Page 54 of Surviving You, Scotch and Sammy 1

I stop just before my hand touches my front door, and I turn to watch the guys back out of my driveway and zoom away in Ang’s Charger. My stomach is cramped and tender from retching all day, and my eyes are swollen almost shut. Dry and itchy, they don’t even water anymore. I’ve cried all the tears I have.

When their tail lights disappear into the night, I turn back to the door, clasping the handle to unlatch it and head in as quietly as possible. I’m here to pack my bags, then I intend to sit on my bed awake all night. I only have eight hours until our agreed upon meeting time, and I intend to leave this place for the last time ever in seven.

My parents can go to hell.

Nothing changes. Nothing at all, except I leave a few days earlier than planned, and Sam and I get a baby to love.

I twist the handle on the heavy front door, and fall forward, tripping and catching myself against my father’s solid chest as he pulls me forward. “Get inside this house, right this second, Samantha!”

“Where the hell have you been?” my mother shrieks loudly. She tugs me from my father roughly, jerking my body so violently, a fresh bout of vomit surges high. I clamp my lips shut, but they’re forced open again when I call out in pain at my parent’s game of tug-of-war.

My mother tugs me left, my father tugs me right. My shoulder joints pop and my stomach heaves. “Stop. Let me go.”

“You won’t see that boy again, Samantha!”

“I will!” I pull with a strong tug, and rip my arms from their grasp. We all pant heavily to catch our breath, and I ignore the painful twinges my tiny angry seed inflicts inside my body.

I don’t need clothes. I don’t need any of my shit. I still have my money, spare jeans, and deodorant. The rest can be replaced. I turn on my heel, and quietly sobbing because I still have no shoes and my phone is still upstairs on my bed, so I can’t call Sam for a ride, I reach out for the door handle. I’ll walk as far as I have to, then Sam will fix it.

“Wenderson and Kale.”

My dad is using his professional voice, and my stomach drops out from beneath me. Bile rises in my throat at his simple threat. With narrowed eyes, I turn slowly and face my enemy. “What?”

“Wenderson and Kale,” he repeats arrogantly. “Henry Wenderson was eighteen years old when he had sexual intercourse with a seventeen year old Halle Kale.”

“No--”

“He was charged with a class A felony. He was sentenced to four and a half years in prison, and he’ll be labeled a sex offender for the rest of his life.”

I shake my head as brand new tears soak my lashes. “No. We’re the same age, and we’re in love.”

“Strong and Pauling. Gerry Strong was eighteen, and his high school sweetheart was seventeen. They didn’t even have sex. She gave that boy a blow job, and he was charged just like Wenderson. Six and a half years – it’s funny how he got more time. The law can be so odd.” Daddy shrugs his shoulders carelessly. “He’s on the sex offenders list, and he’ll never get to be that school teacher he always wanted to be.”

“Daddy… stop.”

“Did you know those Macchio kids will be removed and sent into the system if Samuel gets charged. That little girl… what is she? Eight? Nine? It would be negligent of the state to let her stay there. Who’s to say Sam wouldn’t turn his sights on that innocent little girl next?”

“Stop!” My back presses up against the door, like a small animal trapped in the hunter’s gaze. “You’re lying.”

“Did you know the chief would lose his job in a heartbeat…”

“Daddy, no--”

“Samuel doesn’t even have to be charged. Just the tiniest whiff of scandal and the old man will be out on his ass. I’ll make sure of it.”

My chest heaves and tears dribble down over my lips. “What do you want from me?”

“Leave him.”

“I can’t. I love him.”

“We’re going to the hospital tonight, Samantha, and taking care of the trouble your stupid mistakes got you in. Then we’re going on with our lives like you never knew that scumbag.”

“I’m eighteen now. I have plans with him. We made plans…”

“And plans can be changed.”

“There’s nothing you can offer me,” I argue defiantly. “Not my trust fund, not my college tuition. I took care of that already. I don’t need you.”

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