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288 pages, Paperback
First published March 9, 2010
"It’s not really all right, is it? I mean, who would miss that bastard? Shouldn’t I hate him, just simple, pure hatred? Shouldn’t I write him a thank-you note for getting me out of there, for not wanting me around anymore?"
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I wonder if I’m a broken kid. Was Christian ever broken? My mother would say, No, too strong, and would sneak a satisfied smile at her folded hands.
What about me, Mom? I would ask.
And the smile would leave her.
She would be right.
Sometimes I wonder why words can’t actually make us bleed.
In Chicago, I knew everything. I could look at the sky and know how warmly to dress; I knew where every street led, and where every fight would end. I could look at my father and know when to keep my mouth shut, when to piss him off so I could take the hits for my mother, and when only his wife-punching bag would do. I understood when a fight was coming, how fast It was going, where it was going, everything. Fights have a rhythm; they do. I swear it. And they don’t end up like that. Not where I’m from.
Fightology Lesson#8: Relax when hits are coming because it hurts less.
Right hook. Let him explain away a shiner. Like I’ve had to. Soccer, I’ve said, Fight, I’ve said, Hockey, basketball, croquet.
My stomach is starting to flutter because I know what I want to do, and I have stage fright. Fist into his face. Another in his gut. After all, I’ve had a day. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Hit something, hit someone. The moment our fists make contact, we feel better, right, Dad? Let it out. Punish her so she won’t do it again. Right, Dad? Isn’t that the way?
It’s weird when someone gets you, understands what you would never say, not even to yourself. It’s so weird that it makes my throat tighten up again. When I speak, my voice comes out small.
"You’re the incentive.”
We all screw up. We all wish we were stronger than we are, and not one of us will get through this life without regret.
Fightology Lesson #5: Anger comes in all forms: a slow burn; relentless, constant flames; or a hot flash, popping here and there. It can lie in wait, and you think you’ve forgiven, you think you’ve doused it with trust, but give it a sudden burst of oxygen and-backdraft.
Isn’t it too convenient just to forgive yourself, let yourself off the hook?
Second chances. Who deserves one of those, anyway?
I want to shred my own skin, yank every thread of DNA out, and give it to her as an offering. But would that be enough? Is there any way I can fix this? I shouldn't even apologize since that will shove the burden of forgiveness onto her. Who the hell am I to ask for her forgiveness? Who the hell am I to twist her into someone who could forgive the unforgivable? I know exactly who I can turn her into. (jace. page 109)