Free These Gentle Wounds by Helene Dunbar

my shoes, and even though I know it isn’t true, it seems like if I just jump off I’ll land on someone’s roof or get stuck in the top of a tree.
    â€œHey,” Kevin calls. His voice is no-nonsense enough to get me to drag my feet in the dirt and slowly bring myself to a stop. “Did you hear me?”
    â€œYou said something about Thursday.” I do my best to think about the word and not what it might mean.
    Kevin doesn’t play along. Instead he kneels down in front of me, holding on to the chains of the swings, one in each hand.
    â€œYou have to go see your dad on Thursday. After school.”
    I breathe and relief floods through me. “Can’t. I have practice.” For an optimistic minute I expect him to shrug and accept it, but instead he shakes his head.
    â€œI know. Jim is going to have to call your coach and tell him you won’t be there.”
    It’s true that bad things all happen at once. Just like That Day happened, but The Night Before happened too. And neither could have happened without the other.
    Up until this minute, I thought that having to spend time with my father was the very worst thing that could happen to me. But I was wrong. Missing practice on Thursday means being benched during our last game of the season on Friday. I need hockey. In spite of my recent actions, I need practice too—the speed, the chance to turn off my brain and let my muscles do the work. Going too long without skating makes it harder for me to concentrate and harder for me to bounce back after a spin.
    â€œI have a game on Friday. If I miss, they won’t let me play.” My voice is a whisper eaten up by the wind. “Come on, please,” I plead, but I know there’s nothing he can do. I sometimes forget he’s a kid just like me. Well, not just like me. But he doesn’t get to call the shots either.
    â€œI know.” Kevin’s voice is sad. He means it, but it doesn’t change anything. “My dad is working, so I’ll take you to DeSilva’s office after school. They say it’ll only be twenty minutes, and then it’ll be over and hopefully he’ll just crawl back into whatever hole he’s been hiding in.”
    Twenty minutes is the length of a period of hockey without stoppages. Worlds could be created and destroyed in that amount of time.
    Kevin pulls himself to his feet. Grabbing a handful of stones, he whips them, one by one, at the dead center of a tree. Each time one hits, my stomach twitches.
    â€œWhat do you think I’m supposed to do there?” I ask.
    Kevin rubs his temples and sighs loudly. “I don’t know, Ice. Just talk to him. Or let him talk. Maybe all he wants is for you to listen to him and then he’ll go away.”
    My thumb starts twitching. There’s nothing my father could say that I’d want to hear. I’ve heard his vulture voice enough to last a lifetime.
    I push the swing off the ground, but every time I fly up, my stomach stays below. I pump my legs until I’m as high as the swing will let me go, and, just as it starts its descent, I jump. For a second, I’m free. For a second, it’s just me and the air.
    I hear Kevin yelling but I know how to land, bending my knees so I don’t break anything. Once I’m on the ground, I walk over to the bushes and puke my guts out. It’s probably the only thing that keeps my brother from kicking my ass.

    When we get home, Kevin’s still muttering under his breath and I have to take a gulp of water to wash the taste of puke out of my mouth. It’s eight o’clock. I wonder if that’s too late to call someone on a Saturday night.
    I expect him to yell at me some more, but instead Kevin says, “You might feel better if you talk about it,” really softly. This is funny coming from him, because my brother never talks about anything that happened.
    I shake my head. If I told him everything, he’d