Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(44)

“I tried,” I whisper.

“Bullshit!” Scott yells so loudly that the crystals on the      lampshade tinkle. I flinch and step back. “You’ve done everything you can to      make Allison and me miserable.”

I swallow. Mom’s boyfriend, Trent, started this way. He      walked into the apartment all calm and cool, with anger seething underneath.      Then he yelled. Then he hit.

Dad had this anger too. So did Grandpa. My heart beats      wildly in my chest as Scott crushes the cigarette in his hand. For the first      time, he looks at me. “Jesus, you’re shaking.”

He moves toward me and I take a retreating step. My back      hits the window and my hands fly out, searching for something—anything—to      protect myself with. “Get out.”

The anger—it’s gone,      calls the little girl in my head, but I ignore her. She died along with      my love of ribbons and dresses and life. She’s nothing but a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly and places space between us. “I      didn’t realize I scared you. I was mad. Allison was upset. I hate to see her cry      and your teacher called...but I’m calm. I swear.”

I tried. Really, I did. I tried and this is where it got me.      Trapped in a room full of windows with a man who resembles my father. Dad also      used to say he was calm, but he never was. “Get out!”

“Elisabeth...”

“Out!” My hands wave air in front of me, motioning for him      to leave. “Get out!”

Scott’s eyes grow abnormally wide. “I am not going to hurt      you.”

“This is your fault!” I yell and I want to stop, but if I      stop I’ll cry. A strange wetness burns my eyes. My lip is so heavy it trembles.      I can’t cry. I won’t cry. Embracing the anger, I open my mouth again. Damn him      if he makes me cry. “You’re the one that dragged me here. Is it not enough to      take me away from home? You have to humiliate me at school?”

“Humiliate you? Elisabeth, what are you talking about?”

“I am not Elisabeth! Look at me!” I grab at the clothes on      my body with one hand and yank my Calculus book off the bedside table with the      other and fling the book straight at his head. He ducks and the book makes a      loud thud when it smacks the wall. “You want me to be somebody else. You don’t      want me to be me. You’re just like Dad! You want me gone!”

My chest is heaving and I gasp for air. The silence that      falls between us is heavy and I’m drowning under its weight.

“That’s not true.” Scott pauses as if he’s waiting for a      reply. He picks up the textbook and sets it on the dresser. Right beside Mom’s      parole officer’s card. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

No, we won’t. He leaves for work before I wake for school.      Scott gently closes the door. I race across the room, lock it, turn off the      lights, then toss the covers off the bed, searching for the phone. My fingers      shake as I press the numbers. My pulse beats in my ears in time to the name of      the person I need: Isaiah. A heartbeat. Isaiah. The phone rings. Isaiah.

“Hey.” At the sound of his easygoing voice I lean against      the closet door. “You had me worried. It’s five after ten. You’re late for our      one-minute talk.”

Hoping my lip will quit trembling, I close my eyes and will      the tears to stay away. It’s all in vain. If I speak, I’ll cry and I don’t      cry.

“Beth?” Worry creeps into his tone.

“Here,” I whisper back and that one word is almost my      undoing. Isaiah and I—we don’t do phone conversations. Never have. We watched      TV. We partied. We sat next to each other—existed. How do you just be on a      phone? And that’s what I need. I need Isaiah to just exist.

“Beth...” He hesitates. “Is that Ryan guy messing with you      again?”

I swallow a possible sob. I won’t cry. I won’t. “Sort of.”      And Allison and my uncle and school and everything and I feel like the walls are      caving in, an avalanche preparing to bury me.

Silence from Isaiah.

I bite my lip when one tear rolls down my face. “Do you want      me to let you go?” Dammit. Just dammit—I don’t cry. “Because I know you don’t      talk. I mean us. We. We don’t talk.” I swear under my breath. My voice shook.      He’ll know I’m upset. He’ll know.