Free Through to You by Lauren Barnholdt Page B

me questions about my family (which I dodge), about baseball (which I dodge), about school (fine, whatever), and about how I got to be so good at picking out picnic food (completely safe, because I bullshit it and tell her that I’m into watching the Food Network. Which is true, but only because it’s one of the only channels that doesn’t have infomercials on late at night, and so I watch it when I can’t fall asleep.)
    I’m having a nice time. Like, a really nice time. The nicest time I can ever remember having with a girl. But as I’m driving her home, I can feel my mood starting to darken.
    Yes, I had a nice time with Harper, but that doesn’t erase the million things that happened today that could have set me off. Like seeing Jackson, or the fact that I’m on my way home and I have no idea what I’m going to find there.
    â€œSo,” Harper says when I pull into her driveway. She fiddles with the strap of her bag. “I guess . . . I mean, I guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow.” She looks at me, and I can see in her eyes that she wants some reassurance. She wants me to tell her that we’ll talk tomorrow, that me kissing her meant something.
    But I can’t give her that.
    So instead I just say, “See you tomorrow, Harper.”
    I watch her walk into the house, until she’s inside safely and has shut the door behind her. I imagine her walking up the stairs, dropping her bag in her room, maybe calling a friend or starting her homework.
    It’s all so normal.
    And that’s why Harper and I could never work out.
    Because she’s normal.
    And I’m anything but.
    * * *
    When I get home, Braden’s sitting on the couch playing video games, and my mom’s in the kitchen baking cupcakes. It’s ten o’clock at night, and my dad’s car is still gone. He’s probably on a bender, although it’s impossible to know exactly where. He could be drinking himself to death in a hotel room, or a bar, or at a casino. Sometimes I wonder if he has a completely different family, like those people you see on the news who go missing and then turn out to have secret lives. Maybe my dad goes to visit his other family, and they all get drunk and watch sports before passing out in front of the TV.
    â€œHey!” my mom says happily when she sees me. She holds out a spoonful of batter, like it’s normal to be cooking so late at night. “Here,” she says. “Taste this.”
    â€œMom,” I say, “that stuff is poison.”
    She frowns and wrinkles her nose at the bowl. “Penn, if you’re talking about salmonella, I got these eggs fresh from—”
    â€œI’m not talking about salmonella, Mom.” I grab a bottle ofwater from the fridge, uncap it, and down almost all of it in one gulp. “I’m talking about the fact that there’s tons of hydrogenated fat in there. Plus the dairy alone is filled with hormones.”
    My mom smiles and shakes her head, like she’s exasperated with me. “My son the college athlete,” she says proudly. “Always worried about what he puts into his body. Not all of us have to worry about our performance on the baseball field, you know.”
    I don’t say anything, but my mood darkens even more. We both know I’m not playing baseball right now, that I probably won’t ever again, and that I definitely won’t be playing for a college.
    And with my chances of a baseball scholarship completely dashed, there’s really no way I’m even going to college. Which means I’ll be stuck here, probably working at some shitty job that I hate. But my mom doesn’t like talking about that. If you ask her, she’ll tell you that of course some college is going to take me. She lives in denial—about my shoulder, about my dad, about pretty much everything.
    â€œWell, have fun,” I say. I try to keep the