News travels fast.
I’m getting out of the shower and deciding how I’m going to cover my black eye when Marla uses the key I gave her to enter the house with my dad.
“Chevelle!” my dad booms from downstairs.
I knew this would be a problem. I hid in the dim light of the wedding reception last night, and luckily, one of the makeup girls helped me cover the bruise enough for no one else to see it. I told her I took an elbow to the face by accident.
But I know that sound in my dad’s voice. It’s the same one he used when I broke curfew, or sneaked out, or he found boys in the basement. The “what the hell is going on” tone.
“I’m just out of the shower. Hold on.”
I hurry up and dress in shorts and a T-shirt. I purposely didn’t take any appointments for the boat today for fear that I’d be hun
