Damage - A. M. Jenkins [6]
“Bout what?”
“About Heather.” You figure you already know, but you’re in the habit of prodding Curtis out of his Kat-based bad moods.
Curtis doesn’t even bother to look out the window. “I think she’s shallow and manipulates people,” he says, and starts fooling around with Dairy Queen physics; holding one finger over the end of his straw, lifting it, letting the air pressure keep the Coke in the straw.
Curtis is usually right about people. Curtis can peel people like onions.
But Heather’s looking at you right now, and she says something to her friends out of the side of her mouth, so that the whole circle of girls collapses in a flurry of giggles and glances cast your way.
And you’re supposed to play along with this game. You’ve always played it well; flirting, dating, getting laid—all without leaving a trail of hurt feelings behind—have always been Austin Reid’s home territory.
Now Heather turns away; she’s talking with her friends, flashing that beauty queen smile like she was just crowned Miss Texas.
Watching Heather, you wonder if she ever feels like the glue holding that smile to her face is slowly disintegrating.
CHAPTER THREE
The alarm clock has been going off for a while. It rasps the air, nagging, insistent.
Today is the first day of school.
You manage to pull the pillow away but can’t get the energy to sit up. Through bleary eyes you see the alarm on the nightstand and reach out, clamp down on it till it shuts up.
Okay. You know what you have to do. Don’t even think—just get up. Just get on your feet and start moving—don’t stop to sit on the edge of the bed, don’t wait for your head to clear, don’t pause at all. Just roll out of bed and keep going.
You feel that guy in the picture, that Pride of the Panthers, looking at you, greeting you from his newspaper clipping. When your eyes grab hold of him he’s grinning that blank grin; he’s one pushpin away from being blank cork staring out from a flat wall, but he still seems more real than you are.
So you do what you’re supposed to; get out of bed, walk down the hall into the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the faucet.
While waiting for the water to run hot, you take the wooden box off its shelf in the medicine cabinet and feel the heft of that golden razor in your hand. You almost feel like your dad’s with you right now, admiring the smooth curve of the handle, the sharp glint of the blade’s edge.
Shave, shower, get dressed.
When you walk into the kitchen Mom is still there, bustling around the kitchen. Usually she’s gone by this time, but right now she’s hurriedly packing her lunch. “Austin,” she says, “could you reach in the fridge and get me that baggie of carrot sticks?”
It’s on the top shelf behind the milk. You hand Mom her carrot sticks and then get the milk out, too, because that’s all you have for breakfast anymore.
“Thanks.” Mom stuffs the baggie into a brown paper sack. She’s got a run down the back of one stocking, but she looks pretty harried, and you can’t decide whether you should mention it. “Now, where are those crackers?” she mutters to herself.
“Right there on the counter.” You pour your milk into a glass. If she weren’t here you’d just drink it from the carton.
“Oh. Thanks. Hey, how about if you put some of those muscles to work and open the mayonnaise for me?”
There’s a jar on the counter. You pick it up, grip the jar lid, and give it a twist. No luck.
Mom’s got her back to you; the paper sack crackles as she dumps the crackers in. “You look a little tired,” she says, without turning around. “Feeling okay?”
How does she do that? She hasn’t even looked at you this morning.
You frown down at the stubborn lid. You could tell her about not sleeping well, but you don’t often talk to her about stuff, how you feel about things. Not because she’s mean or won’t listen. It’s just that you’re a seventeen-year-old senior football player, and she’s a forty-year-old office administrator who’s been working overtime for almost two years now, and your lives don’t overlap much.
“Mo-o-om?” Becky calls