Free Damage by A. M. Jenkins

you’re not the only guy who has watched Heather walk, many, many times through the years. Of course she’s got the best rear end anybody’s ever seen, anywhere—but she also has a stride that’s somewhere between weightless and breathtaking. Her head is always held high.
    “I was just doing homework,” she says as she leads you into the kitchen. “It’s so boring. You can give me moral support.” The table is covered with books, papers, markers, and index cards. “Sit right here.” She points at a chair, starts to slip into the opposite place—then hesitates. “Oh. Did you want something to drink? Although I think all we have right now is Diet Pepsi. Do you like Diet Pepsi?”
    “I’m not thirsty. Thanks, though.”
    “See, if I’d known you were coming, I might had something else to off—”
    “Well, hello!” says a female voice. “I thought I heard the doorbell!”
    You turn to see an older version of Heather, in jeans and a black tank top. Blonder. Maybe a little more starched—every curve looks like it’s been pushed and padded and smoothed and strapped into place.
    Mrs. Mackenzie’s eyes are sweeping you up and down. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” she asks Heather, and leans against the doorway.
    “This is Austin,” says Heather in a flat voice.
    “Austin, you are a doll. My goodness. You must over six feet. You left your horse outside, I take it?” takes you a moment to realize she’s referring to your cowboy boots. “Oh, that’s not an insult,” Mrs. Mackenzie assures you. “I’ve always been partial to cowboys myself.” She straightens, produces a gleaming smile that looks a lot like Heather’s. “Would you like a drink, Austin?”
    “We’ve already covered that,” Heather says, sound-annoyed. “Don’t you have a date, Mother?”
    “No, thanks,” you tell Mrs. Mackenzie.
    “Are you sure? How about a beer?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Oh, don’t call me that. I’m Linda.” Two muffled honks sound from the street; she tosses a glance towardthe front of the house. “There’s Ronny, right on time. He’s very punctual,” she adds to you, her nose crinkled. Her eyelashes are very black. “The only thing wrong with him is that he won’t come to the door.” She steps close to your chair and leans down to advise you in a stage whisper, “Don’t you do that, when you go to pick up girl, Austin. Get out of the car and go ring the doorbell. Hear?”
    You’ve got a fine shot of her cleavage. “Yes, ma’am,” you say.
    Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t move. Her breasts look like they’re being scooped up and served to you in that black tank top.
    “Linda,” you add quickly.
    “That’s better.” She stands up. “I’ll be back late,” says to Heather, and walks away. Her heeled sandals make a faint tck-tck-tck sound on the linoleum and then across the wooden floor in the living room.
    Heather frowns into her open book.
    The heels pause. The sound of a door opening. “Now, you two don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Mackenzie calls. A couple more tcks —the click of front door shutting—and she’s gone.
    Heather makes a face. “Whatever. Do you know anything about Shakespeare’s sonnets?”
    “No. Sorry.”
    “I’ve got to write a paper on them. That’s whatthese books are. Rough draft’s due Monday.”
    “Maybe I should let you get back to work. I didn’t really have any reason—”
    “No, no—I’m glad you’re here. It beats being alone. I mean,” she says, with a quick glance at you, “I don’t to be alone.”
    “Do you get scared?”
    “No.” She shuffles through some papers as if looking for something. “I just like to be around people. Some people, anyway.”
    One of the windows is open a little. You can smell the rain outside. It’s afternoon, but dark because of the clouds, and the thunder rumbles like something coming loose way up in the sky.
    When Heather speaks again, her voice is bright. “I know. How about if you