Personal Effects Read Free Page A

this country?” speech. I can picture Dad: rising out of his seat, slapping the desk, spearing the air with his finger. After a while it becomes clear that Dad’s the only one talking. At least he’s blowing off some steam. Blowing off steam is good. The longer he rants at Pendergrast, the less he’ll have left for me.
    Eventually I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. Big mistake. With nothing to see but the red-tinged dark of my eyelids, I can’t ignore the pain. Everywhere hurts. My right hand, resting on my leg, feels full of wet cement, heavier with every minute. My head pounds in time with my pulse. I open my eyes and shift around until I can see the clock on the far side of the office. Pressing my left thumb against my temple, I watch the second hand on the wall clock.
    One minute. Two. The ache in my head pools in my temple, under my thumb. I can’t swallow. There’s no spit left to swallow. My tongue feels too big, and like it’s wrapped in wool.
    “Are you thirsty, Matt?” Mrs. Danner asks from behind the counter. “Need some water?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I sit up straighter.
    “Come over here.” She waves me around the counter. I freeze at the invisible line between the waiting area and the secretaries’ desks. “It’s OK,” she says. “Here, sit down.”
    After I’ve folded myself into the chair next to her desk, she hands me a large plastic cup of water. The first tentative sip slides around my mouth. Relief, cold and clean and so good. Maybe the best-tasting water I’ve ever had. I take small sips, swirling it around my tongue each time before swallowing, just to savor it.
    “Thanks, Mrs. Danner,” I only think to say when half the water is gone. Her eyes crinkle at the edges. For the first time in hours, my gut relaxes. She’s clearly not scared of me or worried I’m gonna lose it again. She doesn’t even seem that unnerved by Dad. And when she smiles and rests her chin on her hand, I almost feel like me again — like last-year me, not the guy I’ve turned into.
    “Some more?” She pours me another full cup without waiting for an answer.
    I take a really big gulp, holding it in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing. My “Thanks” comes out like a gasp. I need to slow down. No way to know how long Dad’ll be in there.
    “You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?” Mrs. Danner asks.
    “Nah, just some scrapes, a few bruises.” I flex my swollen hand out in front of me. “No problem.”
    “No,” she says, “inside, you’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?”
    The question knocks the air out of me more than any of the hits I took.
    I can’t breathe. Or speak. She won’t let me off the hook, staring into my eyes. The vise around my lungs clamps tighter.
    Pendergrast’s office door swings open and slams against the wall, jarring me free. Saved from Mrs. Danner by Dad.
    He looks at the empty chair where I should be. His eyes go wild, and he swings around. But before I can say anything, he sees me and says, “Let’s go.”

D AD DOESN ’ T SAY ANYTHING ALL THE WAY TO THE CAR, NOT even after we’re buckled in and pulling out of the parking space.
    At the first red light, we sit in silence. He’s not giving me any clue as to how much trouble I’m in.
    “Didja shut ’em up?” he finally asks.
    “Yes, sir,” I reply in the strongest and most assured voice I can muster.
    I glance sideways without moving my head — a skill honed by years of gauging my father’s moods.
    His only response is a slight flexing of the muscle in his jaw.
    The light changes, but he doesn’t move. I wait for whatever’s coming. A car horn sounds behind us. He hits the gas.
    Watching him freaks me out. I press my face against the cold glass of the window and watch the houses pass by. He turns out of town, instead of toward home. He doesn’t say why, and I don’t ask. I don’t even care.
    Another turn and we’re headed to his office. He must have come straight from the