Damaged

by Amy Reed

  “It’s good to see you here,” one of the girls says. Everyone’s staring at me.

  “Thanks?”

  They look away, as if I failed some important test. I was supposed to say something else.

  The lake shimmers as a speedboat goes by. A dog barks. I follow the noise to a group of guys on the other side of the beach, dressed in dark, definitely not-beach clothes, huddled in a tiny puddle of shade under a sickly looking tree, circled by a collection of empty beer cans. The dog, a pit bull, is pulling against the leash, trying to get at the boat, which, by now, is probably a mile away. All but one of the guys laughs, but I can’t see his face because his back is turned. They look vaguely familiar, but they definitely don’t go to my school. Kids from the neighboring town don’t usually come to our beach. It’s a different kind of town, with a different kind of people. Many of them have their own waterfront property. If not, their families belong to the country club, which has a private, pristine beach much larger than this one.

  This beach is small and shaped in a C like an amphitheater, so you can pretty much hear anyone’s conversation if you listen hard enough. “Dude, why did you make us come here?” one of the boys says to one whose back is facing me. He doesn’t answer. The dog licks his hand, and he pets his head with what seems like extraordinary tenderness. The other guy shrugs and turns to talk to the others. The dog rests his head on the quiet one’s knee. Then the mysterious figure turns and stares straight at me, like he knew exactly where I was, like he knew I was staring.

  Hunter.

  I lose my breath and for a moment, the feeling of falling from earlier in the car comes back. I should not be here. I pick up my bag and start walking without saying good-bye. I hear a sharp laugh. I hear someone say, “Nice try, Heather.” I hear Heather call, “Hey, Kinsey, wait!” but no one makes any real effort to make me stay. I walk, looking straight ahead, trying not to trip on my sandals collecting sand, trying not to look toward Hunter even though I feel his presence pulling at me. I walk and I walk, down the dirt road and through the swarms of mosquitoes hiding in the shade, trying not to feel my shoulders already aching from the weight of my backpack. I hear a car behind me. I move over to let it pass. It slows. An automatic window buzzes down. “Hey!” someone says. I turn. Hunter.

  “Are you following me?” I stay, still walking, trying not to flinch from the sharp pieces of gravel stuck in my sandal.

  “That’s rather presumptuous, don’t you think?” he says, driving slowly beside me as I walk.

  “Why were you at this beach? Why were you in town yesterday?”

  “Maybe you’re following me.” He grins, and he transforms for half a second into someone shockingly handsome. Camille always talked about that grin. It made her stupid.

  “Where are you going?” he says.

  “Home.”

  “Don’t you live, like, really far away?”

  “How do you know where I live?”

  “Because I was in the car when Camille picked you up that night. Jesus, you’re paranoid.”

  That night. He said “that night.”

  “Let me give you a ride,” he says, like we are having a normal conversation, like he didn’t just bring up the main thing I refuse to talk about.

  “I can walk.”

  “I’m sure you can, but I don’t see why you’d want to when you have a perfectly good offer of a ride.”

  I stop walking. My feet and shoulders hurt and I haven’t even walked a mile yet. “Are you drunk?” I say.

  “Depends on how you define drunk.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  He shrugs, smirking, as if I am the pathetic one for asking such a question. “You were drunk yesterday,” I say. “When I saw you in town. You were drinking out of a paper bag.”

  “That was yesterday. Maybe today I am a new man.”

  I squint and inspect his face. He does the grin again, and for a moment I think I see what Camille saw when she looked at him and forgot anything else existed. My shoulders sag under the weight of my backpack and I imagine for a brief moment walking the ten miles home in these flip-flops, which are already rubbing a blister between my toes.

  “Okay, fine.” I open the door and get in. Leather seats, air-conditioning, buttons and touch screens and lights everywhere. “Nice car,” I say, but I know it comes out sounding like a criticism.

  “I know it’s a little ostentatious,” he says. “But the stereo’s killer.”

  “This is your car?”

  “Technically, it’s my dad’s. But he usually drives the Porsche in the summer.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  He laughs. “No, I think it’s as ridiculous as you do. I was hoping to get a laugh.”

  “Do you know how to get to my house from here?” I say, all business.

  “You know I’m on your side, right?”

  I turn and look at him. “What?”

  “You don’t have to treat me like an enemy.”

  “I’m not treating you like an enemy.”

  “Oh yeah, this is how you treat everyone.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t have to push me away, you know.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “It’s not going to hurt you for us to be friends.”

  “I don’t want to be your friend.”

  “Ouch.” He looks away and for a moment I think I might have really hurt his feelings. But I don’t care.

  I sit in the cushy leather seat, looking straight ahead, gritting my teeth. Part of me wants to jump out of the car right now, but the part of me that wins is the one that wants a ride home. We turn onto the road that goes to my house. I am almost there. After I slam the door behind me, I will never have to talk to Hunter Collins again.

