Until It Hurts To Stop

Until It Hurts To Stop - Chapter 6

Six

I dream of Raleigh Barringer. She’s on the mountain with us. While jeering at me, she twists her ankle. She needs us to help her down. While she sits on the ground, crying and clutching her ankle, I say, in the exact tone of voice she used on me in junior high: “Oh, shut up. Don’t be such a baby.” I tower over her; she shrinks beneath my eyes.

I wake up sweating. It’s not quite six o’clock.

I sit for a minute watching the ghostly blue light of the predawn sky, listening to the whirring of the last crickets of the season, letting the dream—with its strange mix of fear and power—melt away. Fat chance I’d ever have the upper hand over Raleigh.

I love this time of day, when nobody else is around, when everything is clean and fresh, when there’s more space to breathe. Once I’ve filled my lungs with the morning, I tiptoe upstairs, careful not to wake Nick’s mom and stepdad. Naturally, Nick’s door is still shut.

I tap lightly and push open the door to his room. He’s a blanket-covered bundle, slug-like. I plop down on the end of the bed, drawing an “oof” from him.

“Ready for Eagle?” I say.

“Mm.”

“You don’t sound ready.”

“Jesus, Maggie.” His voice rasps and rumbles, like a car with a bad starter. I smile to myself at that thought: Nick has a bad starter. That must be why he has such trouble getting up in the morning.

“This is your wake-up call.” I jounce the bed, and he rolls over.

“More like my wake-up pain in the ass.” Yawning, he frees his head from the sheets and glares at me. He’s always had the sort of pale-skinned, dark-haired complexion that’s gorgeous when he’s had enough sleep, and ghoulish when he hasn’t. And right now he has that pasty, grimy, up-all-night look. “Why don’t you go down and start some coffee?”

“Fine. But I’m coming back up here in five minutes and if I find you snoring—”

“OUT.”

I figure he’s awake enough now to stay that way. I slip out of his room.

Nick loves his coffee scorching and bitter. I’d sooner drink drain cleaner myself, but I’m willing to brew a pot if it will get him moving. I pad around the quiet kitchen in my socks. As I slide the filter full of rich, dark grounds into the machine, the door that leads out to the driveway opens.

Nick’s father, Dr. Cleary, stands there holding the screen door. “Good morning, Margaret. Mind if I come in?”

“Oh—good morning. Yes, come in.”

I always feel stupid around Dr. Cleary, as if I’m supposed to use bigger words and more formal sentences than I normally do. He’s a scientific researcher with a dozen initials after his name, and he’s been doing something in his lab with protein folding that makes the other scientists salivate and murmur words like Nobel. I don’t know exactly what is so thrilling about protein folding, which is probably one reason I feel stupid. Not that I know all the details of my own parents’ jobs, but my dad monitors the electrical grid for Mid-Regional Power, and my mom is a nurse, so at least I understand the main point of what they do.

“You’re here early. Did you stay overnight again?” Dr. Cleary says. “Has my son dragged his body out of bed yet?” He sits at the kitchen table. His shirt is wrinkled, but his sleek, black hair is freshly combed, and he’s wearing a tie. Stubble peppers his cheeks and chin, and his face has the same skim-milk tint that Nick’s gets after too little sleep.