly Curtis is down again, this time hit from behind by Brett Stargill. When he gets up he’s a little unsteady, with a clot of turf stuck in his face mask.
Coach calls them on from the front, from the sides, from behind, where Curtis can’t see it coming.
And then it doesn’t matter because Coach is calling them on so fast that Curtis barely has time to get to feet, much less look around.
When Coach finally gives it an extra-long now-we’re-done blow, Curtis lies there and doesn’t get right away.
“Everybody line up for wind sprints,” Coach hollers.
You’re frozen, staring down at your best friend curled up on the ground like a dead shrimp.
“Reid! You deaf? Line up for wind sprints.”
So you do what you have to do; you shove down whatever it is you’re feeling and walk away; you watch yourself walk away and get in line with everybody else.
When you look back to check, Curtis is wincing as he gets to his feet. He doesn’t mind, he knows it’s just business. But still, it might take awhile to shove this one down—the fact that you let Curtis get up from Bull-in-a-Ring without any help.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s a comfort to watch Heather get dressed.
Mrs. Mackenzie is out with Ronny. What’s left of the afternoon is leaking away and you’re just lying on Heather’s bed, wide awake, eyes open, because getting up is as impossible as floating off the ground.
She’s already got her panties on—that breath catching little scrap of silk. You love the way she pulls the of her bra together, love the way her breasts seem expand, as if pushed in and up by unseen hands.
She snaps the bra closed, reaches for her blouse…and sees you watching.
She tosses the blouse aside and turns toward mirror. A quick glance at you again before she focuses her own reflection, as if she’s forgotten you’re there.
She hasn’t. You know by now: It’s a comfort Heather to let you watch her get dressed.
Looking at her, at that beautiful face and all those breathtaking ins and outs, you can admit the truth—don’t really care about anything else. Don’t particularly care about your friends, your family, school. Even Bull-in-a-Ring is a distant memory, because now you are here.
The mattress cradles you like a cocoon. You’d like just to lie here, flatter and flatter, and never have to leave this place.
“You know something?” Heather winds one lock of hair slowly around her finger. “You’re the first guy I’ve let in my room. I never let guys in. Never.” When she lets the lock of hair fall, it brushes her skin just above the champagne-colored lace.
“One time,” she continues, staring into her own eyes—Heather can get as caught up in her reflection as you can in the real thing—“Brad Echols came around throwing pebbles at my window, trying to get me to let him in. But I wouldn’t. That’s silly, isn’t it?” She turns her head a little to one side, checking her face from a slightly different angle. “I mean, not letting guys in. Because my room is a lot safer than the couch if Mom comes back all of a sudden. It’s not like, roll off the couch and get dressed right away—can you say high school? There’s always a scene if Mom even thinks I’ve done something, the hypocrite.”
Always? you think, and wonder—not for the time—how many guys she’s been with. But you don’t want to ask, because then she might ask you the same about your exes.
Instead you watch the way her hair slides and swings over her shoulder blades. “Want to hear something funny?” Heather says, and goes on without waiting for an answer. “The first guy I dated—he was a real jerk. An older guy—he was seventeen, and I was thirteen. I only ever did it with him in the first place because I was scared I’d lose him if I didn’t. But then after we did do it, I was still scared that he’d get bored. So I was like this doormat, letting him