Down Time

It's a variation of my own routine, and yet I'm overcome with disbelief. She tries to shove an ice pack under the seat, but she knows I see it and evades eye contact. There aren't any whites in her eyes, only veiny pinks engulfing all but the pupils. Crying 'til your eyes ache will do that for you, but going to sleep with a cold, wet washcloth over your face usually makes you convincingly presentable for school by the time morning rolls around. Balled-up tissues on the floor, traces of blood crusted on the edge of her nose, her sleeve is rolled up to reveal a blotch above her elbow, exacerbated by the ice pack to an angry neon pink. I ask how long she's been in the car, and she insists she's fine. I ask who did all this to her, but she keeps struggling to sweep the tissues under the seat and crack her lips into a smile. I know she doesn't trust me, and I don't blame her. It's not as though at eighteen you want everyone to find out that major sections of your life are out of control. I part my hair at the spot in the back that twinges as I test my fingertips against it, leaning the tender mountain of bump between the few inches of open window space she's allowed me.