Split Read Online Free Page A

window and opens it. Everything slows down and changes: my dad is sauntering, not storming; his grimace upgrades into a casual smile. He bumps my mother out of the way with his hip and leans into the car.
    “Come back, and I’ll kill her.” His tone is controlled—taut and calm. Except for his grip on the door, he could have been saying “Drive safely.”
    The blood runs out of my face. My breathing shallows, and I glance at my mother. Her eyes are shocked wide. This is my dad at his most dangerous. I’ve only seen him like this one other time, the time she tried to leave him before.
    You wouldn’t have the guts to kill her. You wouldn’t last one day without a whipping post. You’re too weak .
    Now, as I lie on Christian’s couch, my brain jolts all the way awake. Oh God, did I say that? After a lifetime of tiptoeing on ice, did I just split it wide open and leave her to drown? A statement like that, just one, and he’d take it out on her over and over again, trying to invalidate it.
    I bolt upright.
    No, no, I didn’t say it. Just thought it . I twist the blanket Christian must have thrown over me around my hand and pull it tight. It’s okay , I repeat in my head until I can function again. My fingers turn red, purple, blue. I unwrap the blanket.
    I tilt my chin back to stretch my neck and scan Christian’s apartment as I roll my head: a white ceiling; a desk with paperclips snug in their own place; a computer screen with a restless line drawing fading shapes; the mauve carpet (good taste, these landlords, eh?); compressed wood coffee table that looks light enough to juggle; the “dining room set” comprised of four metal chairs with glitter-speckled white seats, right out of a fifties diner, and a white laminate table with tri-dimpled chrome edging. Crappy place with garage-sale furniture. The couch has sunk at the back and one of the cushions is thicker than the other. This is living.
    Seriously, my bedroom at home was probably bigger than this apartment.
    Christian is sitting at the dining room table, stranded outside the too-small kitchen. He’s wearing green doctor’s scrubs and watching me. A blue teapot, a nearly empty bowl of cereal, and a mug sit on the table.
    He asks if I’m hungry. Do I want tea? It’s oolong.
    “Yeah, I’ll try it.” I walk over to the table and reach for his mug.
    He looks at my outstretched hand and clutches his tea to him. “I’ll make you a cup.”
    My mom says families are no place for boundaries; we share everything: germs, money, blood, and all. Maybe someday, Christian and I will be sitting in front of a World Cup game, and our root beer bottles will get confused, and he won’t care. He’ll just swig and drain it.
    “Nah, that’s okay,” I say, sitting down.
    “So.” He crosses his legs and takes one more sip of tea. “Where are you headed?”
    He’s sitting there, swirling his teacup in midair as if it were brandy, just casually talking—might as well be about the weather.
    I take a big breath. “Here. I was headed here.”
    The tea stops its merry-go-round, and his eyes widen. My hand clenches into a fist.
    “Or,” I say, “maybe I could try the south of France, set up in a nice little villa, and study at the Sorbonne.”
    I stand up and kick the chair back into place. I walk out of the room, finding only two options: his bedroom or the bathroom. I opt for the bathroom.
    I open the tap and let the water run through my fingers. I have no razor, no soap, no toothbrush. My toothbrush in Chicago is an electric Oral B, and I don’t think my three and a half bucks will cover that. My teeth will rot out, and I’ll have to gum my food by the time I’m nineteen.
    I look at the one-person medicine cabinet in the one-person bathroom in this one-bedroom apartment. I’m okay with the couch. It’s not that bad, really. I pee, wash my hands, and splash some water on my face. It’s good and cold, like a much-deserved slap. The cut on my forehead burns from