Jag said that’s where it goes if they don’t have a blender.
Dean stares at me, chest heaving, eyes wide with disbelief.Then fury.
“Deeeeean!”His mother screams from the stairs.“You haven’t mowed the lawn, motherfucker!I’m not asking again!”
He glares at me as he zips his pants.
“This isn’t over.”He storms out, slamming the door.
I stand there with the knife shaking in my hand, staring at the ruined jaguar where it lies in a filthy puddle on the floor.
A sob stuffs itself into my throat, and all the bravery I faked falls out of me at once.My bones go soft.My legs can’t hold me.I drop to my knees beside Little Jag and reach out with trembling fingers.
The smell hits me.
I gag.Then I heave, puking so suddenly I can’t move fast enough to avoid the jaguar.I make a mess all over it, crying harder as I vomit.
When my insides are empty, I wipe my mouth and lock the door.Then I crawl onto the bed with the knife and curl into a ball.
I can’t stop shaking.
The sun goes down slow.
The house quiets.
Finally, finally, the window opens, and the night air slips in.Jag climbs through, his backpack landing silently on the floor.When he sees me curled up on the bed, he freezes.
“What happened?”His voice vibrates in that deep way when he’s angry.
My throat feels stuck as he follows my gaze to Little Jag and the sour mess around it.
His face changes into a slow, dark thundercloud that means he’ll break things if he doesn’t hold himself together.
He kneels by the ruined toy, fingers hovering above it, careful not to touch.He doesn’t breathe.Doesn’t move.
“Tell me.”His eyes shift to mine.“Don’t leave out a single detail.”
I suck in a shaky breath and tell him everything.What Dean said, what he did to Little Jag, how he grabbed me, what he tried to force, how I bit him, how I threatened him with the knife, and how he promised it isn’t over.
Jag listens without interrupting, his mouth hard and eyes harder.
When I finish, he stands and turns away from me.His shoulders rise and fall, rise and fall, like he can’t breathe right.He grips his hair, pulling, yanking, and making a noise that sounds like he’s hurting.
“Only ten years old,” he whispers.
“I’ll be eleven next month.”
“Yeah.”He roughly rubs his face with both hands, keeping his back to me.Then his loud breaths start to slow.He rolls his neck and faces me again.“You did good.The biting, the knife… You fought back just like I taught you.”
My skin warms all over.
He grabs my black trash bag, the one I never bother to unpack, and starts stuffing the rest of my things into it.Clothes.Schoolbooks.Toothbrush.
“Time to run?”I pull on the shoes he hands me.
“Not yet.”He ties the bag and leaves it on the floor beside his backpack.“Where is Dean’s room?”
“Across the hall.”I point.“First door on the left.”
