Page 10 of My High School Rebel Boyfriend
Mom wanted a test of my blood sugars when I got home, concerned that I’d biked sixteen miles. I daren’t tell her that I had felt light headed and stopped for a drink, or that Maddie hadn’t come back with me—she’d probably lock me in a tower like Rapunzel. But the high reading concerned her and she tutted. I suggested that in my bid to hydrate I’d perhaps had a tad too much sugar.
“I’ll do a bit of exercise to bring it down,” I said, reassuring her it would be a gentle walk on the treadmill. The thing is, when my blood sugars were elevated I never typically felt unwell, but I’d been warned that beneath the surface the nerves, the eyes, the blood vessels, the kidney were all being affected.
The treadmill was in Nadine’s old bedroom, and I turned on the tv for distraction. I walked for five minutes, then cranked up the pace to a slow jog, then a little more. Well, why couldn’t I run—I wasn’t an invalid just yet. I’d managed to keep up with Maddie on the bike ride, and as Peyton had pointed out, my stats for the seasonweregood.
Even though my chest and shoulders were sore from yesterday’s climbing, I got down on the floor and did some pushups. Maybe the scouts would notice my hitting percentage and number of attacks. Perhaps I could catch the eye of someone. Perhaps I needed to contact a few colleges myself.
If Mitchell Finlayson could make me do ten pushups, then I could make myself do eleven. And just wait, come next training, I’d show him that Harper Dent could take on any challenge he threw at me.
Chapter 5
MITCHELL
I HAD HOPED THAT BYMonday the swelling around my eye would be virtually impossible to detect, but the upper eyelid was still puffy and the bruising beneath was an unflattering combination of purple and yellow. Whoever asked what had happened got a glare, or as close to one as you can give with a swollen eye. Silence was the best response—letting people draw their own gruesome conclusions.
By the end of the day the story was well established that I’d been in a fight with Stripers, the kids who went to Covington Prep, the private school in River Valley. I let it fly.
“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy,” Titan joked to everyone. I liked that. Titan’s the best kind of friend, he knows stuff but pretends he doesn’t.
Besides, nobody really cared how I got it and the truth was humiliating.
My step-dad had punched me in the face.
Because he had to ask metwiceto bring him a bag of potato chips.
Yep. For that I got smacked in the face.
It was careless of him and he knew it. The thing is I’d been in the middle of making a cup of tea for my Mom when he’d asked, so I had finished pouring the water and I had the bag of barbecue flavored chips right there in my hand. But as I passed it to him, he’d given me his closed fist to the right side of my face.
“I saidGet ‘em for me now!”he shouted as my head reeled back from the shock, a flash of light making me reach for my eye, fearing it had burst or something. He’d jumped the couch, in as much shock as me,swearing and cursing and grabbing a packet of frozen peas. “Put this on it and don’t tell your Mama.” That’s all he was worried about, not that my vision was blurring and my eye swelling and blinking and watering uncontrollably.
He then took the cup of tea into my mother who was resting in bed, and I could hear him telling her, “Mitch just hit his head on the cupboard door, the stupid boy didn’t look where he was going.”
And like I was in some warped conspiracy with him, I went in to show her, agreeing how clumsy I’d been. From her bed there wasn’t much she could do except fret and tell me to hold the ice on it.
“See, you’re getting too tall now,” she said, “the kitchen isn’t made for giants.”
I’d laughed, though the pain was excruciating, unwittingly hiding our secret.
Wade Staines had married my mother when I was four or five, and twelve years on he still hadn’t learnt to love me. For the sake of my mother, he tolerated me. That’s what he’d told me:he tolerated me. Kept a roof over my head, clothes on my back, food in my belly.
A nice guy, yeah?
My Mom’s rheumatoid arthritis had worsened in recent years. So much that she’d had to quit her job and was mainly confined to the house. She used a cane or walker to get around. Some days it was worse than others, some days the pain so bad that getting out of bed was a major struggle.
Wade’s beatings had started soon after their wedding. As her condition deteriorated, the abuse increased. Talking too loud, not eating my crusts, a C plus, a snowed in driveway...it was impossible to know just what might set him off.
Though he was smart about it, he didn’t hit me where it showed, he kicked me around my trunk, like I was a punching bag. Never bad enough to rip the skin or draw blood or require medical attention, but enough to remind me that he was in charge, he held all the power.
I know what you’re thinking—a young kid, 17, six four, basketballer—fight back, stand up for yourself!
If only I could...
Because my biggest fear was never about my own safety...
It was my Mama’s.
BY TUESDAY MY EYE HADsettled down, and as the story spread, the looks I was given was that of admiration—I’d beaten up some slick, rich Striper dude, which apparently made me a hero. I did nothing to set the record straight.
