Read Online Melt by Selene Castrovilla - Free Book Online Page B

see.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Her eyes are shut.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Back then,
    she still cried.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Back then,
    I still
    believed
    really I believed
    that I would
    wake
    up.
    I truly believed I would wake up and Pop would
    love
    us that he would
    love
    me.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Pop’s pounding Mom to a
    pulp.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â I stare at the
    clear
    glass
    bowl on the counter at the
    beaten
    eggs inside.
    Eggs just waiting to
    run
    free across the smooth
    non-
    stick
    surface. But they can
    only get so far
    before they reach a raised edge.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Snap
    goes Mom’s shoulder.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Crackle
    goes Pop’s bacon frying in the pan. The greasy smell is everywhere.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Pop
    goes
    Pop. He pops Mom
    again
    again
    again.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Pop.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Pop.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Pop.

Five
    Dorothy
    Â Â Â Â Â Â I ask him, “Was it awful, being in jail?”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Joey’s silent, he’s holding me against him, stroking my hair. A few seconds go by, then he says, “Well, I wouldn’t file it under ‘fun.’”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â We’re in his friend Jason’s garage, converted into a workout room. Jason’s mom works a second job nights, and his dad left town long ago for parts unknown, so the guys come here to weight train and to hang out without being hassled. But on days when no one is working out, Jason lets us come here for some “alone” time. I told Joey we could go to my room after school since my parents are at work until at least 5:30, but he said no way. He said he has a strict moral code when it comes to parents and their homes. He even admitted that it doesn’t make sense, but he won’t touch me under my parents’ roof. I think it’s strange, that he draws a line there, but it’s kind of nice, too. And it’s just as well. I could never really relax in my room. There’s no lock on my door. Every little sound would freak me out.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Not that we’ve done anything, really. Just make out. We’ve been making out a lot. And holding each other. We’re doing that now, lying together on blue exercise mats piled on the concrete floor, with a thick black punching bag turned sideways behind us. You couldn’t really call it a cushion, because that implies soft, and this bag is hard. This bag is no pillow. This bag was made for endurance, not comfort. Still, you take what you can get, and you do the best with it you can. It bolsters us, supports us.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â My head’s tucked in the crook of his shoulder. I nuzzle against his shirt, breathe the scent of him. Spicy sugar. He’s mulled cider by the fire on a snowy winter day.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â His heart’s beating, tha-thump, tha-thump . I say, “I’m sorry you went through that.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â He says, “No reason for you to be sorry—you didn’t send me there.” Tha-thump. Tha-thump . “Besides, I deserved it.” He sounds so hollow again, he sounds haunted. I keep thinking, if I can only figure out what’s at the base of all his misery, then I can help him release it. That’s why I’m bringing up jail. Because maybe that’s what’s tearing away at his spirit—those lonely, scary hours he spent in jail. All I want is to exorcize those ghosts, fill in that gap inside.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œThat was mean of your dad … to send you there.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Then a sigh. “Pop’s not the nicest of guys.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œI’d say not.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œListen, Doll. Could we drop this? I just … I just wanna be alone with you. I don’t wanna bring Pop in here, let him lie down with us,