Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

walked into the house. DJ went to the kitchen, his body still shaky and weak from days of sickness and lack of movement. He poured a glass of water and sat at the table. The plant was still there, in the center of the table, as if that was where it had always been. He sipped his water and stared at the strange, colorful blossoms. When his father came in, DJ didn’t look away from the plant. He didn’t want to see the expression of anger and disappointment that he knew now might never go away.

“Is this what you want?” Josiah asked at last.

DJ continued to stare at the plant. The picture of his father’s face, twisted in agony when the police officers finally came to their hotel door in Duluth, wouldn’t stop flashing in his mind.

“Answer me, boy. You want to throw away the life God gave you? You want to torture me? You want all the attention, me and the doctors hovering over your bed?” DJ looked up in time to see Josiah’s eyes flash. “Go ahead, then. Eat some more.” He shoved the plant across the table. DJ moved out of the way and it crashed to the floor. The pot exploded on the gray tiles, dirt and spiky red blossoms scattering like globs of blood.

“You spoiled shit,” his father hissed. He stormed around the table and grabbed the back of DJ’s neck, pulling him out the kitchen door and into the backyard. The summer evening was muggy and thick with gnats. They swarmed DJ’s mouth and eyes as he cried. His father had never touched him like this before, holding on to his neck like he was a misbehaving dog. Josiah half carried, half dragged DJ to the tall grass that had grown up behind their old shed, the one he and his cousins used to play cops and robbers in. The seat of an ancient tractor separated the blades of waist-high grass, a relic from when his father’s grandfather owned the house. It was DJ’s favorite thing to play on, and now his father put his hands on it and told him to stand still. He pulled down his pants, and DJ felt a slap of cold air on his naked skin even though it was over a hundred degrees outside.

“‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.’” Josiah’s voice boomed over the sound of cicadas. “‘Spare the rod, spoil the child.’ I knew I was too soft on you boys. First your brothers go out on that boat, and now you—” He didn’t finish.

The first strike came down with such force DJ was sure his back had been ripped open. He locked his knees, trying to stay standing.

“My daddy used to whup me here. I swore I’d never be like him, but maybe he got this one thing right.”

He landed the belt a second time, followed by another, and another. His father gasped in between, words popping from his mouth like grease in a hot pan.

“You . . . did . . . this . . .” One word for each strike, repeated over and over.

The belt fell on DJ’s bare legs, lighting his calves and thighs on fire. He tried to count the seconds between them, but the numbers started blurring together. This made him panic, made his breaths come shorter and tighter as his hands trembled on the tarnished metal seat of the old tractor. Numbers were the only thing that mattered to him, the only thing that made sense. If he couldn’t think about numbers, he would never be able to escape this.

Instead of counting seconds, he tried counting the strikes, reminding himself what the numbers meant, what they signified. Seven, the number of oceans, the number of continents, the number of dwarfs in Snow White, the number of completeness and perfection. Eight, the largest single-digit even number, divisible by two and four, the smallest prime numbers cube, the number of new beginnings.

He felt his mind start to churn, to lift him away.

Thirteen, unlucky, the sixth prime number, a Fibonacci number, the number of depravity and sinfulness.

Seventeen, the only prime number which is the sum of four consecutive prime numbers, the number of complete victory.

Twenty-one, a triangular number, the sum of the first six natural numbers, the number of rebelliousness and sin.

At last, the beating stopped.

DJ stood for what seemed like hours, metal digging into the joints under his knuckles, his knees trembling. Finally, Josiah placed his hand on his shoulder. The boy jerked and nearly cried out at the fresh rush of pain, even though he’d not made a sound yet.

“‘Blows that hurt cleanse away evil.’” It was a Bible verse Josiah had read a few days ago, one of the proverbs. When DJ looked up, his father’s eyes and cheeks were red, tears streaming down his face. Panic overcame the rage from a few moments before. The man turned his son’s body, staring at the lashes he had left behind. “I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

DJ pulled away, the sight of his father’s shame somehow more unbearable than the beating. Maybe this was part of what would make him clean—pure and holy. Maybe now he could be forgiven for lying to his father, causing him so much grief when he already had more than enough. This was a new beginning. He would be everything his father wanted from his boys. He would be the best at everything he put his hand to.

He would be enough for three sons.

24

Elle

January 17, 2020

The first officers arrived at her house less than ten minutes after Elle called Ayaan. Martín was next, rushing through the front door in a blaze of concern; he swept Elle into his arms for a strong, disinfectant-scented hug. Then Sash was there, a statue with the life sucked out of her, barely capable of saying anything except, Where is she? Where