  “Why are you wearing long sleeves?” I say.

  “Are you the fashion police?”

  “It’s like a million degrees outside. You’re the only person in western Michigan who’s wearing long sleeves right now.”

  “Is it weird being in a car with me?” he says, like we’re having two completely different conversations.

  “When you assume things about me and try to pretend there’s a friendship where there is none—yes.”

  “This is the same road,” he says. “Just a couple miles up is where the accident happened. You can still find glass and little pieces of metal. Have you seen it? The big white cross on the side of the road someone put up? The pile of wilted flowers and ratty old teddy bears?”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t want to say anything. I don’t want either of us to say anything. I want him to stop talking.

  “Say something,” he says. He doesn’t get it. What is wrong with him?

  “Why are you talking about it?”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “Just take me home.”

  We drive in silence for the next two miles, in the opposite direction of where the accident happened. I push him out of my mind. I keep my eyes on the road, adding up the numbers on mailboxes in my head. When he pulls up outside my house, I grab my bag and get out without saying anything. When I slam the car door, it’s not as loud as I hoped it would be.

  “I have created a masterpiece!” Mom declares when I enter the kitchen. The counter is covered with cutting boards and the rejected parts of vegetables. The smell of something baking fills the room and I am suddenly grateful.

  “What is it?”

  “Eggplant, heirloom tomato, basil, and zucchini tart, with a dollop of cashew cream and toasted almonds. You’re just in time.”

  I set my bag down and wash my hands, get plates and silverware and glasses out.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” Mom says.

  “I’m hungry.”

 
We eat and I listen to Mom rattle on about her day. She manages not to say anything mean for the whole meal. I’m glad she’s in a self-absorbed mood tonight. She doesn’t want anything from me. After dinner, she says she’s going to paint.

  “But you haven’t painted in forever,” I say.

  “I know, isn’t it wonderful!” For now it is. But I know what this mood inevitably leads to. I know it is only temporary.

  Alone in the house while Mom’s in her studio, I can’t figure out what to do with myself. I call Grandma to see if I can use her computer, but she comes up with some excuse why her whole house has to be off-limits because she’s tired and doesn’t want company. I watch TV until boredom morphs into exhaustion. Alone in the dark house, my sleepiness gets the best of me, and I start imagining the walls are closer than normal, the ceiling lower, like they are slowly closing in on me, moving when I blink. Strange sounds seem to emanate from the corners, from places just out of sight—a soft knocking here, a muted creak there. I decide that hallucinations are probably a good indicator that I need to go to sleep. So I read in bed until I can’t keep my eyes open. I turn out the light, relieved this stupid day will be over as soon as I fall asleep.

  In the place between awake and sleeping, the thought drifts through my mind—is life nothing more than this? Just killing time with distractions until it’s over?

  “Kinsey, you didn’t have to be so mean to him.”

  I am holding the car together with my hands. My muscles tense as I keep it from flying apart. It is up to me to keep everything together. Always.

  “He’s a good guy. Really. Give him a chance.”

  The mannequin of Hunter is in the backseat—lifeless, stiff plastic. He cannot help me. The thin metal in my hands buckles.

  “Slow down, Camille!” I say. “The wind is too strong.”

  But I know you can’t do that.

  “Just try. You’re not even trying.”

  This is how fast we were going. This is how fast we will always go.

  “Wait!” I say. “I was the one driving. This is not how it hap­pened. Let me drive.”

  But you know I will try to change things that cannot be changed.

  “Camille!”

  The lights. Like two holes in the night. I lose my grip and the ceiling goes flying, the metal like wings. Hunter flies away with it. My hands are bleeding. More parts fall away until there is no car left, until it is just you and me and wind and light.

  “Who’s driving?” I scream.

  No one.

  “Step on the brakes!” I scream.

  There are no brakes.

  Just light and wind and me screaming, me thrashing about. I am running through space to nowhere. I am always running. I run but I don’t move. The light comes closer until it is all that is. The light and the screams and the wind and the metal. Then the crash and the float and the flying away.

  “I should have been the one driving,” your voice says into the light. I cannot see you. I cannot see anything.

  “You were drunk,” I say.

  “But still. You killed me.”

  THREE

  From white to black, like smashing into a wall.

  Flying through infinity, then cold and hard and way too still.

  I am a lump of gravity.

  I suck in air.

  My muscles tense, full of needles.

  I have been running. I am running. I need to run.

  Shadows everywhere. Outlines of furniture. Stationary things.

  Something in the corner.

  A shadow in the shape of a body.

  A shadow that could be solid.

  The figure moves. An arm goes up. Reaching for me.

  Everything in my body is ice.

  “Camille?” I whisper.

  Wind blows through the open window, curtains flutter, and the figure is gone.

  My eyes adjust to the dark. My water glass and lamp are knocked off the table. Broken glass swims on the floor. Like the aftermath of a fight.

  “Fuck this.”

