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“I’m sorry, Doni. I—I wasn’t feeling good,” she said without meeting my eyes.
If anyone knows Shorty well, it’s me.
And I know she’s lying.
Why is she lying? Doesn’t she trust me?
“Shorty, what happened?”
She pulled the covers up her chest.
“Come on. We don’t hide from one another.” I reached for her hands to pause her movement forcing her to look at me.
She didn’t respond and a lonely tear escaped her eye. I reached to wipe it away, but she flinched.
I stop with my hand in midair.
“Shorty—why did you move away from me? You know I would never hurt you, right?”
Shorty shakes her head but still won’t look at me.
I took a deep breath and tried to relax, but it was hard when all I felt was panic bubbling inside me.
Then it clicked.
“Shorty, di-did your fa-father hurt you?” I swallowed a lump of fear.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Yes.”
Three seconds.
One word.
My chest cracked in half, and I wanted to turn into the Hulk.
Smash!
“Doni, I hurt.” Her voice cracked.
“Where do you hurt, Shorty? Where did he hurt you?”
She shoved the covers off and pulled her pajama legs up.
I couldn’t move or speak. Purple and blue bruises that looked like splattered paint covered both legs, one bruise the size of a baseball on her upper right thigh, and scrapes on both knees.
“Oh, no.” I tried to hide the pain in my voice, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
I cried.
Boys don’t cry.
But I did.
