The White Horse by Cynthia D. Grant Page A

stoned and made a big mistake; knew it as soon as he locked the door. She thought: This is it. I’m gonna die. Her mind ran away and hid but came back the next morning and he’d beat her up so bad she had to go to the free clinic.
    The doctor scowled when he saw the bruises.
    â€œHow old are you?” he asked, examining her face.
    â€œForty.”
    â€œYou won’t see twenty at this rate.”
    He stitched her cuts and took X rays and blood. She wanted to leave, but they’d taken her clothes, so she had to wait on the examining table. The paper crinkled when she moved. There was nothing to read and nothing in the cupboards worth taking. The doctor came back with the lab work, sighing.
    â€œYou know what I’m going to say, don’t you,” he said.
    She shrugged.
    â€œWhy’d you wait so long to come in?”
    â€œI been busy.”
    He rubbed his face. “We could’ve done something. Now it’s too late.”
    â€œI don’t want you to do nothing.”
    â€œI’ll need to examine you and run some tests.”
    He said a bunch more stuff, but she’d stopped listening. They couldn’t make her stay, so she got dressed and left, but once she got outside she didn’t know where to go. She could call up Granny but that wouldn’t help; all she did was cry and talk about herself, as if she were the star of every show.
    She was hungry. No money and she looked like hell. The soup kitchen reeked of all the freaks hunched over bowls. But at least she got to eat, and when they tried to save her soul she pretended she couldn’t hear them.
    Her toes were frozen. She had to get warm. She could call the teacher, maybe stay in her house, but she’d probably steal something, then school would be over and there’d be nothing. There had to be something.
    She bummed some change—the bruises helped—and took the bus to the roller rink. It was warm and dark inside. No one stared at her face and the place was so loud, she didn’t have to think; the roaring skates and blades filled up her head, and the music played and the lights were twinkling.
    She watched families swoop by, children with their parents and groups of teenagers playing crack the whip. The deejay said, “Couples only this time,” and a parade of old people circled the rink, turning this way and that like square dancers. Young couples glided by, holding hands. She and Sonny had pretended they were in the Olympics, his arm around her waist. They never lost their balance, even when the strobe lights made their faces dance. He was always so graceful until things went bad and he lost track of what to do with his arms and legs.
    She put on her skates and entered the rink, moving slowly at first, then picking up speed, cutting through the skaters like a Roller Derby queen. Big, nasty gals on wheels. Don’t mess with me. Her mother used to watch them on TV. Saturday afternoons, beer cans and babies on the floor. Where’s Bobby? Dammit, Raina, I told you to watch him. He’s getting in my purse again.… The packs circling the rink, then clashing on the rail in a snarl of flashing fists and yellow hair.
    She paused to catch her breath. A boy skated up beside her.
    â€œHi.” He smiled. He had a baby face and glasses. “I’ve been watching you. You skate real good.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou come here often?”
    â€œNo.”
    She took off. The deejay said, “Let’s turn back the clock,” and played a song she’d never heard.
    He was beside her again, his braces gleaming. “I come here a lot. What grade are you in?”
    She pulled ahead. He stumped along behind her.
    â€œI’m seventeen,” he called. “How old are you?”
    She was too small, that was the problem. People thought she was a puppy they could pick up and put in their pockets. All she wanted to do was think about Sonny, and this stupid kid was