The next day is warm for a change. A little tingle shoots through me when I see Declan’s truck idling in his usual pick-up spot outside school. I’m pulling the passenger door shut when his fingers circle my wrist. He pulls, stretching my arm out, exposing the inside. Should have kept my jacket on.
“What happened to you?” He points to the purplish streaks just above my wrist.
“Cowboy boots.” I snatch my arm back and hug it to my side.
“What did they do? Walk across your arm?” His brows come together, wrinkling his forehead.
When I look down at the marks, I see Wade’s hairy fingers, twisting. Last weekend he came storming into our kitchen, waving a credit card bill. His face was red, and something pulsed on his jaw when he yelled.
I pull down my shirt over the marks. I act like it’s nothing when I explain. “Wade, my mom’s boyfriend. He’s handling all the bills, and he was mad I bought them, that’s all.”
“Yeah? So mad he tried to break your wrist?” He pushes that stupid hat he wears back on his head. It’s clear he’s not going to let it drop.
“No.” I let out a little laugh, like I’m saying of course not. “I started to leave. Go to my room, so he grabbed my arm. He said I couldn’t just walk away.”
Declan makes a little harrumph noise like a dog does when it circles and finally lies down. I could tell he wasn’t buying it, my explanation. It was more than a grab. I rub my wrist. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to tell Declan what he really did.
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