She motioned to me with her head to climb up. “What was that for?” I tore the earbuds from my ears. My stupid neighbor, Luna, sat perched outside our treehouse, bouncing another pinecone in her hand and dangling her toothpick legs from a thick branch. Simple math, and a pretty good deal.Ī pinecone dropped on my head. Fred Durst might look like a ballsack in a cap, but he had a point. “Break Stuff” by Limp Bizkit was my designated ruin-shit anthem. My earbuds blocked out the sounds of birds, crickets, and crispy leaves under my feet. It had also earned me a trip to talk to this guy in a suit every week, who asked about my feelings. Whenever she glanced at my permanently busted knuckles, the waterworks started. I didn’t know what it meant, but it made Mom cry in her bathroom when she thought no one could hear. I drove a fist into the oak tree, feeling the familiar sting of a fresh wound as my knuckles split open.īleeding helped me breathe better.
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