Free Scars by Cheryl Rainfield Page A

her—but I’m not that stupid.
    “You never told me,” I say. “How do you expect me to know you’ve read about it when you hide the books like they’re something shameful, some dirty secret?”
    “That’s not fair!” Mom cries. “I didn’t want to burden you.”
    “But you weren’t letting me in, either,” I say. “And—” I try to shove down the words, but they’re spewing out of me like vomit— “I don’t feel like I can talk to you. You’re always turning everything around, twisting what I say into a positive—or into a criticism of you.”
    I wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. “If you really want me to talk to you, then I need you to hear what I have to say; you have to
listen
. If you’re willing to do that, then I’m willing to try. But that won’t change how much I need Carolyn.”
    Mom’s lips tighten so much that they turn white.
    I rush on. “I need someone who knows about abuse and knows how to help me deal with it. I need someone who’s not family. And that someone is Carolyn.”
    “I’ll bet you wish she was me, don’t you, Kendra? I’ll bet you wish she was your mother. I can see it in your eyes; I can hear it in the way you talk about her.”
    I don’t say anything.
It’s true.
    Mom puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Kendra. Your Carolyn isn’t as great as you think. Your Carolyn, your precious Carolyn, only understands so much because she was raped, too. She’s a sexual abuse survivor.”
    My head feels like it’s squeezing inward.
I can’t take any more.
    Mom nods, a thin smile on her lips. “Yes, that’s why she’s
so
understanding. She’s a victim herself. You think I should go get raped, just so I can understand you?”
    “You don’t understand anything!” I yell. And then I’m running out of the house and into the night, Mom screaming after me.

15
    I run fast and hard, my shoes pounding against the pavement, jarring my bones.
Carolyn, a sexual abuse survivor.
It all fits now: the empathic looks, the sadness in her eyes I sometimes catch, the way she really gets my fear and pain. The way she understands me.
    Why did she hide it from me? Why didn’t she trust me enough to tell me?
    My blade is in my pocket. I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to cut, how much I need that comfort. All I’d have to do is duck into the bathroom of some all-night coffee shop….
    I reach for my blade, and my fingers touch the smooth warmth of the stone instead. I take it out and press it against my cheek, remembering the tenderness in Carolyn’s eyes as she offered me the basket of shells and stones.
    Carolyn is still Carolyn. Even if she didn’t tell me herself, it doesn’t change the way she’s been there for me. Or how much she cares.
    I slow down.
    Or maybe it does change things. She understands on agut level what I’m talking about—and she’s made it to the other side. She’s happy, and she’s got a life that doesn’t revolve around pain. I want that so bad—but I never believed I could have it. But if Carolyn can do it, maybe I can, too. I just have to hold onto what makes me happy. Carolyn. Meghan. Sandy. Mrs. Archer. And my art.
    My cell rings. Mom. I can’t talk to her right now, not without screaming. I shut my cell off and keep running, not even knowing where I’m going, until I find myself in front of Sandy’s. His kitchen windows are warm squares of yellow light pushing back the darkness.
    I raise my hand to knock.
    Sandy swings open the door before I do, letting light and the warm aroma of garlic and tomato out into the night. “Kendra! I’m glad you’re okay,” he says. “Come on in.” He opens the door wider.
    Why wouldn’t I be okay?
    Sandy shuts the door on the night, then ushers me into the kitchen. The table is laid out with dishes: a bowl of asparagus and slivered almonds; a plate of crusty bread; bowls of pasta with cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, and some kind of herb on top. There are