Free After Obsession by Carrie Jones, Steven E. Wedel Page A

rest. The spot is a good twenty feet away from where I was when the picture hit me. My arm hair prickles up again. No way that was a coincidence. No. Freaking. Way.

• 7 •
    AIMEE
     
    You are mine. You are all mine.
    Despite the stupid dream voice that’s echoing in my head, I go kayaking when I wake up, same as always.
    Last night it wasn’t just the voice. I dreamed of boys beneath the water and a seal with seeing eyes. But things are normal on the river. It’s so quiet as the kayak glides over the water that I almost think I can hear my mom there, feel her breath when she kisses me good night, hear her say my name. Ospreys glide in ever-widening circles above me, catching up winds. I would like to stay out here forever, but there’s school. There’s always school.
    I get ready to go, kissing all the men in my life good morning, which causes Benji to make fake puking noises. I bop him lightly on the arm, but it’s like I’m just going through the motions. In the shower I make a list of things I have to do today, but the first one makes me stumble, slip in the stall, and hit the tiled wall. Today I have to dump Blake.
    He picks me up in his Volvo. I slide inside, put my bag on my lap. He leans over to kiss me. It’s all I can do not to cringe. I turn my head so he gets my cheek.
    “So, how’s my favorite beautiful groupie this fine morning?” he asks, pulling out of the driveway, acting like nothing at all is wrong. He turns the music back up. He always turns it down when he gets me so that Gramps won’t lecture us about our precious eardrums.
    “I’m okay,” I answer.
    It’s like all my courage washed down the drain in the bathroom. Blake keeps talking about his tunes and cross-country and more about his tunes. Then he suddenly throws out, “Him beating me was just a fluke.”
    “Yeah? Who?” I have this disconnect, can’t figure out what he’s talking about.
    “That Indian. Courtney’s cousin.”
    My heart beats once. It beats twice. We head down a hill toward Schoolhouse Corner. “Did you just refer to him as ‘that Indian’?” I shift around, trying to find a way to get comfortable. My foot lands on the top of some ancient Glue CD cover.
    Blake reaches over and yanks it from under my foot, then straightens up again. “Jesus. You cracked the cover. What’s wrong with you?”
    Somehow he manages to stay on the road.
    I decide to not be the peacemaker this time.
    “What’s wrong with me ?” I say. “You’re the one who just referred to someone by their race like it’s their one defining character trait or something. I’m not the one who just did that. Plus, you took the Lord’s name in vain.”
    “Aimee, calm down.” His face sort of gets normal again, like his anger is seeping out of him. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
    “You said it, Blake. Lately you’ve been acting differently.”
    “I could say the same about you.”
    I stare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Whatever, Aimee.”
    “Whatever?”
    He grabs the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whiten. “Whatever.”
    All my insides tighten up. I shut off the music, trying to calm myself for what I have to say to Blake, who I thought I knew, who I thought was nice, but somehow isn’t all of sudden. I just say it. “We can’t go out anymore.”
    “What?”
    I repeat it. “We can’t go out anymore.”
    He gets his I’m-humoring-her voice. “Okay. Why can’t we go out anymore?”
    “Because you’re a racist.”
    He stops the car. “What? Saying ‘that Indian’ does not make me a racist. You’re acting crazy.”
    “I’m not crazy.”
    “No. You’re just looking for excuses to break up with me.” His voice is full-on angry, tight, compressed. A muscle twitches under his eye.
    “You’re a racist, Blake. I mean, that’s not all you are, obviously. You’re funny and you’re a great singer and stuff, but you—you—” I can’t find the words. “I just can’t go out with