contact, and anyway how much strength would it really take to bite through a finger?
The very thought made her want to throw up again.
She stood, and examined herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale and blotchy and her hair was a tangled, frizzy mess. Her eyes – hazel, with flecks of gold, and the only part of herself she didn’t hate – were red-rimmed from crying.
She went to her room, changed her blood-splattered T-shirt for a top that the lady in the store had said would flatter her figure. Amber wasn’t so sure she believed her, but it was a nice top, even if it didn’t look especially good on her. She realised her hands were trembling.
She sat on the edge of the bed. Of course they were trembling. She was in shock. She needed help. Advice. Comfort.
For the first time since she was a kid, she needed her parents.
“Ah hell,” she muttered. It was worth a try.
She heard them in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to dinner. Amber crossed the hall, walking with heavy, leaden feet. The house was filled with the aroma of duck, cooked to perfection, and usually this would have her belly rumbling. But the only thing her belly was doing now was housing a whole load of fluttering butterflies. She tried to remember the last time she’d talked to her parents about anything important. Or the last time she’d talked to them about anything.
She couldn’t.
Her mouth dry, she stepped into the kitchen. Bill was checking the duck in the oven. No sign of Betty. Amber could feel her courage begin to falter. She needed both of them in the room at the same time. She couldn’t do this with only one. Could she? Or was this a condition she was setting for herself purely to have an excuse to back out?
And, just like that, her courage deserted her.
Relief sapped the rigidity from her joints and she sagged, stepped backwards without Bill even realising she’d been standing there. She walked back to her room. Maybe she could bring it up over dinner, provided there was a lull in the conversation. The two-way conversation, of course, as Amber was only rarely asked to contribute an opinion. There probably wouldn’t be a lull, though, but even if there was this was hardly an appropriate topic. After dinner, then, or later tonight, or—
Amber stepped into her room but Betty was already in here, the blood-splattered T-shirt in her hands.
“Whose blood is this?” her mother asked.
Amber searched for an answer that wouldn’t come.
Betty dropped the T-shirt on the bed, crossed over to her, and took hold of Amber’s arms. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “Did someone hurt you?”
Amber shook her head.
“What happened?” Betty asked. “Tell me, Amber.”
“I’m fine,” Amber managed to say.
Her mother looked deep into her eyes, like she’d find the truth locked away in there.
“It’s not my blood,” said Amber quietly.
“Whose is it?”
“At the Firebird. Some guys.”
Betty let go of her and stepped back. “How many?”
“Two. They followed me. They attacked me.”
Betty had a funny look on her face. “Amber, sweetheart, what did you do?”
“I did nothing,” Amber said, her words suddenly rushing out. “I defended myself. I did nothing wrong. They were abusive customers. We asked them to leave. I saw them when I was walking home and they chased me. They attacked me, Betty. Two against one.”
“You defended yourself? Are you okay?”
“I’m … I’m fine. Really.”
“And how are they?”
Now Amber squirmed. “Um, I don’t … I don’t know. One of them, I … I think I broke his jaw. And bit his finger off.”
“You bit his finger?”
“I bit his finger off.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Betty said, taking Amber into her arms. Amber stiffened. She didn’t know when her mother’s arms had last embraced her. “And you’re sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m sure. The adrenaline just … I’m fine.”
“Has this happened before? This surge of strength?”
“No,” Amber said, wondering how long she had to stay like this. “First time.”
“How are you apart from that? How are you feeling? Headaches? Nausea?”
“A … a little. How did you know?”
Betty broke off the hug, and looked at her daughter with actual tears in her eyes.
“Betty?” Amber said. “Mom? Are you feeling all right?”
Betty laughed, a nervous laugh that she cut off sharply. “I’m fine, Amber. I’m just … You’ve been through a traumatic experience and I’m … I’m relieved you’re okay.”
“Are you going to tell Bill?”
“Of course.” Betty smiled, then, the most beautiful smile Amber had ever seen her wear. “Don’t you worry. He’s going to want to hear about this. So are the rest of them.”
Amber frowned. “The others? Betty, no, please, I don’t want anyone to—”
“Nonsense,” said Betty, waving Amber’s objections away with one hand while the other took her phone from her pocket. Her slim fingers danced lightly over the keys and in mere moments a group text had been sent.
They sat on the bed while they waited for the others to arrive. Betty asked Amber about school, about her friends, about her job at the Firebird, and she listened as Amber spoke. It was a new sensation for Amber, talking about these things to her own mother. For the first time since Amber could recall, Betty seemed actually interested in her and the life she was leading. She nodded and smiled, probed deeper where needed, and, when they heard the first car pull into the driveway, Betty came forward and kissed the top of her head.
“You make me so proud,” she said softly.
Tears came to Amber’s eyes, unbidden, like a burglar breaking into her home, and proved just as shocking.
“You let the others in,” said Betty. “I’ll help Bill with dinner. Good thing we chose a big duck.”
Amber waited until Betty had left before rubbing her eyes. Her knuckles came away wet. There was a curious tightness in her chest that made her breathe funny. She stood up, took a moment to calm herself. She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected that this was what it meant to have a loving parent. It was proving to be an unsettling experience.
