Damage by A. M. Jenkins Read Free Book Online Page A

anybody’s approval.
    “Put on anything you like,” you tell her.
    Dance music blares from the speakers. Heather’s finger hovers over the button for a second, then she sits up; the dance music must meet with her favor. “What about your parents? Are they still together?”
    “No.” It’s been awhile since you’ve said this next part “My dad’s dead,” you tell her, ready for Heather to catch your words up and carry them forward. Maybe she’ll turn to you in complete understanding, and say: “Really? My dad’s dead, too.”
    The only sound is the drone of rubber on asphalt. When you glance over, she’s staring out the window—only there’s not much scenery on this stretch of 171.
    “What did he die from?” she asks after a moment.
    “Cancer,” you say, glancing at her again.
    “What kind?”
    Okay. She wants you to share first. Well, you’ve been through this part before. It’s always kind of awkward; this is the part where you’re supposed to tell your story. You try to oblige. “It was cancer of the esophagus,” you begin. “He died when I was three,” you finish.
    There’s no middle to the story, because you don’t remember him. There’s nothing else to tell.
    When you glance over to check Heather’s reaction, she’s watching you, her gaze straight and unwavering as she waits for the middle of your story.
    You have to look away, clear your throat. Reach to turn the radio up. “This’s a good song,” you mention, careful to keep your eyes on the road.
    You can’t tell her how you used to play at shaving, because that’s stupid. No way you could tell her about sitting on the bathroom counter in your pajamas. Or that your father was the one who taught you to shave, even though he was long gone at the time.
    When you were fourteen, you had a few whiskers that you thought needed to come off, so you went and bought a can of gel foam. When you got home you lockedyourself in the bathroom and pulled out the wooden box that held your dad’s old-fashioned safety razor, the one you’d found tucked away in the back of the medicine cabinet, gathering dust. Mom, never one to be sentimental, had forgotten about it. She said you could have it if you wanted, that it’d been a gift from somebody—she couldn’t remember who—to your father a long time ago. It looked like a gift; gold plated, lying on red velvet.
    Then you pulled the can out of the sack. On the back were the directions: Leave skin wet. Put gel on fingertips. Gently rub over skin to lather and shave.
    It didn’t say anything about what to do with the sink—but you already knew. You remembered very clearly how the sink was filled with warm water. You could almost hear the dabble-dabble-shake of the razor. You could almost see your dad’s hand holding it, strong and big and forever.
    You’re driving along, not really seeing the road ahead of you, remembering all this. Your right hand is resting on the seat next to your thigh, and you’re vaguely aware of Heather touching the class ring on your finger, as if she’s looking at it, but you don’t really start to pay attention until she begins to stroke the back of your hand. It’s light touch, but slow and deliberate, and after a moment or two it begins to set off nerve endings that reach way beyond the area she’s touching.
    You try to concentrate on watching the road. Sheslides her hand under yours, interlaces her fingers with yours, and lifts the whole thing to her lips. “No sadness allowed,” she says, very low, and you glance at her as she kisses the very tip of your index finger. It looks like she’s tasting a drop of honey. You hear a quick intake of breath.
    It came from you.
    A horn blares, the center line disappears under hood—your pickup is drifting into the oncoming lane. You jerk your hand away from Heather and swerve back again.
    Both hands are on the steering wheel now. Your is going like a jackhammer, whether from having fingertip sucked or from almost