  I jump out of bed. I pull on shorts and a sports bra and T-shirt and running shoes. The clock reads 3:52 a.m.

  Don’t drink water. Don’t eat. Don’t stretch. Don’t think.

  Just start running. Just move. Just go.

  It is already warm in the darkness. The lightning bugs blink on and off. My feet crunch the gravelly pavement. I close my eyes and feel the mechanics of my body. My bones and muscles are the only things I can trust.

  Run. Just run. If you run fast enough, nothing can catch you. If you run long enough, everyone else will give up.

  * * *

  Mom is sitting at the kitchen table when I get home. I am drenched with sweat, panting hard. She is stirring soy milk into her tea. She raises an eyebrow at me. Keeps stirring.

  “Do we have any canned beans?” I pant. I need protein and that’s the closest I can get in this house.

  “Sometimes I wish you were just a pothead,” she says. “That I could understand.”

  “Mom, do we have any beans? Or some of that fake taco meat maybe?”

  “You’re so pedestrian, Kinsey. I named you after a sex doctor and this is what I get.”

  She’s in one of her moods. I knew it was coming. I have to eat fast to get out of here as soon as possible. I grab a box of cereal, the least healthy thing I can find that still says “organic” so Mom will allow it in the house. I fill a mixing bowl with nearly half the box.

  “Are you anorexic?” she says.

  “You’re asking me this as I’m about to eat five servings of cereal?”

  “How long were you running?”

  “I don’t know. What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “I guess about three hours.”

  “Three hours! Are you insane?”

  “I walked part of the time and I stretched in the middle. Calm down.” I fill a huge glass full of water and gulp it down. I fill it again.

  She sighs and shakes her head. “You run too much. It’s like an addiction. It’s a sign of mental illness.”

  Over the years, I’ve developed a thick skin to protect me from her judgments. Usually they just roll right off me; at worst, they’re a mild irritation. But right now, I’m raw and jagged and unprepared, like my protective walls have crumbled. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the long run with no food or water. Maybe I’m losing my mind.

  Instead of ignoring her and walking away like I always do, I want to fight. Anger mixes with adrenaline from the run and fills me with a dark electricity. I slam my glass down on the table. “Seriously, Mom? You ran out of things to judge me about, so you picked practically the healthiest things a person can do for their body? Are you really that desperate to bring me down to your level?”

  A wicked grin spreads across her face, like she’s thrilled I’m finally playing her game. “My level?” she says. “I’m an artist living on my own terms in a society that breeds nothing but sheep.”

  “You live in a shack, Mom. You don’t even have a job.”

  “Somehow I raised a sheep.”

  “You’re being a bitch.”

  “Baa, baaaa.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You’re running on a treadmill.”

  “I run to feel free.”

  “A sheep and a hamster.”

  “Mom, stop.”

  “What are you running from, Kinsey?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What are you running from?”

  “Shut up!” I pick the glass up and throw it on the ground. I want a crash, I want shards of glass flying, I want her to bleed. But it doesn’t break, just lands with a sad thud and rolls around in its puddle.

  “Pathetic,” Mom says. She starts laughing, cackling like a cartoon witch. I grab the cereal bowl and take it to my room. My head
pounds with anger and dehydration. My eyes sting with what could be the beginning of tears. It’s been so long since I cried, I don’t remember what it feels like. I get to my room, slam my door, and sit on my bed. Close my eyes. Take deep breaths. Force the pain back in. Force my eyes to dry. She won’t get any tears from me today. No one will. Ever.

  * * *

  By the time I get to school, I feel almost normal, except for a headache and a slight cramp in my left quad. Today’s Friday. Only Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of next week left, which are unofficially optional for seniors, then high school is over for the rest of my life. I hand in my final English paper, which I finished days ago. And that’s it. No more papers. No more tests. Everyone else is giddy, swept up in the ritual of graduation like every year before them. Sheep, my mom would say. But I wish I felt as they did, wish I could find the motivation to smile and hug and sign yearbooks. But I feel strangely empty and lost, like something has been taken from me, like I’m mourning the loss of homework assignments and studying, like all of a sudden I have nothing left in the world.

  I have one class left, but I leave school early. I’ve never cut class in my life. But I’m not the only one today; cars full of seniors pour out of the parking lot, on their way to the beach, on their way to get ready for parties I will not go to. For a moment, I panic. I don’t have a shift at work tonight. Bill said three in a row was no good, especially since I’m working all day Saturday and Sunday. He insisted I have Friday off, so I could “have fun with my friends.” Little does he know.

  I use the pay phone at the gas station across the street to call Grandma. She answers in her usual exasperated tone. I tell her I’m coming over to use the computer. She lectures me about my manners but ultimately agrees when I lie and say I need to do research for a final paper that counts for half my grade. “Fine,” she sighs. “At least you’re doing something with your life.” She may be an old bitch, but at least she has some of her priorities straight.