In the Blood by Sara Hantz

a child, then it might make them abuse. Which is like Dad. But also it could be that there’s something psychologically different about a person, which makes them do it. Is that Dad, too? Then again, the research also points to it being linked to family relationships. Granddad was very strict and didn’t think boys should cry. Is that important?
    I just don’t know. It’s all pretty damn confusing.
    And how does that relate to me? If it’s to do with psychological make up, I’m very like Dad in so many ways. Mom used to say so all the time. The way I talk, walk, act. And what’s even worse is that Dad is just the same as his dad. All three of us had this obsession with everything being neat and tidy. All three of us love structure in buildings. All three of us have a temper.
    Fuck.
    It’s not rocket science to see where this going.
    There’s gotta be a strong chance that I’m going to turn out like them. Maybe more than a chance. After all, it sounds like Dad didn’t want to be like his father. But he said he was driven to do it anyway.
    Even though, at the moment, I don’t have any dodgy thoughts, it could happen. And the thought just makes me want to vomit.
    Jesus. I’m like a walking time bomb.
    Unless there’s something, anything, I can do to stop it. But what?
    I remember reading about prisoners in some Scandinavian countries being given certain drugs to stop them getting stiffys. “Chemical castration,” they call it. How about if I could get hold of the drug? Yeah, right. And how likely is that? It’s not like any doctor’s gonna give a seventeen-year-old the drug. It’s hardly a recognized preventative med.
    Sighing loudly, I wander to the window and stare out onto a normal street, with normal people doing normal things. There’s Dawson shooting hoops in his yard. There’s Mrs. Range talking to Dawson’s mom. Mr. Mackenzie, Summer’s dad, is pulling up in his car. What would they say if they knew what I’d found out? If they knew that they’re still living next door to a pedophile? Or pedophile in the making, if we’re splitting hairs.
    They’ve yet to come to terms with finding out about Dad. Their buddy. Their drinking partner. The man they trusted with their children ever since they can remember. The ripples it sent through our perfect community can still be felt. And now it’s gonna happen again unless I do something. Like disappear off the face of the earth. Run away to some place no one knows me. Except I can’t leave Amy alone with Mom. She needs me.
    Suddenly, a sense of powerlessness envelopes me.
    I hate my father
    I hate myself.
    I hate …
    I throw myself face down on my bed. Why me? Why the fuck me? Nothing’s going to be the same again. I can’t bear that I feel so normal at the moment and that’s not enough. I have real feelings for Summer. That’s normal, right? And there’s Dawson, the only young boy I know well. I like him as a kid. I like him a lot. And that’s normal, too, right? Nowhere in any part of my head do I have inappropriate feelings for him. And yet, sometime in the future, I could turn into an evil monster.
    There has to be something else I can do. But it’s like fighting in the dark since I’ve no idea how or when I’m going to change. Or even if I’ll change. I know I don’t want to, but it sounds like Dad didn’t, either. I could always go back and talk to Dad about it. Ask him to tell me how it happened with him. When he first got the urges… My skin crawls even thinking about him having urges toward those boys. I don’t want to, but how else can I deal with what might happen to me?

Chapter Twenty-four
    Robert Morrison
    Age ten.
    Twin brother to Rebecca.
    Brother to Maria.
    Son of Ross and Justine.
    Plays Little League; star player.
    Pet dog called Brutus, an English boxer.
    Runs everywhere and never sits still.
    White blond hair, buzz cut.
    Eats nonstop but never puts on weight.
    Favorite food is corn dogs.
    Favorite teacher is Mrs.