She fell in a way that looked worse than it was. She knocked over a chair. She screamed at the exact moment my mother walked in. She pressed her palm to her cheek like she’d been hit, even though I hadn’t hit her. She cried like she was bleeding, even though her skin was clean. She made herself small and hurt and innocent, and she pointed at me like I was the monster.
And it worked, because it always worked.
My mother’s mouth tightened into that familiar line. My father’s footsteps came heavy down the hall. April sobbed louder when she heard him, because she knew what it meant. My father didn’t ask questions. He didn’t investigate. He didn’t look at me like a person who might have a reason. He looked at me like an object that had malfunctioned.
“You put your hands on her?” he said, voice low.
“I didn’t—” I started.
