Nothing to Lose Read Online Free PDF Page A

bamboo steamer. She offered it first to Walker. “Well, I’m sorry to hear—”
    “You’re always sorry!” Walker shoved her away, hard. She stumbled, and the bowl shattered on the marble floor. He raised his arm. “Clumsy bitch. Clean it up!”
    Tears of humiliation filled her eyes. Still, I knew better than to try and help. She went for the broom, and I just watched. I could tell by the way she moved that he’d hurt her. I was trembling by then, sitting in my seat watching the blood pooled on my plate.
    “Eat your dinner,” he demanded.
    So much blood. Just looking at it, I felt my insides come up. “I can’t,” I said through my teeth.
    “You will.”
    “I’m not going to. Maybe you can get her to do what you want, but not me. Not me.”
    I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but I could tell he heard it.
    Still, I said, “Not me.”
    “Then there are going to be problems, because when I fight, I always win.”
    My mother came back then, broom and dustpan in one hand, a bottle of Fantastik in the other. “It’ll just be a second.”
    Walker smiled and patted the seat beside him. “You know what? It can wait until after.” He put his hand on her butt and guided her toward the seat. “I’d rather we all eat together as a family.”
    I pushed my bloody plate away. “You eat. I’m not hungry.”
    He watched me leave, not saying anything.
    Fifteen minutes later Mom knocked on my door. “It’s key lime pie.”
    “No way.”
    “Please, Michael. You know—”
    “There is no way,” I said, “no way in hell I’m eating pie with him. You want to pretend, you just go ahead.”
    “Please. Walker’s trying, Michael. He really wants to be a family. We all just need to try a little harder.”
    “You try. Let me know when you’re finished.”
    “You have no idea how hard this is.”
    She kept talking, but I’d stopped listening. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe his abuse of her wasn’t a problem. Maybe she even liked it. Maybe she wasn’t drowning, looking to me for rescue. Maybe instead, she was like a scuba diver, used to navigating rough waters, enjoying her swim with sharks.

THIS YEAR
     
    The guy by the Whack-a-Mole wears a blue Florida Gators sweatshirt, but he’s too young for college. He’s my age. It’s Julian Karpe.
    “This is a cool game,” he says to some guy. “Someone told me the secret once.”
    I feel a sucking feeling in my stomach’s pit. I know who told him, and I know when. I walk to the side of the game by the hanging Barneys and Blue’s Clues dogs. Part of me hopes they’ll hide my face. The other part wants to go over to Julian, to say hi. Hi, it’s me.
    But maybe it’s not Karpe at all. Sure, this guy sounds like Karpe, looks like him a little. But he’s taller now, more filled out, and less of a geek. I put my hand to my own face. How have I changed in a year?
    “Michael.” Not a question. It’s Karpe. I remove my hand from my face and stare at him.
    He looks back, suddenly unsure. “It’s you—right, Mike?”
    No hablo inglés.
    “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”
    Karpe starts to clap me on the shoulder, then stops. “I wondered if you’d be here.”
    I say nothing.
    “After what happened, after you … disappeared, the police came around school. They asked if I knew where you were, but I said I hadn’t seen you in close to a week. No one had.”
    “Are you going to play?” I ask.
    “I wasn’t sure where you went anyway. I suspected, but I never knew for sure until now.”
    I look to see if anyone’s listening, but it’s barely three on a Monday, and you could bowl on the sidewalks without hitting anyone. Karpe’s finished talking, so I say, “Thanks,” because I know he expects it. Because he deserves it, even.
    “No problem. I figured you’d done nothing wrong. If you wanted to leave, you had your reasons.”
    I say, “If you’re not going to play—”
    “My stepmother’s a lawyer, you know.”
    I manage a laugh. “Yeah? Well, my