Free August and Then Some by David Prete

this.” Mom held her by her hair and made her look. “See that color around your nails? Your fingers are grey. You know what that means?” Dani tried to yank her head away again, Mom pulled it back. “It means they’ll have to cut your fingers off if you don’t get the circulation back. You need thermal pads and a tetanus shot and I don’t have any of that here so you’re going to the hospital. Now.”
    Dani said, “No.”
    Then Mom slapped her in the face, and that stopped the screaming.
    â€œGet off this floor right now,” Mom said, and schlepped Dani, now in a viciously quiet rage, to the car while I trailed them. Mom threw her in the front seat; I got in the back, still wearing my friggin pajamas. As soon as she pulled away from the curb Dani opened the door and jumped out. We had only got up to four miles an hour by that time so she didn’t get hurt—just rolled over once on the street then got up and ran. Mom jammed on the brake, I slammed into the back of the front seat. We both jumped out and chased Dani down the block. Mom caught up and grabbed her by the hood of her sweatshirt so hard Dani’sfeet came off the ground mid-stride. Mom yelled, “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF?” She slapped her in her ass a few times. “ARE YOU?” It got me wondering. Dani screamed again that she wasn’t going to the hospital. Mom tucked her under her arm like a squirming football and carried her all the way to the car, which was stopped in the middle of the street. She opened the driver’s-side door, threw her in and drove with one hand on the wheel, one on the hood of Dani’s sweatshirt. At the hospital there was more screaming and wrestling from the car to the emergency entrance.
    They got her circulation back and she didn’t lose her fingers. But this is a hospital we’re talking about—it seems like if a kid comes in there who has willingly given herself frostbite, a nurse or a doctor, or even a friggin orderly, might suspect something is messed up in their home or their head, and that they might try to hurt themselves again. But this was my mother’s job and these were my mother’s people. I don’t know exactly what went down there—who decided to mind their own business and who justified what—all I know is no one in our house ever said anything about it again and Dad changed the locks on the door so we needed a key to get outside. Until then I thought it was cool that she slept outside—it was this quirky thing she did and made her … her . But when a quirky thing puts you in the emergency room it’s not cool anymore.

July 12
    I weave through the happy hour crowd of the East Village to my building. Stephanie and boyfriend are sitting on the front stoop. She’s on the stair below him between his knees. He’s whispering something in her ear that gives her an embarrassed laugh and takes a few years off her face.
    When I get close me and Stephanie look at each other knowing we’re beyond the point where we can’t not say hello anymore. She says it first. I say it back. Boyfriend nudges her back with his chest probably wondering why she’s so friendly with the new guy all of a sudden. Stephanie looks away from me to the step below. As I pass them on the stairs she looks back up and smiles at me. Boyfriend slaps her in the back of the head.
    â€œWhat was that for?” she says.
    â€œWhat was that for?” he says about our exchange.
    His slap goes right through her head up my spine and out my mouth: “I said hi. You gonna make a deal outta that?”
    Boyfriend looks at me slightly happy that I’ve started with him, but more mad than anything. “You gonna make it a deal?”
    Stephanie says, “Nelson, stop.”
    â€œYou stop,” he tells her.
    â€œShe didn’t do anything,” I say. “Why you gotta hit her in the head?”
    Nelson stands