Jill Sorenson - Crash Into Me

Carly was disconcerted by the idea of being watched in a private moment. “My dad’s going to kick your ass when I tell him you’ve been spying on me.”

He eyed her shrewdly, or perhaps he was only trying to get another glimpse of what was under her shirt. “Go ahead and tell him,” he said, calling her bluff. “I’ve got your razor blade, and I’ll bet you have some old marks, scabs and stuff, under that lacy little scrap you call a bra. Yeah, bring him out here. I’d like to talk to him about what you’ve been doing.”

“You’re a freak,” she said shrilly, worried now.

Carly was just about to run when the clouds shifted and a fortuitous ray of moonlight struck his face. She couldn’t discern the exact color of his eyes or hair, although she assumed both were dark, but could make out his well-arranged features, and they were familiar.

“I know you,” she said. “I remember you from junior high. You were a year ahead of me. What’s your name?”

“James.”

“James what?”

“James Matthews.”

Despite the tension, or perhaps because of it, she laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your name. It’s like two first names.”

“Okay, Carly, ” he said, with more sarcasm than was necessary to make his point.

She felt a flutter in her belly, like the tension she sometimes got before a big test. “You remember me?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’ve you been? I mean, I haven’t seen you at Shores.”

“You go there?”

She rolled her eyes, nodding. “It sucks.”

“I thought you went to private school, rich girl.”

“No,” she said glumly, letting the slight pass. “Dad’s into social justice.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. Where do you go?”

“Nowhere. I have homeschool.”

Her heart made a funny little twist. Only religious wackos and lowlife dropouts had homeschooling. “How is it?”

“Sucks.”

They understood each other perfectly, for a moment, before a strange glint in his eyes made her remember that she wasn’t wearing a shirt. James was cute, dangerous, and a little scary. It was an appealing combination, but she wasn’t ready for what his eyes said she’d get if she lingered here. “I’ve gotta jet.” She stood, careful to keep her shirt from slipping.

He jerked his chin up in a gesture boys used as hello, good-bye, who cares, and whatever. “Don’t come back here, rich girl.”

She looked over her shoulder, aware that the pose was provocative, considering her mostly naked back. “Why not?”

“This is my place.”

Carly started to argue, then rephrased the negative comment into a question, like they’d taught her in group. “What do you do here? Besides peep at girls?”

His eyes licked down her back then went far away, across the ocean. “Same thing you do. I hide.”

Ben heard Carly come in through the back door, but he didn’t go downstairs to confront her. Instead he waited, listening for the sound of her footsteps, his pulse pounding with adrenaline. All of the fear and anxiety he’d experienced over the past few frantic moments upon finding her bed empty, transformed into rage.

She tiptoed up the stairs, making very little noise, for she’d had the foresight to remove her shoes in the hallway. Once inside the safety of her own room, she let out a deep breath and pulled the door closed behind her.

He reached out to click on her bedside lamp.

She blinked at the sudden light, her eyes huge with guilt and wide with surprise.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asked. His voice was clipped, his enunciation carefully controlled.

She moistened her lips, eyes darting around the room.

“Don’t lie,” he warned, forcing himself to remain seated. He’d never hit her, never even spanked her as a child, but he was mad enough to make up for that oversight right now.

“I was with my boyfriend,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance. “What’s the big deal?”

He searched her face for signs of deception. Carly was a poor liar, despite having plenty of practice, but he couldn’t always tell. “Summer told me you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “What does she know? You guys, like, discussed me?”

“What’s his name, then?”

“James Matthews.”

“You made that up.”

“Did not.”

Ben believed her, and it did nothing to assuage his anger. He hated the idea of some teenaged dirtbag taking advantage of his daughter’s precarious emotional state. The last thing she needed right now was more turmoil.

Grabbing the makeup bag he’d found in her bathroom, he upended it on the bed, spilling its contents over the snowy white duvet cover.

Her pretty face paled. “You went through my stuff?”

He rose to his feet, eliminating the space between them in two angry strides. “Is this what your boyfriend taught you?” he yelled, gesturing to the bloody washcloths and razor blades on the bed. “To cut drugs and wipe up cokehead nosebleeds?”

When she didn’t answer, he took her by the upper arms and shook her, trying to scare the truth out of her.

“It’s not what you think,” she stuttered.

“What is it, then?”

She stared down at the carpet, refusing to answer.

He released her, trying to maintain a semblance of control. It was impossible to describe the way he’d felt while searching her room. The scenarios he’d imagined and memories he’d relived. “When did it get so difficult for you to look me in the eye?” he asked quietly. “I tell you that I love you, and you act like it kills you. What the hell is going on with you, Carly?”

Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the door. “It’s not what you think,” she repeated in a whisper.

“We’re not leaving this room until you tell me.”

“Lisette and I were trying to give each other tattoos,” she said in a rush of inspiration. “In Cultural Studies, we learned about this tribe in New Zealand, and figured we could do the same thing they did, with pen ink and razor blades.”

“Bullshit,” was his succinct response.

“If I was into coke, don’t you think you’d find some white powder on that stuff?”

He glanced at the jagged pile of razors and stained washcloths. “That’s a lot of blood for amateur tattoos.”

“Yeah, well, we fucked up. It didn’t work.”

His eyes cruised over her warily. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“This tattoo shit.”

Trembling, she crossed her arms over her chest. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s on my chest.”

“So?”

“It’s on my boob, Dad.”

He wasn’t deterred by her display of modesty. “Show me now, or I’ll call Lisette’s parents and tell them what you just told me. At the very least, they can hear about the joints you two were toking Saturday.”

“Fine,” Carly grated, pulling her shirt up and the top of her bra down quickly, revealing a flash of crisscrossed scabs.

It was enough to send him over the edge.

Grabbing her by the arms again, he pushed aside the fabric, exposing a dozen raw-looking red lines. Some were partially healed, others fresh and ugly.

In an instant, he was murderous. “Lisette did this to you?”

She shook her head in denial, covering herself with her hands.

“This Matthew-Mark punk? I’ll fucking tear him apart.”

“No, Daddy,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I did it. To myself.”

For a moment, he was so stunned he couldn’t breathe. He’d heard about self-mutilation before, but he’d never suspected his own daughter would resort to such measures. How could he not have known? And what else had she been doing while he’d had his head buried in the sand?