Damaged by Amy Reed Page A

The Internet is full of people claiming to know things they don’t actually know.
    I close the laptop and feel a sudden gust of cold wind. I look out the window but the leaves on the trees are still; there isn’t even the slightest breeze. I rub my eyes and realize suddenly how exhausted I am, and apparently so out of it that now I’m hallucinating temperatures and air movement. But a little tiredness I can deal with. Sleep is something I can control. And that’s when it comes to me:
    The only real way to avoid nightmares is to not sleep at all.
    * * *
    â€œSomeone called for you,” Mom says when I get home. “A boy.”
    â€œWho?” I say, even though I already know who it is, though I have no idea how he got my number.
    â€œHe didn’t say. But he had a low voice. Very manly. Sounded cute.”
    â€œHow does someone sound cute?”
    â€œSame way someone sounds like a bitch,” she says. “For example.”
    I open the fridge and say nothing.
    â€œOh, and Camille’s mom called,” Mom says. “Again.”
    My throat closes up and guilt spreads through me like poison.
    â€œWhat is that woman’s problem?” Mom says, her voice sour. “Can’t she take a hint? How many times does she have to invite you over for dinner before she realizes you’re never coming? Her kid dies, and now she’s trying to adopt you? It’s creepy.”
    It takes all of my strength not to jump across the room and strangle her.
    â€œI’m going out tonight,” Mom says. “Don’t wait up.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou’re not working?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œIt’s the last Friday night of high school, and you don’t have plans?”
    I pull a jar of peanut butter and an apple from the fridge.
    â€œGod, Kinsey, why don’t you just kill yourself right now?”
    Before I have time to even realize what’s happening, my arm retracts and my shoulder shifts back, like some kind of involuntary muscle memory left over from when I used to play softball. I throw the apple and it barely misses her head. It thuds against the wall behind her.
    For a moment there is complete silence while Mom’s eyes grow big and her mouth drops open. I freeze. I make a quick mental note of where the kitchen knives are in case I have to defend myself from her attack. I wait for surprise to morph into fury, but instead her body relaxes and her face opens into a big cruel grin, and she erupts into her cackling laugh she reserves especially for me when she thinks I’m a big joke.
    â€œYou think you scare me?” She picks up the half-smashed apple from the floor and tosses it back to me. I catch it. “You were going to eat that, weren’t you?”
    I say nothing. I feel the wet pulp in my hands.
    â€œIt’s still half-good,” she says. “You don’t want to waste food, do you?” She walks over and pulls it out of my hand, holds it up to my face. “Here,” she says. “Eat it.” She pushes it against my lips.
    I back away. “No,” I say.
    â€œCome on,” she says, getting closer, pushing the apple even harder against my teeth. My face is wet with it. The sweet smell makes me sick. “Eat it.”
    â€œNo!” I shove her and she stumbles a few steps back. She smirks and tosses the apple at my feet.
    â€œNice to see you’re not a total wimp.”
    Neither of us moves. Neither of us is willing to be the first to look away. My eyes burn into her and I can hear nothing but the fire in my head growling I hate you I hate you I hate you .
    Finally, she looks away, breaking the spell. She walks in slow motion to the kitchen table and picks up her purse. “I’ll wait for my ride outside,” she says, then struts out the door. Her moves are exaggerated, like she has to remind herself how to