Page 12 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
Those black eyes soften. “It’s not possible, Penny. There’s nowhere we could run, not enough money or power in the world to hide us.”
“What will you do?” I whisper.
In that question is my acceptance, my apology. It would always have come to this.
He knew that before I did.
“The same thing I did before,” he says with a hard smile. “Survive.”
Chapter Five
The next day I spend most of recess in the jungle gym, in that dark, quiet place beneath the slide and behind the rusted metal wall with numbers cut out. I peer through the number eight at the door, waiting for someone to appear. No one ever does.
Mrs. Keller stares at the door, her small face hopeful. Then worried.
By the time she calls the class back inside she looks disappointed.
I don’t want her to feel bad so I tug on her hand as I pass by. She bends low, and I whisper in her ear. “I don’t want a new school anyway. I like you being my teacher.”
She blinks like she has something in her eye.
The rest of the day I sit quiet, wondering how I’m going to play dumb. We’re learning fractions right now. How do you pretend not to know something? I wish I just didn’t know.
I wish I were normal.
When it comes time for the quiz, I take a deep breath. This is how it has to be. It’s the promise I made. So even though I know that Joey only eats 1/8th of the pizza, I write down 1/16.
There are two questions I get wrong, which means my grade will be a B. Very average.
My whole life will be average.
When I get off the bus, from across the road, I see something dark and large slumped in front of my door. Is it Damon? Is he hurt? I run as fast as I can, kicking dirt into the air, clouding my sight.
Even before I get there I know it’s not him. The figure is too large.
“Daddy,” I shout over the pounding of my feet.
He doesn’t move. When I get close I see why. His face is swollen and bruised, dried blood caked over the right side. The sound of his breathing fills the humid air, thick with blood and snot.
“Daddy,” I say again, but this time it comes out as a sob. I can’t press my nails into my palm this time. Nothing will keep me from crying now.
A low sound fills the air, almost separate from the still body in front of me. Only when I put my hand to his chest and feel the faint rise and fall, the slight rumble, am I sure the sound is coming from him.
“Penny,” he says, the word slurred and broken.
“I’m here,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. One of us has to be strong.
“No, Penny. What did he—” Daddy breaks off in a fit of coughing, the sound horrible and echoing. “I’m so sorry. What did he do to you?”
He thinks Mr. Scott did something to me. That it’s the reason he’s free.
“Let’s go inside,” I say, pulling his hand.
With a groan of pain and effort, he staggers up. Only to collapse again. I catch him with both hands, my shoulders, even my neck. A shock of weight. My bones hurt, my muscles shake. I need to get him inside. We move together in a terrible dance, falling into potholes and stumbling on the stairs. The screen door slams into my hand. His head knocks against the doorframe.
When we reach the couch it’s all I can do to tip him over. He falls onto the sagging cushions with a swear word. I run to the kitchen. Underneath the sink there’s a first aid kit in my old lunchbox, the one with My Little Pony on the front. I pull out cotton balls and rubbing alcohol. He probably needs a hospital. What if something is broken? But this is all we have.
I pause to look at the kitchen table. The two hundred dollars isn’t there anymore, tucked away under my bed instead. But I can still remember the way Damon looked sitting there, eating the soup I bought with his money. Is he okay? Is he beaten like Daddy is right now?
My eyes press shut, sending up a prayer that someone is there to take care of him.
Then I kneel at the couch.
Daddy looks more alert than he did before, his eyes less glassy and more focused. “I told him about you. About counting cards. He said he was going to—” His voice breaks.
I could tell him that Mr. Scott didn’t touch me, but that won’t help.
He could have. He would have, if it weren’t for Damon.
“Rest now,” I say in a quiet voice.
I learned my quiet voice from Mama. It’s the one I used when she had been up too late, when men had been over, when she had a headache. When I brought her a glass of water and Tylenol.
