Damage - A. M. Jenkins [46]
Yep. You’ve always liked being the unfrayed end of tradition that’s been passed from father to son all down the generations. Starting with a straight-edged razor a leather strap.
You’re turning your head this way and that, measuring the path of metal over skin. The razor feels light, like your dad’s hand swiping the foam onto your cheeks. your mind, you’re sitting on the counter, feet dangling until your dad lifts you down, and your feet landing solid on the blue tile floor. You remember that blue tile, cool under your bare feet.
Blue tile.
But the floor under your feet is white.
The truth wrings you out slowly, like a sponge.
This, the only bathroom in your house, is white—white tile, white paint, white everything. It always has been.
The Hightowers’ bathroom has blue tile on the floor, reaching halfway up the wall to cream-and-blue patterned wallpaper. The wallpaper’s changed over the years, but the tile has been blue ever since you can remember.
And you used to be this pitiful, hopeful kid hanging around the Hightowers’ house, trying to soak up any father-son atmosphere left over from Curtis and his dad.
Don’t look at the mirror anymore. That guy saws you, he’s going to cut you completely loose.
Be a machine. Clean off the razor. Place it back in its box. Wipe any traces of foam from your cheeks and neck.
Standing there holding the towel, you notice how the tendons are bunched lines along your forearm; how the blood rushes through the veins in your wrist. You can almost hear it, whispering along the blue-walled tunnels.
No.
Put one foot in front of the other, all the way to the phone. Take it back into the bathroom, where you are insulated from the rest of the household, where the razor is still sitting there in its box by the sink.
Your fingers are hitting the buttons on the phone, in the correct order, all on their own. You don’t even need to look at the numbers. When Heather answers sleepily, you speak almost in a whisper, because these words are for no one but Heather. “Let’s ditch school today,” you tell her. “Let’s just take the day off and go somewhere.”
“Austin?” She sounds groggy.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s…five till six. God. What are you asking me?”
“To let me pick you up so we can—”
“Is something wrong?”
Silence. It’s a very simple question.
“Hello?” She sounds irritated. “Are you there?”
“Yeah.”
“You called and woke me up. Is something wrong?”
Did you ever have this feeling like you’re not sad or thing, but like something’s squeezing the back of your eyes? “No,” you hear yourself tell her. “Nothing’s wrong. I missed you this weekend.”
“God. Why is it you early risers always assume everybody else is up, just because you are? It’s not even light out.” She sighs, and you hear the rustle of bedclothes. Okay, let me get this straight. You called me at five till six to ask me not to go to school today just because you missed me? I mean, I’m glad you missed me, but couldn’t it wait?”
The wooden box sits there, unmoving. The lid is shut so you can’t see the razor, but you know it’s there. metal, that’s all. Just metal. A tool. Cold when left in it box, warm when it’s been held awhile.
There’s no hurry. You can hang on till you see her can’t you? All you have to do is nothing, until you can Heather and dig even just one finger back into solid ground.
Deep breath. “Yeah,” you tell her. “It can wait.”
“Great. I’m touched, I really am, but I can’t ditch school for you. Not today. You know my schedule, right? So you can catch me between classes. And I’ll meet you after practice. Okay?”
“Yeah,” you tell her again. What else can you say?
After hanging up, you don’t put the box back in the cabinet, but leave it by the sink. Don’t take a shower, either, just go to your room to throw on some clothes.
When you leave, the razor is still there in its place, waiting to see what’s going to happen when you come home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
You see Heather for a brief moment between