If I Was Your Girl(57)

“Listen,” she said, after a short silence fell between us. “We love you no matter what.”

“I love you guys too.” I smiled, and my bruised temple throbbed painfully.

We pulled into my apartment complex. I thanked her again and started to get out, but she squeezed my hand and gave me a serious look.

“You don’t have to go in,” she said. “You can come stay with me tonight.”

“No,” I said, taking my hand from hers and giving her a reassuring smile. “Thank you, but no. I’m feeling better.”

“Okay,” Layla said. “I’m gonna wait out here for half an hour though. If you feel like you need to be around friends, just come on out and we’ll have a sleepover.”

I thanked Layla again and limped up the stairs, dreading the coming conversation with Dad. I reached our door and started to turn the knob when it was yanked open from within. Dad stood in the doorway, his shoulders squared and his expression full of worry.

“Oh my God,” he said, softly at first and then louder again as he looked me up and down. He pushed past me without saying anything and started stomping down the breezeway stairs.

“Wait,” I said, trying to follow him and nearly falling down the stairs on my twisted ankle. “Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna f*cking kill him!” Dad said, a few seconds before his car door slammed and the engine kicked to life. I reached the parking lot just in time to see him speeding off into the night. Layla was already getting out of her car and walking over, her eyes wide.

“What was that?” she said.

“We have to go,” I said, limping past her to her car.

“Where’s he going?”

“Grant’s house,” I said, my hands shaking as I buckled myself in.





30

The car slipped in the mud as we careened down the canopied dirt road to Grant’s trailer. I had my car door open before Layla could even bring the car to a stop. Dad’s car was parked a few yards ahead, his headlights bathing the front of the trailer ghostly white. He was standing halfway in the driver’s seat, his palm pressed on the horn without letting up. The chained-up dogs barked and howled madly trying to attack him, trying to escape, trying to get the noise to stop.

Grant appeared on the porch, his jacket gone and his tie loosened. He squared his shoulders as he strode purposefully down to the yard and over to Dad, who finally let go of the horn. I scrambled to get free of my seat belt and fell down in the mud beside the car.

“Dad!” I yelled. “Dad, please—”

“Go home!” Dad screamed, stepping away from the car and closing the distance between himself and Grant.

“I don’t know what you think,” Grant said, raising both of his hands palms out, “but—”

Dad stepped forward, pivoted, and drove his fist into Grant’s face with the kind of wild, berserk swing I couldn’t have imagined he had in him. Grant made a sound like an airbag exploding and fell a few feet back, already bleeding from his nose.

“Listen close, son,” Dad growled. “You touch her again, or come near her, or talk to her, or so much as look at her, and I will put you in the goddamn ground.”

I made it to my feet and threw myself between them. Dad looked at me the same way he used to when I was four and I’d thrown a temper tantrum over something stupid, only now his eyes were rimmed red and I saw his nostrils flaring over and over. I heard the screen door slam and turned to see Grant’s mom standing on the small porch in a nightgown.

“I’m gonna count to ten,” Ruby said, “and then I want you and your faggot son off my property or I call the cops.”

“Dad,” I said, tugging gently on his sleeve and trying to avoid looking at Grant, “come on.”

“One,” Grant’s mom said.

“Dad,” I hissed. He shoved my hand away from his arm.

“Two,” she said through gritted teeth. “Three.”

“Get in the car,” Dad said finally, turning without looking at me. I followed him. Layla waved me down and gave me a wide-eyed look but I shook my head and got in the car with Dad. He jerked the gear stick like he was trying to choke it and pulled out onto the orange-glowing highway.

“It wasn’t him,” I said after a moment, trying to shrink myself down as small as possible. “It was this other guy—”

“Goddamnit!” Dad said, pounding his other fist against the steering wheel. I pressed myself into the passenger door and stared at him, afraid to speak. “I told you. I f*cking told you!”

“Dad,” I said. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“You could’ve died,” he said, his voice still booming in the tiny space, “and you don’t even care! Damnit, Amanda—”

“Dad—” I said, my voice cracking.

“Well, I’m done,” Dad said. “I’m not watching you destroy yourself. When we get home I want you to pack your things.”



NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO

I would have preferred to sit in the back of the bus, but older, meaner boys sat back there, and the assistant principal said I was only making myself a target. Not that sitting up front helped; they kicked at my legs and slapped things out of my hands when they walked by. For a while my shins were striped with green and purple bruises and my paperbacks came home with torn covers and missing pages. Now I sat quietly with my knees pulled to my chest and stared straight ahead.