Page 57 of What Rough Beast

“What did I do?” I echo her question back to her. “You think I broke your ex-boyfriend’s bones, dragged him down the road, and then took him to the emergency room?”

“I think you would,” Becca says.

“Not that last part,” I tell her. “I weigh one hundred and twenty soaking wet. Do you really think I beat the shit out of Murphy Ricks?”

“No,” Becca admits. “But I know you wanted to.”

“I didn’t do this, Becca,” I say. Which is true. I didn’t do it. I asked an egg incubating an unknown entity to do it.

And it did.

“How are you doing?” I ask, changing topics.

“Not great,” she admits, sniffing. “I wanted something bad to happen to him, but shit. Baseball’s gone, college scholarship gone. They don’t know if he’ll ever get full mobility back. He’s looking at months of healing time, and tons of physical therapy after.”

“Sounds like he won’t be jacking off anytime soon,” I say, and there’s a sputtering at the other end. I can’t tell if she’s mad at me or laughing until a choked giggle gets out.

“Oh my God, Ava!” Becca gasps.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” I tell her. “This is a very serious situation. A man won’t be able to masturbate for months.”

“We should start a fund of some kind,” she says.

“Maybe a shrine,” I add.

“You’re horrible,” Becca says, still snorting.

“Yeah, but you like it,” I tell her.

“A lot,” she agrees. “I needed to laugh.”

“Me too,” I say, sighing.

“How about you?” Becca asks. “Are you doing okay?”

“Uh . . .” I cast my eyes around my bedroom, looking for an answer. The truth is that I don’t know how I am. When I’d first heard about Murphy this morning, I stuck my head under my comforter and went through every breathing exercise Dr. Hildebrand had ever shown me, muttering, “It worked, it worked, holy shit, it worked.”

Now, there’s a deep sense of calm. For the first time in a long time, I feel at ease. Because I have power now, something I don’t think I’ve had since I slid out of my mother and became a girl moving through a world full of men and boys.

“I think I’m okay,” I tell Becca.

“Ava?” Mom calls from downstairs. “You up there?”

“Gotta go,” I tell Becca, and hang up.

“What?” I yell, not getting up from my bed.

“You know the rule,” she says, and I go to the stairs, where she’s waiting for me at the bottom, arms crossed.

“ ‘If you can’t see me, you can’t talk to me,’ ” I say, repeating a hard-and-fast rule from childhood.

“I need you to run out to the garage and tell your father dinner’s ready.”

“Seriously? Mom—”

She ducks out of sight behind the wall. “You can’t see me!”

“Oh my God.” I roll my eyes and put on my shoes, heading out to the garage.