Damage by A. M. Jenkins Read Free Book Online

playing football at the same time as Curtis. But number 83 is not on the screen right now, because he wasn’t on the field at this point last night. And right now you don’t feel that you’re anywhere at all.
    “It’s going to be a good year.” Coach adds firmly, like he’s going to make it be a good year by sheer force of will.
    It’s going to be a good year.
    Something flickers inside you. The last time you heard those words was on Heather’s front porch.
    You are going out with Heather tonight.
    The thought has lain there since Monday afternoon, like a seed. Now it’s Saturday, and while everybody else is getting serious about football, that seed flutters to life.
    I’ve always liked you, Austin.
    The tape rolls on. The screen becomes a blur of swaying lines and battling bodies again. Faceless, like ants. Not one of them is as real as the tickle of Heather’s breath in your ear.

CHAPTER SIX
    You pick Heather up early in the evening. You’ll take her to dinner first, then a movie.
    While you’re waiting for her to answer the doorbell, you look around Heather’s neighborhood with its neat streets, its tidy yards shoved tight together. It makes your neighborhood seem downright shabby, with yards and pastures patched together not by concrete driveways, but by barbed-wire fences or white plank fences or no fences at all; brick houses neighboring wood houses neighboring trailers.
    Then Heather opens the door, and you forget all about feeling shabby. When she walks down the sidewalk next to you, her perfume brushes against you like light, teasing fingers. It’s not flowers or spices, but the kind of thing you’d expect from a girl who went to the prom last year in a short little black strapless dress that made everyguy there wish it’d ride up just a few more inches. Or else fall down just half an inch.
    You breathe a little deeper to catch the scent again.
    Once the truck’s moving, you guess you wouldn't would mind putting your arm around her—she’s sitting in the center of the seat, right next to you—but you know from experience you’ll have to move your arm every time you shift gears. And once when you did that, you conked your date in the back of her head with your elbow.
    So you let your right hand rest on your thigh, though it’s it’s actually sort of wanting to move over to hold Heather’s hand, fine boned and delicate, with its pale silvery polish.
    “I heard you guys had a great game last night,” she's saying. “I was sorry I couldn’t be there. But still. Congratulations.”
    “Thanks. You coming next Friday?”
    “Mm-hmm. Even got a new top for it. A black knit shell—it’ll look good with jeans. I haven’t decided about the matching cardigan—it’s got short sleeves and all, I don’t want to get too hot. And of course I’ll wear my new sandals.”
    She’s not asking for your opinion, but you nod, anyway. She smiles at you. There’s a love song playing on the radio. You really like having her here next to you, but you can’t think of anything to say. It doesn’t seem to matter. Heather radiates contentment, satisfaction, self-esteem. It’s almost as if you’re huddled next to a campfire, enjoying its warmth.
    And that trickle of interest is flowing, the one that’s always pulled you to Heather. Even though you don’t even know the small stuff about her, like whether she goes to church or what kind of music she likes. Or what her favorite color is. Or whether she can tell a zone defense from man-to-man. The only thing you know is that she doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. And you know where her house is and what it looks like.
    And you know about her dad.
    “You live with your mom, don’t you?” you ask.
    “Yeah.” She glances at the radio. “Hey. Do you mind if we listen to some real music?” She doesn’t wait for you to answer, just reaches for the buttons and starts clicking her way down the dial. You almost admire her. Heather doesn’t need