Page 67 of All Superheroes Need PR
I nod, and Elena tilts my face to the left and right. She reapplies some ointment and gives me a new butterfly suture, then lifts my shirt. Her eyes go round and red. She sniffs once and looks me in the eyes as she fights through whatever words are on her tongue.
“You’re not bleeding anymore, Vanny.” She makes a strangled sound and shakes her head. When the one called number Three grabbed me, either their rings or their nails punctured my skin in several places. The bruises were bad, but the scratches made them look—and feel—a thousand times worse.
“That’s good.”
Elena mutters something under her breath that sounds along the lines of “Voy a matar al maldito que hizo esto” ... But before I can call her out for cursing, she sniffs once, straightens up, and pats me tenderly on the uninjured cheek. “I still think I should change the bandages. Let me get you cleaned up. Un segundo.”
Of course Elena does nothing halfway and reapplies huge swatches of gauze to my hips, wrapping bandages all the way around my sides so only my lower back and the space above my groin is visible.
“Is this necessary?” I ask on a hiss. “It’s cold, and as you said already, Mamá, I’m not bleeding anymore.”
“And this isn’t for bleeding. This is for bruising. The gauze is soaked in witch hazel, aloe vera, and a dash of frankincense and cypress essential oils. That’s why you’re getting a smaller one on your cheek,” she says as she places tape over a swatch of gauze that covers my entire right cheek. “We’ll put some ice on it downstairs.” She takes my hand and starts pulling me behind her, and I comply, pulling my baggy sleep shirt down over my leggings to hide the bandages.
“Don’t tell anyone about the hip ones, okay? They freaked out enough about my face.”
“Hm?” she says as we make our way down the stairs. Dark wood, they creak on each step. Always have.
“I know you heard me,” I grumble.
“Sorry, you know how hearing goes when you start to get old.”
“Mamá!” I gasp and shake my head, nearly dropping my mug full of a special spiced tea she always served us whenever we were sick as children. I clutch it for strength now, really hoping she’s bluffing. Rollo didn’t get a full look at my hips, which look worse than they feel, given how focused he was on my face, which feels worse than it looks.
Her eyes are crinkled at the corners as we reach the bottom of the stairs. From here you can hear my brothers, my dad, and Rollo shouting at each other outside more clearly. “Drink your tea, mi amor.”
I drink.
“And tell me the truth. You promise me, Vanny, it wasn’t Rollo who hurt you?”
I choke, tea spraying from my lips. “No. God, no.”
She frowns. “I’ll let that slide, but next time, you owe me five. And good. I didn’t think so, and don’t worry—it didn’t even cross your father’s or your brothers’ minds. I just know that sometimes men and women can be very different in public than they are in private. I just wanted to be sure.”
“He ... we ... I ...”
She gives me a dull look, rolling her eyes and sweeping her fingers back through her thick black hair. She’s got freckles on her nose that I’ve always wished were mine. I don’t know how she manages to look fifteen years younger than she should, but she glows with magical light.
“Por favor, you do not need to tell me everything, but you will not lie to me, Vanny. That boy is head over heels in love with you. No convincing me otherwise. What you tell yourself is one thing, but I know what I see with my own eyes.”
I duck my head into my shoulders, feeling exposed but wanting ... wanting to believe her. “I like him too.”
Elena smiles at me, and this time I’m sure she’s never smiled at me in quite this way. “I know.”
“He would never hurt me.”
She nods. “Then why have you not told him who did this to you yet?”
I wince, my hand going up to cradle my hurt cheek. I could tell her that Roland didn’t push and so I just didn’t offer, but that would only be a partial truth. Very partial. Because after the ashes literally settled and my mind fired all night long, I kept coming back to something. Something small.
Number Three didn’t call Roland by his name, not once. Instead they called him number Sixty-Two.
Three. Sixty-Two ... Forty-Eight?
The math wasn’t mathing, unless Three was referring to something else, and I needed to decide how to wrap up my suspicions with words and then further decide who to share those words with.
They could be dangerous.
But only if I’m right.
