felt clogged like he had a terrible cold. The sort of cold that made his head hammer with pain, had his eyes throbbing.
His gut hurt something terrible.
When he tried to sit up, the room spun, and he feared throwing up.
When he heard the lock click, he started to shake again. He prepared to beg, plead, grovel, anything that kept those fists from pounding on him again.
His mother came in, flipping the light as she did. The light exploded more pain, so he shut his eyes.
“Your father says you’re to clean yourself up, then use this ice bag on your face.”
Her voice, cool, matter-of-fact, hurt almost as much as his father’s.
“Mom—”
“Your father says to keep your head elevated. You may leave your bed only to use your bathroom. As you see, your father has removed your computer, your PlayStation, your television, items he’s generously given you. You will see and speak to no one except your father or me. You will not participate in Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.”
“But—”
“You have the flu.”
He searched her face for some sign of pity, gratitude. Feeling. “I was trying to stop him from hurting you. I thought he might hurt Britt. I thought—”
“I didn’t ask for or need your help.” Her voice, clipped, cold, made his chest ache. “What’s between me and your father is between me and your father. You have the next two days to consider your place in this family, and to earn back any privileges.”
She turned toward the door. “Do as you’re told.”
When she went out, left him alone, he made himself sit up—had to close his eyes against the spinning and just breathe. On shaky legs, he stood, stumbled into the bathroom, vomited, nearly passed out again.
When he managed to gain his feet, he stared at his face in the mirror over the sink.
It didn’t look like his face, he thought, oddly detached. The mouth swollen, bottom lip split. God, the nose like a red balloon. Both eyes black, one swollen half-shut. Dried blood everywhere.
He lifted a hand, touched his fingers to his nose, had pain blasting. Because he was afraid to take a shower—still dizzy—he used a washcloth to try to clean off some of the blood. He had to grit his teeth, had to hang on to the sink with one hand to stay upright, but he feared not doing what he’d been told more than the pain.
He cried, and wasn’t ashamed. Nobody could see anyway. Nobody would care.
He inched his way back to bed, breathed out when he eased down to take off his shoes, his jeans. Every minute or two he had to stop, catch his breath again, wait for the dizziness to pass.
In his boxers and sweatshirt, he crawled into bed, took the ice bag his mother had left, and laid it as lightly as he could on his nose.
It hurt too much, just too much, so he switched to his eye. And that brought a little relief.
He lay there, full dark now, planning, planning. He’d run away. As soon as he could, he’d stuff his backpack with some clothes. He didn’t have much money because his father banked all of it. But he had a little he’d hidden in a pair of socks. His saving-for-video-games money.
He could hitchhike—and that thought brought a thrill. Maybe to New York. He’d get away from this house where everything looked so clean, where ugly, ugly secrets hid like his video game money.
He’d get a job. He could get a job. No more school, he thought as he drifted again. That was something.
He woke again, heard the lock again, and pretended to sleep. But it wasn’t his father’s steps, or his mother’s. He opened his eyes as Britt shined a little pink flashlight in his face.
“Don’t.”
“Shh,” she warned him. “I can’t turn the light on in case they wake up and see.” She sat on the side of the bed, stroked a hand over his arm. “I brought you a PB&J. I couldn’t get lasagna because they’d know if any was missing from the dish. You need to eat.”
“Stomach’s not so good, Britt.”
“Just a little. Try a little.”
“You need to go. If they catch you in here—”
“They’re asleep. I made sure. I’m staying with you. I’m going to stay with you until you can eat something. I’m so sorry, Zane.”
“Don’t cry.”
“You’re crying.”
He let the tears roll. He just didn’t have the strength to stop them.
Sniffling at her own tears, swiping at them, Britt reached down to stroke his arm.