Twelve
James isn’t in his bed when I wake up the next morning.
I glance at the clock. 8:12. I’m starving, but all I can think about is washing last night off my skin. Our father doesn’t get out of bed until at least nine-thirty on the weekends. Later, if he drank the night before. I should have plenty of time to take a scalding hot shower and get out of the house before he wakes up.
Sometime during the night, he must have dragged himself from the hallway into his room because there isn’t a hulking body for me to step over. I hear the quiet rasp of a spoon scraping up cereal and sugar, muffled crunching. James loves cornflakes, but he’ll only eat them with half a bag of sugar dumped on top. Most mornings, he sits at the table for at least forty-five minutes eating bowl after bowl of cornflakes, finishing off half a gallon of milk at a time.
Knowing I’ve got the bathroom to myself for a little while, I take my time in the shower—lather, scrub, rinse, repeat—over and over until my skin is pink and raw to the touch. My first palmful of shampoo sloshes to the bottom of the bathtub when I reach for hair that’s probably in the Dumpster behind the salon by now. I miss my hair, but rather than dwell on why, I tell myself I’m saving us money on shampoo. Every dollar saved is a dollar closer to us getting out of this house.
Except, after last night, I’m not sure the original plan is a good idea anymore.
I shake my head. No. Of course James and I should still move in together. Taking on my father last night made James extra emotional, that’s all. Or he might’ve still been high. He never would’ve kissed me if he’d been in his right mind.
I shut off the shower.
Squeezing the last of the water from my hair, I slide the tattered curtain open and reach for my towel—
“Oh my God!”
I tear the curtain shut. The bathroom door—which I lock and double check five times before turning on the water every time I take a shower—is open a crack, just enough for me to see a flash of white fabric and then nothing.
When I get my breathing under control, I clutch the curtain to my chest and peer into the bathroom.
The door is closed.
Scrambling out of the tub, my shaking hands fumble with the doorknob. I didn’t imagine the whole thing—I know what I saw—but everything is exactly how I left it. Locked.
I hastily towel off and throw on my clothes, blood burning my cheeks up from the inside. Before I brush my teeth or run a comb through my hair, I dash down the hall into the kitchen to scream at James who I know will be wearing a white t-shirt. Kissing me was bad enough, but spying on me in the shower? I don’t care how emotional he is!
“Hey, Sar-bear.”
I blink at him from where I’ve skidded to a halt in front of the stove. He’s sitting at the puke-green dining room table, dumping the last of the milk into a bowl of cornflakes already drowning in sugar.
In a bright green t-shirt and jeans.
He pauses mid-bite, dripping spoonful of milk and flakes poised above his bowl. “Something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” I say.
His face is pale, his expression empty.
He looks guilty.
But the counters are clear. There aren’t any white t-shirts hanging from the back of his chair or stuffed into the corner. I consider looking in the refrigerator, but its hinges squeal when the door opens and closes. I would have heard that from the bathroom.
Oh, God. Of course it wasn’t James.
“Have you seen Dad?” I croak.
His gaze drops to his bowl of cornflake glop. “I think he’s still in bed. Why are you so freaked out?”
“I’m not.” But I am, and we both know it. I can’t stop searching the room for white t-shirts or glancing over my shoulder at the dark hallway. Trying to focus, I glance at the clock.
8:54.
Denial wells like lava in my gut. Maybe he got up early to use the bathroom. When he realized I was in there, he went back to bed. No harm done.
But what about the locked door?
I sink into the chair farthest from my brother and watch him methodically shovel cereal into his mouth. Watching his mouth only reminds me of where it’s been and what it felt like.
Firm. Dry. Warm.
That’s the last thing I should be thinking about, so I force myself to grab the box of cereal and study the nutrition information. I’ve gotten all the way through the daily supply of iron when James gently takes the box away and reaches for my hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you’re still pissed about me kissing you last night, but I can’t stand thinking you’re scared to be around me now. Are you scared?”
I pull my hand away and mumble, “No.”
“Yeah, you are. You can’t even look at me.”
Without warning, he shoves away from the table, knocking his chair over in the process. I flinch away from the sound of dishes being slammed into the sink, my eyes on the clock—8:56—and my hands over my ears. If I can’t hear the sound, maybe my father won’t either.
“This is killing me,” he says, throwing open the pantry cabinet so he can cram the still-open box of cornflakes back in. Cereal spills onto the shelf and rains to the floor. “I know I fucked up but, God, can you really blame me for freaking out? For all I knew, Sam dragged you off into the trees and fucked you like he fucks all the girls at Leslie’s parties.”
My stomach churns when I picture Sam coaxing girls like Claire up the trail to our log. No, not our log. There’s no our anything. Even though I shouldn’t, I start to ask James which girls and how many, but he’s too caught up in his rant.
“And then when you left, all I could think about was what Dad might do to you if I didn’t get here in time to stop him. I thought I’d find you messed up and bloody and—”
James chokes on whatever image is in his head, his eyes fiery and wet. When I stand up, he backs away. “I actually prayed the whole way home. I prayed the cops wouldn’t pull me over and throw me in jail for driving high. I prayed Sam would be smart enough to stay here until I got home instead of leaving you. I prayed I’d stay sane long enough to make Dad pay if I got here too late…”
This time he actually does lose it. In seventeen years, I’ve never seen my brother cry. He grinds his palms into his eyes and hunches over as he tries to keep it in. Seeing him like this shreds me to the core.
He doesn’t shove me away when I slip my arms around his waist and bury my face in his chest. “God, James, please don’t.”
“You’re everything to me,” he says. “I’ll never forgive myself if something like that happens because I fucked up. Never.”
Listening to his broken words, feeling his back tremble beneath my hands, I forgive my brother for everything he can’t. “Shh…you saved me, just like you always do.”
He nods and squeezes me tighter. “Love you, Sarah.”
“I love you, too.”
And I do.