Page 55 of The Bully's Dare

A knot forms in my throat. “I guess…”

“Do you have to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have to guess? Your mother has a unique method of survival by attaching herself to affluent men. I imagine that would get much harder were she to have a pregnant teenager.”

The knot in my throat is now the size of Jupiter, and growing.

“And then there’s my son,” he says and his voice—already deep, already dark—drops about ten degrees. “Jason is on the track for an extraordinary medical career. He graduated with honors. He’s the top of the swim team. And he’s attending an affluent college in the fall. Having a child right now would obliterate his future.”

I can’t speak. The knot is too tight.

But then he softens. He reaches across the table and grips my shoulder and squeezes gently. “You did a good thing telling me, Kenzi. I’ll set you up for an appointment at the medical center tomorrow. We’ll get this taken care of.”

“Taken…care of?” I echo the words like I’m learning the English language.

“It’s better this way.” He stands then. “Come here.”

I follow his lead. He takes me in his arms and hugs me like he’s my father. He smells like smoky, like bergamot, with the hint of something sweet, like apple. His heavy cologne makes my stomach twist.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells me, and he sounds so certain of it that, in that moment, I almost believe him.

Four lets me borrow his bike.

He’s thrilled, I think. Look at me, getting exercise. Fresh air. All American fun.

Impossible to tell him that the reason I need the bike is because I don’t want anyone to know where I’m going.

Mr. King set me up with an appointment. 1:00 pm at the Lighthouse Clinic. To get things “taken care of.” Don’t be late.

I strap my headphones around my ears, tuck my Walkman into my backpack, and blast music as I bike up the road. I let the music clear out my thoughts. It’s like my ears are open windows and the music is a hefty cross-breeze, blowing away anything in its path.

Because when I let myself think, my thoughts are chicken wire. It hurts to cross them.

You’re doing the right thing, he’d said. You’re making the right choice.

Maybe he’s right, you know? He’s the adult here. I’m a dumb girl who got herself stuck in a dumb spiders’ web of problems I can’t easily wiggle out of this time.

As I get closer, the lighthouse peaks out first from the horizon. And then the hospital itself. It strikes me how big it is. How impressive.

How small I feel standing next to it, straddling my bike.

I need to go inside. But I can’t. My feet are stuck to the ground.

I can’t do this, I think. The thought is a lump in my throat, a weight on my chest.

I can’t do this.

“Kenzi?”

Donovan is standing there. The sight of him is both a surprise and a relief and I nearly fall off my bike. I adjust, keeping balance, and ask, “What’re you doing here?”

He’s by the bike rack, pulling his own bike out. It’s worn and the peddles click loudly when he walks it beside me. “Last day of my summer program.”

“How’d it go?”

He makes a gagging sound. I laugh. Too loudly.

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