Girl Underwater by Claire Kells Read Free Book Online Page A

We all look forward to her return.
    Colin Shea remains in critical condition. He has been transferred to Massachusetts General Hospital to be closer to family. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.
    Best,
Coach Toll
    â€œAvery? You up there?”
    Mom.
My heart stalls, then ramps back up again. It’s a full minute before I can even respond. “Coming,” I murmur.
    I close my laptop and make my way downstairs. I don’t enjoy these dinners, with Mom overstuffing my plate and Dad asking intensely personal questions (
Does your face still burn? What’s the pain like, on a scale from 0 to 10? Any issues with mobility in your fingertips? Tingling and/or numbness?
And so on . . .). Every time I sit down, he launches into a new History & Physical, just like the ones he made me take in high school when he’d drag me into work for an “educational experience.”
    For the first five minutes, we dine in silence. Everything tastes the same: like cardboard, sticking to the roof of my mouth while I swirl it around and gulp it down.
    â€œI heard you on the phone, sweetie,” my mom says.
    â€œYeah.” I take a swig of chocolate milk. “Colin called.”
    The silence turns painful. Mom sips her purified water, the ice clinking the glass. Dad slices into his pork chop.
    â€œI meant
Lee
. Lee called.” I swallow hard, but the food isn’t just tasteless anymore; it’s nauseating. I feel like I’m going to pass out.
    â€œSweetie, are you okay?”
    â€œFine.”
    Dad puts his utensils down. “Any nausea? Light-headedness?”
    â€œNo.” I force a glob of potatoes down my throat. “Where’d you get this from?”
    My mom frowns. “Get what?”
    â€œThis pork chop.”
    â€œOh. The butcher’s. It’s good, isn’t it?”
    I wince. So many unwelcome thoughts tumble around in my head. The word
butcher
makes me sick, as does the taste of meat, and yet I can’t stop eating it. It’s there; it’s mine; I need to finish it.
    Critical condition.
    Closer to family.
    Thoughts and prayers.
    â€œHoney, if you don’t like it—”
    â€œNo, it’s fine.” I try to smile, but she knows better. Her frown deepens.
    â€œYou don’t look good.” She glances at my dad, who studies me with his usual intensity. “Right? She looks pale to you, doesn’t she? Maybe it’s the pork—”
    â€œI’m okay,” I manage.
    I stare at my food, arranged neatly in little piles. It’s steaming hot, the way any decent dinner should be.
    â€œAvery?” Mom kneels down beside me. She puts a gentle hand on my forearm, but it does nothing to quell the tremor in my hands. “Avery, it’s okay.”
    I get up, knocking over the chair in my sprint for the bathroom. What follows is a violent, cleansing purge. After seeing the pork chop in reverse, I draw my gaze up to the mirror. The circles under my eyes are gone, and my cheekbones have lost their scary prominence. Even my hair is almost back to its natural hue, a soft, snowy blond.
    Yes, it’s true: The person staring back at me looks healthier. Robust, even. It’s all such a magnificent ruse.
    I return to the dining room to find my parents holding their breaths. Mom has that panicky look to her, but my dad manages to rein her in. “Are you okay?” he asks me.
    Colin isn’t going to make it.
    I’m
not going to make it.
    Instead, I say, “Yep. Perfect.”
    She rises from her chair and reaches for my plate.
    â€œLeave it,” I say.
    â€œSweetie—”
    â€œPlease.” Then, with desperation: “Leave it.”
    The nausea returns in full force, even worse than before. But it’s not the food, and it’s not my sensitive stomach.
    It’s me.

6
    A red dawn skims the shadows on distant peaks. Heavy fog swirls around the mountaintops, the summits bald and raw. Even