Hillary_Flesh and Blood Read Free

hand to Hillary ’ s forehead. Hillary didn ’ t move. She stared down at her pink rug.
    “ You don ’ t have a fever, ” her mother continued, knowing that something more than soiled sheets was upsetting H illary.
    “ Do you wanna talk about it? ”
    Hillary shook her head slowly.
    Please just go , she begged her mother in her head but said nothing out loud. She didn ’ t want to hurt her mother ’ s feelings. She just wanted to be left alone.
    “ Okay, ” Mrs. Greyson replied, grabbing a hold of Hillary ’ s hand and squeezing it gently, “ I ’ m all ears if you change your mind. ”
    She smiled down at her distressed child. She looked so small and frail. She wasn ’ t quite a little girl anymore, but still a long way from being a woman.
    It has to be boy troubles , Mrs. Greyson reasoned, recalling her long-gone days of teen angst.
    “ Come on down for breakfast, I made your favorite...apple pancakes. ”
    Hillary shook her head, her eyes still downcast, staring catatonically at the rug that was becoming blurred by her newly surfacing tears.
    “ You ’ ll feel better when you eat, ” her mother said sternly.
    Hillary knew better than to argue with her about breakfast. She had heard her mother ramble on for years about how breakfast was “ the most important meal of the day. ” Absent a stomach bug, she would never be permitted to skip breakfast. She nodded slowly, to her mother ’ s satisfaction.
    “ Good, ” Mrs. Greyson said, “ it ’ ll give you the strength to deal with whatever ’ s bugging you. ”
    She planted a kiss on her daughter ’ s moist cheek then began making Hillary ’ s bed with the new sheets. Hillary stood frozen in place, staring blankly at her rug as long tears slid down her face and dropped to her feet .
    Her pain tugged at her mother ’ s heart but there was nothing Mrs. Greyson could do. She figured Hillary would get over her heartbreak in time or, if it was something really troubling, she ’ d approach her when she was ready to open up about it. For now, she would give Hillary a little space.
    “ The pancakes are getting cold, ” she reminded Hillary just before exiting the room.
    Hillary flung herself on the bed and allowed herself to sob. She wasn ’ t ready to go downstairs just yet. It was Saturday. Her dad was likely seated at the table reading the newspaper.
    Ten minute s later, she heard her mother ’ s annoyed voice calling to her, “ Hiillllaaaarrry.... ”
    She knew she couldn ’ t hide in her room forever. She had to pull herself together and walk downstairs to eat her breakfast, though she had no appetite whatsoever. Wiping the lingering tears from the corners of her eyes, Hillary sat up on her bed, took a deep breath, stood up then walked out of her room. She walked down the steps slowly, cautiously listening out for her father. Was he at the table?
    Hillary entered the dining room and took her usual seat at the empty table. She was relieved to be alone. She placed a single pancake on her plate and started picking at it, knowing that she would be unable to leave the table without eating. The bits of pancake tasted like rubber in her mouth and she had to force herself to swallow them down.
    When she was nearly done eating her pancake, a figure caught her attention. Her father had joined her at the table. She looked at him, sitting beside her in her sister ’ s usual seat. She quickly averted her eyes, stared down at her food and sat as still as her quivering body allowed.
    “ Good morning, Hilly, ” her father said, as if this were just another ordinary morning.
    Hillary was caught off guard. Maybe it was all just a mistake...some sort of misunderstanding. She opened her mouth to say ‘ good morning ’ but she couldn ’ t utter a sound. If her father was somehow unaware of what happened, she didn ’ t want to say anything. She just wanted to forget it ever happened.
    Michael Greyson could see how tense and uncomfortable his daughter was. It was