Free Damage by A. M. Jenkins Page A

recopy my quotations for me? Mrs. Henderson’s making me do them over.” She hands you some index cards covered with writing and a stack of blank cards. “They’re supposed to be in my handwriting, so write round.” She pushes a pen toward you across table, then pulls a book closer to her and starts leafing through it.
    You don’t say anything, just pick up a card and get started…very, very slowly. You don’t really have any intention of forging her homework. You just want to stay here with her.
    Gradually, something inside you relaxes. You don’thave to be entertaining or charming or friendly—just present. You copy a few more words in black ink—writing round. But mostly you’re just watching Heather, who’s bent over one of the books, reading quietly.
    Her cheeks look like they’ve been carved from some fragile stone. Her eyebrows are delicate arcs, her lashes fine-drawn brushes. A lock of hair falls over one cheek; she brushes it back. After a few moments it falls right back again.
    Finally, she looks up and catches you watching her.
    “You’re staring at me,” she says. Not flirting, not accusing. Just a statement.
    You know what the Pride of the Panthers would say: “You’re a lot more interesting than index cards.” But you say nothing, and because you don’t know what to do you’re not going to flirt, you stop looking at Heather and instead look down at the groove down the center of table, the space for adding leaves.
    “Know what?” you hear Heather say. “I can tell what you’re thinking. You don’t want to do my note cards for me because you think it’s cheating. Only you don’t want to say so because you’re afraid to be rude. But the thing is, you’re wrong; it’s not cheating because I did them already. See? But I forgot it’s supposed to be in black ink. I’d already be through with them if I had anybody but Mrs. Henderson. Most of the other teachers don’t even do note cards. So you understand, don’t you? That it’s not cheating?”
    You shrug.
    “But you’re not going to do them anyway, are you?”
    “No.”
    “See, I knew you were going to say that. I could by the way you’re frowning. Or not exactly frowning. just have a general frowny attitude about the whole thing. And I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to somebody else’s note cards, either.” She sighs and pushes the book away. “And I can’t concentrate on some old who’s been dead a hundred years. Want to listen CDs?”
     
    Much later, driving home, you realize that you don’ remember much of the evening. You don’t remember following Heather to the couch in the living room or what music she put on. You don’t even remember putting your arm around her. All you remember is her lips touching your face, your neck, your chest; her body pressed against yours through too many layers of clothes, and finally her voice, like bright liquid that joined her hands in pushing you away.
    By the time you’re home, and in your room alone, all you remember is that when you were sinking, Heather swept you up and pulled you in.

CHAPTER NINE
    By the time a few weeks have passed, you’re feeling almost like your old self again. It’s the easiest thing in the world, being Heather’s boyfriend. Like skimming the surface of a lake in a sailboat. All sun and breeze.
    If you don’t listen to Curtis.
    It’s Saturday afternoon. You’ve got a date with Heather tonight, of course. You’ve spent the last hour listening to some CDs she let you borrow, heavy-beat dance tunes—not your type of music. You’re mostly just skimming through them.
    As you head toward the refrigerator, Curtis bangs on the back door.
    “Brought your mower back,” he says, peering at you through the screen. He’s got on old bleach-stained shorts, no shirt; his face is streaked with dirt and sweat. “Okay if I grab the keys to the tack room?”
    Glancing through the screen door, you see the lawn mower where Curtis pushed it, far across the