Free Deadgirl by B.C. Johnson Page B

about—”
    “What did happen, Dad?” I said. Shut up, stupid. Shut up . “Please tell me. Tell me what happened, and how I should feel.”
    “Lucy!”
    “No, I’d love to hear it,” I said. My traitor’s tongue was having a fine night. “What are you worried about, Dad? Don’t believe me? Think Daddy’s Little Girl was out for kicks? Yeah, maybe I asked a group of guys to whip out a gun and—”
    “LUCY!” He shouted. His voice actually made me stumble.
    “Shut your mouth and go to your room. Now.”
    Something like electricity crackled along my fingers, and bright spots of white wheeled behind my eyes. Anger pressed down on my chest, but my genuine fear of my enraged father buttoned my lips up. Finally.
    “Can I have dinner?”
    The words snapped like dry branches. His nostrils flared, and he sucked in air in such big gulps I could only imagine he was storing oxygen for the winter.
    “I’ll have your mother bring it up,” he said. “You can stay there for the rest of the night, please.”
    “Can I call—?”
    “You can be quiet. Go to your room.”
    I made a growling-squeak sound in my throat, turned, and went in my room. The slamming of the door in his face completed the painfully cliché moment. My hand tightened into a fist, and I hammer-punched the top of my desk. My monitor and the little metal tin of pencils bounced and jangled. Not good enough.
    I grabbed my desk chair and flipped it across the room. It smashed the wall with a healthy thunk. Better.
    I slumped down on the ground next to my bed and tucked my knees up against my chest. My arms slid under my knees, and I sat there for a long time. I thought about Zack and Morgan, Daphne and Wanda, Benny and everyone all out scouring the Set for me. I thought of my dad, terrified, filled with unusable protective fury. Of my Mom, doing her best to hold him together.
    I thought of the barrel of a little silver revolver. I thought about the gunpowder taste. The powerless violation of being shot to death in an alley for no reason. For being left alone, bloody, and confused. Thrown away like trash.
    I cried until I feel asleep, curled against the side of my bed, squeezing my knees into my chest and rocking like a child.
    I found myself huddled on a cold grey beach. I wished I could feel some ache of surprise, but I had expected it. I tucked my face between my knees, listening to the surf, tasting the salt-spray, convincing myself that I was dreaming. I sat there for hours, my cheeks still wet with tears, tugging my bright orange bathrobe against my body. I let my mind wander. I willed the time to pass, willed the sense of foreboding terror out of my mind. After a time, light welled onto the sand between my knees, where my eyes were turned. Dawn. When I looked up at the faded sherbet-orange sun, peeking out from the charcoal sea, I woke up.
    My bed was immaculate—I’d spent the night tucked into a ball next to the bed.
    You spent the night on a beach .
    “No, I didn’t.”
    Cramped into a ball, I should have felt sore. I should have been tired, twisted up into that pretzel of flesh. Instead, I felt refreshed, comfortably cool. The manic energy of the night before had dimmed somewhat, but I still felt like at least one cup of coffee burned through my veins.
    I showered and make-upped. Got dressed in something simple—a scoop-neck black shirt sporting a band I barely remember and a pair of jeans. My white-and-baby-blue sneakers. A black belt with studs and little rhinestones lined up boy-girl down the leather. I twisted my long black hair up into a high pony-tail and gave myself another once-over in my bathroom mirror.
    Pretty, but I could lose weight . I pinched the skin just above my hips—nothing noticeable, and if I even called myself fat I knew much heavier girls had a right to beat me with a pipe. Still. Mom called it baby-fat, but that didn’t make it better. I turned sideways. Blegh . I turned back.
    Big butt, some tummy. Good boobs for