Fragile by Lisa Unger Page A

parking lot the last time he’d been to school, she’d called out to him, Hey, Marshall, nice ride!
    He’d given her a wave, and she’d waved back. He understood that communication to mean that even if she wasn’t writing back, she cared about the things he wrote. So he rushed to respond to every update, new photo, or note. Even though they barely exchanged a word—she’d wave as they passed in the hallway or smile when she saw him in the cafeteria—he knew her. He knew what she was thinking (Charlene is so sad today … for no good reason), reading (Charlene is loving the Twilight series!), when she was going to the mall (Charlene ismeeting Brit @ the mall @ 2!!). He knew when the band was playing at a party, or when she was fighting with her mother. She posted all her new lyrics and poetry, and Marshall felt that this gave him a direct window into her soul. He knew Charlene Murray, maybe better than most because he could read between the lines. He thought maybe he knew her better than she knew herself.
    “I went to high school with her mother.”
    Marshall swiveled around in his chair to see his father filling the doorway. He felt the skin on his face go hot, his stomach bottom out. He hated it when his father came into his room. It was a colliding of selves. He was a different person with his father than he was in here; these two parts of himself did not mingle.
    “She was a whore,” Travis said.
    “Charlene’s not,” Marshall said quickly.
    “No?” Travis walked over to stand beside Marshall, stared down at the screen. “I got news for you, Son. They’re all whores.”
    Did he ever have anything new to say about women? It was pathetic. Travis had basically delivered the same wisdom downstairs. Still, Marshall felt the familiar internal storm—a sickening combination of anger and fear, a desire to connect, to agree and see his father smile in approval, and an equally strong desire to get away.
    Now that Marshall was nearly the same height and almost as strong as his father, Travis didn’t hit him often; Marshall wasn’t physically afraid of his father. It was the things he said that lay like bruises on Marshall’s skin, damaged his organs, poisoned his blood. That voice was in his head all the time. He just couldn’t get it out. Even the competing voices—Aunt Leila, Mr. Ivy, Dr. Cooper—weren’t loud enough to drown him out lately.
    “She’s a good person,” he said quietly, turning away to look at her picture. She looked nice, not so much black makeup, smiling brightly.
    “That’s what I used to think about your mother. Of course, that was before I understood women. You’ll learn the hard way. Like we all do.”
    Travis, chuckling now, started moving toward the door. Marshall knew he should just let him go. Travis already had a beer in his hand. If he sat down in front of the television, he’d drink until he fell asleep. Andif his father slept in tomorrow, maybe Marshall could make it to school before his dad decided he needed a ride somewhere. But something dark within Marshall wouldn’t allow his father to walk away.
    “Dr. Cooper says that just because Mom has a new boyfriend, that doesn’t make her a whore.”
    Travis stopped in the doorway and turned around. He had that dead, mean look on his face, those flat eyes.
    Marshall felt the urge to rush to Maggie’s defense; he didn’t want to hear his father call her a whore, too.
    “She’s a good person,” he said, realizing too late that he was repeating what he’d said a second ago about Charlene.
    “She’s a good person. She’s a good person,” Travis mimicked nastily. “If they were any good, Son? Trust me. They wouldn’t want anything to do with you.”
    The words landed like a spray of acid, corrosive, burning through his skin. Anger deserted him, replaced with a tide of shame. Marshall felt his voice grow small inside his chest, a powerlessness settle over him. He was shrinking. He braced himself for a verbal