A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,18

grounded for three days!” which really meant you were grounded for one. And even then, you could watch TV and have friends over. I wasn’t really sure how that was a legitimate punishment for anything. I didn’t resent you for it. I was a mix of envious and happy for you.

You didn’t have to be home before seven o’clock so you could wash all the evidence off. You didn’t have to go home and sit quietly at a table and feel the sweat drip down your spine because you wondered how many drinks your father had had.

“I’m going home,” I said, and I didn’t look back. I was sad and angry. I was scared to go home, but also mad that you thought I was a wuss.

“C’mon, Walker … just a few more.”

I ran. I didn’t want to be convinced. If I was late, he would hit Momma again. She still had a bruise from when I spilled milk two days before. It was yellow, black, and all unnatural skin colors. I thought that even the body knows when something is wrong and I didn’t want to cause more wrong to blossom on her skin.

I ran faster when I heard you behind me trying to catch up. I rarely won when we wrestled, but I always won when we raced. I ran faster and faster until the subdivision came into view. I cut through the Percys’ yard and leaped onto the pavement. I didn’t glance back because I knew you weren’t following me anymore. I couldn’t hear your steps slow. You probably stopped at the tree line. Stopped at the threshold of our world of heroes and fantasy. You could stay there for a while longer.

I couldn’t.

I was home on time. All washed up. Clean. Quiet. The air felt oppressive. The house felt cramped. Not a word. Be a good girl, I thought.

Later, Father was drinking his whiskey and I heard the growl of his voice and the hushed murmur of my momma’s. Father shouting. I thought I heard my name, but I shoved my head under my pillow and tried not to hear. Momma didn’t cry. I always did. I hoped that one day, I could learn how not to cry too. I took my hand and wiped my nose. It came away with a line of snot on it. I looked around for a tissue or paper towel. I didn’t have one.

I wasn’t going to the bathroom to get a tissue. I looked in my drawer and took out a mismatched sock and wiped it across my arm. I didn’t get in my pj’s. I slipped into my cocoon of a blanket and fell asleep.

The next morning, I went to my door to open it and narrowed my eyes when I realized it was locked. It only locked from the inside and I didn’t lock it. Someone had reached in, turned the lock, and closed it behind them.

My momma had locked my door to keep me safe.

* * *

Our little sanctuary always kept us safe. It was where we both ran to escape, to play, to be free.

I remember I first started to tell stories there when we were ten.

You groaned as you entered our clearing. “I hate them!”

I didn’t look up. “Hate who?”

You collapsed next to me, plopping right into a patch of wishing flowers, and I almost slapped your arm for ruining them before my gaze caught on how the seeds fluttered in the air and sunlight. Like little dreams with fluffy parachutes. I didn’t blow the seeds free, but I closed my eyes and made a wish anyway.

“My parents!”

“You don’t hate your parents.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” I had met your parents. They wore ironed clothes and had gelled hair and smiles almost as big as yours (no one had a smile quite as big as yours). They called me Miss Ellie, as if I was already grown. I liked them.

“Because they are so old. And boring. And like, they just don’t get me, you know?” You started to pick at a scab on your knee.

“Stop that.” I smacked your hand away. You looked at me as if I had just slapped you square in the face. I rolled my eyes. “You’ll scar if you keep picking.” I knew all about scars. I didn’t want to see any on you.

You huffed out a breath. “So I have been talking to them about these two things for weeks now and they just keep putting it off and I