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Then, I sit at the bottom of the shower and run it across the inside of my thigh in three identical strokes like I always do.
3…2…1
I watch the blood run down my thigh, becoming one instead of three separate streams before trickling onto the white porcelain and spiraling down the drain. I lean my head against the cold tile wall and let the relief wash over me as it pours out of me. I breathe a little easier afterward, just as I always do.
We come into the world as blank canvases—all of us. Innocent, eager for love. Then the world gets ahold of us and leaves us with scars we don’t deserve, that we never asked for. But like I said before, it feels better to let it out, even if it’s only temporary.
It’s raining, but just a little—not enough to cancel the track meet—when the bus pulls to a stop in Mount Vernon. We get out and walk down to the field. I make my way over to the high jump mat and take a few practice jumps, trying to get a feel for their setup and the surroundings before the real thing.
Not that it really matters how I do. I’m the third-best jumper on the team. I almost never place.
Grace and Mark won’t be here. Sometimes, when he’s in town, they do show up, especially at home meets—to show what a part of the community they are and to remind people what great Christians they are for fostering their niece.
God, if they only knew.
Once the meet starts, I tell the coach I need to go inside and use the restroom. It will be a while before they call high jumpers to check in. I make my way through the school until I find the gym and then the lockerrooms.
I look around, checking for anyone who may be watching me, then slowly slip into the one labeled ‘men,’ ensuring there’s no one still inside. There are a couple of reasons why I do this. The first is that guys are always lazier when it comes to protecting their things due, I’m sure, to a sense of security that’s innately male. They don’t know what it’s like to be afraid walking on dark streets at night, sleeping in a first-floor bedroom, or moving through parking garages alone with keys between their fingers. They run at night with headphones on and take for granted that they’re safe, so they leave their bags out on the floor. Another reason I choose the men’s locker room is because maybe if they start trying to figure me out, they’ll assume it’s another guy who did it.
As expected, there are several lockers unlocked and bags left out in the open. I end up with $280 in cash and three cell phones.
I make it back to the track just before they start calling high jumpers, spotting a familiar…book…in the stands behind me when I do.
666 Ways to Serve Satan.
Devon peaks out at me from over the top. I bite back a smile and turn back toward the opposing team’s coach, waiting for my turn. We don’t speak, but I know he’s watching me. Every cell in my body is aware of it. I try harder than usual once it’s my turn and only end up really fucking up on the third jump.
Afterward, I join the rest of my team in the grass alongside the track. I know when he sits down on the bleachers behind me.
“I’m announcing my presence,” he says. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“I know you’re there,” I tell him.
“Is this what you do now?” he asks. “You just sit here?”
“Yep,” I say without looking over my shoulder. “Until all of the events are done.”
“Sounds boring,” he says. “Isn’t it boring?”
“I enjoy the fresh air,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says. “So, you’re outdoorsy. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Sure,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m outdoorsy.”
“I’ll add that to the very short list of things I know about you.”
“Is this a physical list, or are you writing it down somewhere?”
“I’m writing it down,” he says.
“What do you have so far?”
“Well, you’re beautiful…obviously. You’re a talented artist. You like Doritos. And…Darci, which is weird. And I shouldn’t sneak up on you if I don’t want to get stabbed. I’m still trying to work out what brings you joy since, apparently, it isn’t your art.”
Yeah, so am I.
“That’s pretty much all there is.”
