Page 1 of River Wild

River

Eight Years Old

It’s Sunday.

I hate Sundays.

Sundays are when Mama goes to her weekly book club meeting. Sundays between five and seven p.m. are when Mama isn’t home.

Sunday between five and seven p.m. are when he hurts me.

But I can’t tell my mama that he hurts me.

He told me that he’d hurt her, too, if I told. He said no one would believe me anyway. Because he’s important.

My stepdaddy is the person you tell when someone hurts you.

He is a policeman.

The police are supposed to be good.

But he isn’t good.

He’s bad.

I’m in the backyard, playing with the new basketball Mama bought me for my eighth birthday last week.

She left five minutes ago.

I know what’s going to happen.

He’s going to make me go inside soon.

He’s going to make me do things that I don’t want to do.

He’s going to do things to me.

I throw the ball at the hoop that hangs on the side of the garage wall.

It goes in. Hits the concrete floor with a thump.

I walk over and pick it up.

I throw it through again.

Thump.

“River, come inside,” he calls from the kitchen.

I hate his voice.

I hate him.

I shut my eyes.

No.

The ball rolls back to me, bumping against my foot.