The Reaping Read Online Free Page B

fingers against the floor of the trunk.  I dropped the wrench, barely able to hold back the string of obscenities that rushed to the tip of my tongue.  I was positively livid; a reaction way out of proportion to what was happening, but not one that I seemed to have any control over.   
Within seconds I heard Dad yelp.  When I looked down at him, he was shaking his fingers.
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know why, but that muffler got hot all of a sudden.  Really hot!”
I could see that it was beginning to take on a reddish glow like metal typically does when it is superheated.  As quickly as it had come, my anger dissipated, eclipsed by concern for my dad.
We rolled out from under the car, each examining our injuries.  Neither was bad.  I felt sure we’d live.
“Maybe it’s time for a break.  How about some lunch,” I suggested.
As soon as we went inside, I poured myself a huge glass of water before I fixed us each a sandwich.  I was suddenly parched. 
After that we ate in silence, neither of us willing to broach the subject of my irrational anger.  As I nibbled my sandwich, more thirsty than hungry, I couldn’t help but wonder where all this temper was coming from.  And the language!  I never used bad language and was shocked that it had come so quickly to mind.
When we were finished, we headed back out to finish the exhaust.  When it was done, thankfully, Dad let me off the hook and said we’d start on the suspension Monday.  I had a free night.
I decided to go for a run before taking another shower.  I changed into my running clothes and shoes and hit the pavement.  I thought of my options for a free Saturday night.  It only took about a half mile to realize that I had few and those weren’t very appealing.  Homework, science fair project prep, call Leah or lock myself in my room. 
What a depressing thought!  I shook off that funk, unwilling to let it ruin one of the few things I truly enjoyed.  I redirected my thoughts and let my mind drift to the incident with Stephen Fitchco the previous evening.  I wondered what he would be doing on a Saturday night.  I doubted his options would be as boring as mine.
All too soon, I was back at my mailbox with no better choices than when I’d left.  Resigned, I decided to shower and spend the night locked in my room. 
The next morning I woke feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.  I had fallen asleep before I had a shower and then dreamed the same dream about the bloody snow and the stranger.  It took a lot of effort to drag myself from the comfort of my warm bed and make myself get into the shower. 
I spent a little extra time on my right shoulder, having seen a smudge of grease on it as I undressed.  I scrubbed the spot with my loofa, knowing that would get it off.  The rough sponge could remove anything, and I mean anything, including several layers of skin if I wasn’t careful. 
Spontaneously, I decided the rest of my skin could use a nice exfoliation, too, so I squirted some shower gel onto the sponge and went to work buffing the remainder of my body.
I stepped out of the shower feeling soft and smooth from head to toe.  Unable to see my reflection because of the steam, I took my lotion into the bedroom to complete my morning ritual. 
Just to be sure I’d gotten the spot off my shoulder, I walked to the full length mirror on the back of my door and turned halfway around where I could see my back.  Not only was the smudge not gone, it seemed to have gotten bigger and was turning a reddish orange color.  It had a teardrop shape to it, fat on one end and dramatically tapered on the other.  It reminded me of a flame, licking up toward my neck.  Maybe I’d burned myself and not realized it.  After all, Dad said the muffler had been hot.
As I turned back to face the mirror, I noticed how the light shone on my skin, even without lotion.  I walked over to the window and held my hands up.  My skin looked different.  Better.