I don’t eat. The whole day goes by and I don’t eat. I put my hand over my stomach where it’s vibrating with hunger. I wonder how long I can go without food. My father left early in the morning, and he hasn’t come back. He’s probably at the bar, but I don’t care.
At around dinnertime for most families, I finally walk out into the living room and pick up the phone. I dial, and my hand is shaking.
“Hello?” Kathy asks in her sweetest phone voice.
“It’s Savannah,” I say quietly. She’s silent. “Can I see him?” I ask through the lump in my throat.
She exhales. “Not yet. He’s still adjusting. It’s important to be consistent, Savannah. And until he’s settled, I’m afraid you’ll just upset him.”
I whimper. “I need to see him, Kathy.”
She sniffles, and I wonder if she feels bad at all. If she feels bad for ruining my life. “This isn’t about you,” she says. “It’s about what’s best for Evan. And I know in your way, you love him. And I know he loves you. But it’s too soon. It will traumatize him, Savannah. We need to do what’s best for him.”
“I’mbest for him,” I snap. I’m not sure I believe that’s true anymore.
“Maybe in a few weeks,” she says. “Call again in a few weeks, when things have calmed down.”
“Don’t do this,” I quietly beg.
“I’m sorry. Call in a few weeks.” And she hangs up.
I hold the phone to my ear, listening to the dial tone. I force myself numb and set the phone down. I walk into the kitchen and look around, not really recognizing anything. I’m a ghost in my own life.
I take a box of crackers out of the cabinet and fill a glass with water from the tap. Then I go back to my room and lock the door.
Over the next two days my father knocks only once to ask if I’m okay. I don’t answer, and instead throw a sneaker at the door. Bastard.
On the third day I’m out of tears. I shower, brush my hair and my teeth. I call Retha to let her know I’m still alive. She’s relieved and tells me she put the word out on Patrick. If any of our friends sees him, he’ll get jumped. For people like us, I guess it’s the only justice I can hope for. Right or not.
Travis is making progress in rehab, and it looks like he might get out by the beginning of summer. I told him that when he gets here, I’m taking him out for chicken wings.
I consider calling Cameron, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I walk outside, squinting at the light, and sit on my front porch steps. I let the sun warm my cheeks; the black-and-blue marks have nearly faded.
A shiny black Beamer pulls up to my curb. Cameron is supposed to be in school. Not here. He cuts the engine, climbs out. I lower my eyes to the porch steps.
“Hey, Sutton,” he says.
“Hi, Cameron.”
I slide over on the porch step to make room for him. He sits next to me and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“How’s the wrist?” he asks, nodding toward my cast.
“Itchy.”
He laughs and looks back at the house. “Your shithead dad home?”
“No.”
He’s quiet, wringing his hands together. At first they just look red, but then I notice the bruising on his knuckles.
“Cameron,” I say, pulling his arm toward me. He lets his hands hang as I take them onto my lap, checking them over. His knuckles are cut up, bruised, and swollen. It looks incredibly painful.
“What did you do?” I whisper, running my fingertip gently over the swelling. When I look up to meet his eyes, he’s staring at me.
“Someone walked into my fist,” he says, not smiling.
“Both of them?”
