Page 42 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

I push through the front door and come up short. Mom is stretched out on the couch. Joel’s perched on the edge next to her holding a cloth to her forehead. Grandma glares down at her daughter, with her hands on her hips.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Oh, I fell, honey,” Mom says. She waves a hand. “Haven’t I always said you get your clumsiness from me? It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Joel growls. “I keep telling her she needs stitches.”

“You’re not clumsy,” Grandma barks. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, old lady.” Mom tries to sit up, but Joel gently holds her shoulder down and shakes his head. “I can’t sit here with her lecturing me.”

Joel cuts his gaze to Grandma. “Can you please leave? This isn’t helping.”

Grandma scoffs, flaps her hands against her thighs, and storms into the kitchen. A couple seconds later, the basement door slams.

I cringe, expecting Mom to start a tirade about that, but she just pats Joel’s arm.

“Thanks, baby.”

When Joel glances at me, I can tell he’s trying not to scowl. It’s hard on both of us when Mom acts loving. It never lasts long and feels so disingenuous because of that.

“Hey Ava, could you please run to our bathroom and get the Neosporin, gauze, and tape? And maybe a fresh damp washcloth. This one is pretty spent.”

My gaze shifts to the cloth in his hand and my eyes widen in surprise. It’s covered in blood.

“It’s okay,” Joel assures. “Head wounds always bleed a lot.”

I sprint up the stairs and grab the supplies Joel asked for. I slip coming down the stairs, and everything but the damp cloth that I have clutched in my fist falls to the floor. I toss the cloth to Joel before picking the rest up and dumping them on the coffee table. “Here you go.”

Joel hands me the bloody washcloth. I twist my lips in disgust and pinch the edge of it between two fingers like it might bleed all over me.

“Can you rinse that, please? The blood should come right out.” Joel picks up the fresh cloth to switch its position. “I might need it again.”

“She’s bleeding so much,” I whisper. I’ve never seen such a free-flowing stream of blood before.

“She’ll stop. Just make sure I have another cloth, please.”

I scurry to the kitchen, holding the hand with the washcloth far out in front of me like it might bite. I flip on the faucet and wait until the water is tepid before plunging the bloody cloth under the stream. My upper lip curls when I use both hands to rinse and twist and rinse some more. The blood washes down the drain and the cloth gets cleaner with each squeeze. When I don’t see any remnants of red in the dingy white cloth, I scrub the bar soap over the cloth until it works up a lather. Then I massage the lather all the way through the material to be safe. My stomach is a tumult the entire time. After it’s thoroughly rinsed and wrung out, I do the same to my hands.

Handing the washcloth back to Joel, my stomach turns when he swaps one cloth for the other and I realize I’m going to have to do it all over again.

“It’s finally slowing down, though,” Joel says. “So, rinse this one, but I probably won’t need it back.”

“Okay.” I lean forward. “Is that a bruise starting already?”

Mom looks at me with concern. “I’m going to have a bruise?”

Joel nods. “A really big one, too. The skin around the gash is swelling, and the bruise is already spreading down to your eye, I think.”

Mom sighs. “Great. That’s all I need. I’m going to look like an abuse victim at work.”

“I still think you need stitches.” Joel lifts the cloth and looks up at me, his eyebrows arched.

“Oh, yeah, Mom. I think so too,” I say. The gash looks like a chasm opened over Mom’s eyebrow.

“I’ll be fine.” Mom pats Joel’s knee. “Joely can bandage it up nice and tight.”

“Joely has no clue what he’s doing,” my brother mumbles.

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