Read Online Punch Like a Girl by Karen Krossing - Free Book Online

evening. The days are getting longer, but I still feel a heavy shadow over me.
    Dad parked the SUV on a side street, since the lot was full. As we shuffle down the sidewalk, he finishes the last of his hospital food—his second hamburger. Joel would be going for his third.
    A magnolia tree has littered the sidewalk with petals. Two kids skateboard by. Cars race along the street.
    That’s when I notice the black squirrel at the side of the road. He’s splayed on his back, breathing hard in and out, his eyes glazed.
    I stop, horrified.
    A car must have hit him. I clench my jaw. What kind of person just abandons an animal when it’s helpless and injured, gasping for breath?
    Joel would poke it with a stick. Mom would tell me to keep my distance. Dad just keeps walking.
    â€œHurry up,” he calls. “Your mother’s making dinner.”
    My throat tightens.
    Then Dad glances back and notices the squirrel.
    â€œOh, Tori.” He sighs. “There’s nothing we can do.”
    I stand motionless, watching the squirrel take its dying breaths.
    When the squirrel goes limp, a large bubble lodges in my throat. I try to gulp it down and hiccup instead. The bubble stays, choking me.
    â€œWe can’t leave it here,” I finally manage to say.
    â€œYou need to get home and rest.” Dad frowns. “Besides, your mother will kill me if you touch it.”
    â€œIt’s not diseased.” I glare at him. “It was murdered.”
    His eyes soften. “I have a plastic bag in the truck. You can use that to pick it up.”

FLUTTER
to move quickly and nervously
    Dad digs a hole in our backyard garden, near the day lilies. I grip the bag that holds the dead squirrel with my good hand.
    I remember the squirrel’s eyes, glassy and vacant. I can’t stop my hands from trembling.
    Dad leans on the shovel. “Deep enough?”
    The earth smells like worms and decay. I nod, take a deep breath and lower the squirrel, bag and all, into the hole.
    We don’t talk while he shovels earth over the squirrel. I feel like I should say something about how this squirrel should have been leaping through trees and munching seeds, not mowed down by some uncaring asshole, but that bubble lodges in my throat again.
    When Dad squeezes my shoulder with his big hand, I want to dive into his arms. I remember Dad, solid and warm, holding me after I fell off my bike and scraped my forehead when I was seven. But I’m not a little girl anymore, and he can’t fix what’s wrong.
    â€œNow will you go inside and rest?” he asks.
    A wave of exhaustion hits me. “Sure,” I say.
    We head inside. I skip Mom’s dinner of leftovers and collapse between my cool cotton sheets. I just want to sleep, but instead I stare at the last of the sunlight that filters through my blinds and across the clothes on the floor. My hand aches no matter how I hold it, and my brain won’t stop cycling through my memories of the day.
    Eventually, I text Alena—at least I can still type with my good fingers. I tell her that my right hand is broken. No response. I leave a message for my soccer coach, saying that I can’t play for a few weeks, but I’ll still come to the games.
    Then I get a random text from Melody. What did I tell u? Stay away from him, slut.
    What the hell? Did Matt tell her he saw me at the mall? Was she watching us? Does she still think I’m after him? Whatever is going on in her stupid, jealous brain, I just want to forget Matt. Can’t Melody and everyone else let me do that?
    I finally sleep, but I awaken to pain in the middle of the night, sure that Matt is twisting my fingers into new, agonizing shapes. You know you want it, Tori , he whispers in my ear. I’m gasping, and then I realize that I’m lying on top of my hand, crushing the bruised fingers. I stay awake for hours, eyeing the shadows in the corners of my room, feeling like the night has a tight