Free Tripping Me Up by Amber Garza Page A

bring myself to hit him back.
    I near my neighbor’s mailbox, and all the anger inside of me explodes like a colorful firework when it sprays across the dark sky. Bringing my arm forward, I connect with the mailbox. I hit it so hard, the aluminum bends backward. Picturing my dad’s face, I feel a strange satisfaction. That is until my hand starts to throb.
    “Shit!” I shake it out, my knuckles sticky as blood oozes from my knuckles. Grabbing my hand, I hold it close to my body , the pain searing up my arm.
    “Tripp?” A girl’s voice speaks into the quiet night air.
    Hadley stand s near the side of her house with a garbage bag in her hand. She drops the bag inside the garbage can, closes the lid and then starts walking toward me. I don’t say a word, hoping she’ll just go away. I don’t want her to see me like this.
    “You oka y?” She tentatively steps forward.
    I’m surprised that she even cares, since I haven’t spoken to her since the night I ate at her house. It’s just that I felt like such a jerk when I avoided her at school the following day. My guilt has been keeping me away ever since. I nod, unable to speak. I’m afraid if I do she’ll hear the pain in my voice.
    Hadley walks faster, bridging the gap between us . “What happened?”
    I shake my head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
    Her gaze lands on my bloodied hand. “That’s not nothing, Tripp. Did you get in a fight or something?”
    “Yeah, with a mailbox.” I laugh bitterly, the slight movement causing me to cringe as pain shoots through my hand.
    “You hit a mailbox?”
    Her concerned look unnerves me. “Like I said, it was no big deal. I was just kinda pissed off, and I wanted to get out my aggression.”
    “You were mad so you beat up a mailbox?” Her eyebrows knit together in a look of skepticism.
    I force a grin while still clutching my hand. “When you put it that way, I guess it does sound kind of stupid.”
    “Stay right here, and I’ll grab the first aid kit,” she says to me.
    “You don’t have to do that. I can clean up at home,” I tell her, feeling stupid.
    “No, really. You should get that cleaned up now.” She whirls around before I can protest again. “I’ll be right back,” she calls over her shoulder.
    I stand outside her house, grateful for her help. I could really use a friend tonight. It’s dark outside, and I pray that my dad stays in bed and doesn’t get up looking for me. Although I think it’s a pretty safe bet that he’s out for the night. Headlights flash, and I stiffen. A minivan barrels down the road, and the lady in the driver’s seat doesn't even notice me. Her eyes are trained forward as she passes.
    The front door to Hadley's house springs open and she marches out, holding a first aid kit in her hand. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and a few dark strands frame her face. Under the streetlamp her face looks even more pale than usual. She doesn’t have on any makeup, but she still looks beautiful.
    “Thanks,” I say sheepishly.
    “No problem. Are you gonna tell me what pissed you off so bad?”
    “I’d rather not talk about it.” I stare hard at my feet. A dog barks in the distance, and car tires rumble on the gravel.
    The kit clicks as Hadley opens it. She rummages around inside and pulls out some antiseptic cloths.
    “This will probably sting,” she warns before running one over my fingers.
    It does sting, and I wi nce as the sterile scent fills my nostrils. My pulse spikes at her close proximity, and I work hard to keep my breathing even. I watch her face as she strokes my fingers with the cloth. She works with precision, her expression soft. It feels good to be cared for, and I find myself drawn to her. For one brief moment I imagine pulling up my shirt and showing her my wounds. Would she still care for me if she knew? Would she touch my scars? Would she comfort me? I clear my throat, silencing the questions. Thinking about the shitty way I treat her at