Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,48

into the kitchen, but I still feel like crying—maybe even more so now. I think if she says one word to me, my eyes will turn into lawn sprinklers, spraying water all over the entirety of Pike’s kitchen. The stainless steel appliances will all be dripping, exhaust hoods to grease traps.

“You don’t mind helping me out in dish?” Cecilia asks.

I don’t—even though it’s a little weird. It’ll give me something to do with my hands, at least. And I won’t have to look Cecilia in the eye. I can tuck my head down, stare at my hands, and she’ll never have to know that I’m ready to bawl over her son. That I’m ready to lose it because he’s told me no. He doesn’t want me the way I want him.

I’m about to start searching for a towel—sponge—pair of gloves—I can’t bear to open my mouth to ask Cecilia where to begin—when I realize Gene’s standing just behind me. Cecilia was talking to him. She grabs a Coke bottle from the refrigerator while Gene crosses to a dish sink, then motions for me to follow her down a short, narrow hallway lined with red brick. She swerves into a tiny office, desert-like in its decoration. A laptop marks the center of a wooden desk, the screensaver casting a funky blue glow on a gray metal filing cabinet, rusted at the corners. A desk chair is the only other piece of furniture in the room.

Cecilia puts the Coke next to the laptop and stands in front of the screen, typing as she tells me, “Clint hasn’t had a girlfriend for two years. It’s probably a strange thing for a mother to be talking about—Clint would kill me if he knew I was—”

“Clint’s my trainer,” I protest, fidgeting just inside the door.

Cecilia glances up at me through her eyebrows. A grin spreads crookedly into one cheek. “I’m not just someone’s mother,” she informs me. “Believe it or not, I had a whole life before Clint. Before Gene.”

I twitch uncomfortably. What does she want from me? Why is she telling me about Clint’s dating history? Why is it any of my business? When will this stupid day ever end?

“Clint had one girlfriend growing up,” she says, squinting at the print on the computer screen. “A childhood friend who became something more.”

She clicks her way into a site and stares at the screen, her jaw locked. “But I suppose a story from somebody’s mother doesn’t have as much weight as a text message, does it?” she asks. “Or, say, an old article online? I understand you’ve been hurt, Chelsea,” she adds softly. “From what little Clint’s told me, I think you have every right to be scared.”

I open my mouth to protest, but only get out an “I—” before Cecilia holds up her hand. She eyes me like Scratches does when I interrupt his hunt to call him inside to dinner.

“Clint told me you’re scared of everything he wants to do. Scared to bike,” Cecilia says. “Scared to go kayaking. Just imagine how terrified Clint must be. I know how he—” Cecilia cuts herself off, tugging on her bottom lip. “Wounds of the heart are the hardest to medicate. The slowest area of the body to heal.” She steps away from the computer and points at the office chair. The soles of her sandals click as she leaves the room.

By the time I dislodge my own feet and circle behind the desk, the screensaver’s come back on—an old photo of Clint in a hockey jersey, a sweaty fringe of black hair hanging down into his eyes.

I pick up the Coke and take a long pull, my eyes glued to Clint’s face. I finally jiggle the mouse and find myself staring at the website for The Northern Light, the Baudette newspaper.

Bold print stomps horrifically across the screen: BODY OF MISSING TEEN FOUND IN RAVINE.

I frown as I start to read. After an extensive two-day search for Rosaline Johnson, the car belonging to the missing teen was spotted below Highway 72. Her body was discovered in the wreckage; paramedics indicated Johnson died on impact. Police suspect recent snowfalls impeded the discovery of the white Mazda.

Still not completely sure what I’m reading, I skim the rest of the story. Stare at the picture of the wreckage, thinking something about it seems awfully familiar.

I scroll down the screen, click to the second page of the story. Here, the details swirl around a hockey tournament that Rosaline never made