Kiss of Broken Glass (4 page)

Because somehow I just knew

we would always come back.

No matter what.

And that meant Dad would be Piglet forever,

and I would always be the bottom of Avery’s shoe.

I didn’t realize it back then,

but I guess it’s kind of true,

what that poet said.

How once you lose your dreams,

it’s like a snowstorm rolls in,

even if you live in Florida,

and the fields freeze over,

and you feel like a bird

with broken wings,

until pretty soon

you can’t even

remember

how to

fly.

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He’s gonna be a marine biologist one day.

But he’s not like most eight-year-olds

who want to be a biologist today,

a firefighter tomorrow,

an astronaut the week after that.

Ever since his Cub Scout troop visited

the Tampa Aquarium, he’s been saying

he’s gonna be a biologist and that was

almost two years ago.

Anyway, he’s always talking about

these random deep-sea creatures

he sees on the Discovery Channel,

like the Atolla jellyfish that lives

thousands of feet underwater

in total blackness. But whenever

it wants to, the Atolla can turn its

body into a big blue lightbulb,

and not the Kmart special kind,

but a beautiful, brilliant blue.

Glowing.

Luminous.

Unexpected.

Sean says when it happens,

the whole sea stops to watch,

and God looks down and smiles,

because that jellyfish

just goes to show

there can be light

even in the darkest places.

But what does he know.

He’s only eight.

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I plop down on the couch

to watch a daytime talk show

through that scratched-up Plexiglas.

Donya’s yelling HOOYAH

every five seconds because

there’s this girl on the show

with a coin-round face

and hair the color of pennies,

who just told her boyfriend

she doesn’t love him.

Never did.

Even though he’s the kind of boy

most girls would drool for.

Even though he’s got eyes

like slices of summer sky.

Even though he can sink a free throw

all the way from center court.

None of that can make her love him,

not for all the corn in Indiana,

because she’s in love with someone else.

A girl.

A girl who’s like cinnamon apples.

Spicy and sweet.

“I knew it,” Donya says.

She hops off the couch and struts

around the room with her boobs

flat as pancakes in that ultratight

underarmor sports bra.

“Hooyah.

           Hell, yeah!”

But when the girl’s father appears,

Donya starts to grind her teeth

just like she does at night.

“Parents are hazardous to your health,” she says.

She twists her plastic wristband

around and around

until I see the red letters

printed on the underside.

The ones that say
suicide watch.

“What are you looking at?” Donya asks.

But before I can answer she’s up in my face.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” she says.

“It was just a buzz gone wrong.

That’s all.”

I nod and tell her that I get it.

That I believe her.

Even though I don’t.

Then we flip through the channels

until that fat Hoosier daddy

is booed off the stage.

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I notice a piece of paper on the wall

with those little tear-off tabs

dangling from the bottom.

The paper says:

ARE YOU LOOKING FOR SOMETHING?

TAKE WHAT YOU NEED.

And the tabs say words like:

Love

Acceptance

A second chance

I look around to see if anybody’s watching.

Donya and Jag are arm wrestling.

Skylar’s dumping her uneaten tray.

Nobody’s paying attention.

So I pull off a tab.

It feels strange in my hand.

Oddly heavy.

Like the paper is holding

something bigger than itself.

The same way an acorn

holds a full-grown oak tree

inside its tiny shell.

I want to put it in my pocket.

But then I stop and think.

What if this idea sprouts?

What if it gets pink and purple with promise

but instead of growing strong like an oak tree

it just flops over and dies like my coleus plant

in the first grade and leaves me with

nothing but a dead word

and a Styrofoam cup filled with dirt?

Screw that.

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Skylar flits over and points

at the frayed edges of paper

where three tabs are missing.

“I picked
will power
,” she volunteers.

“And
discipline
.

And
self-control
.”

Her arm is outstretched and for the first time

I can see her wormy scars close up.

They look like pink leeches sucking on her skin.

I’ll never get like
that,
I think.

My cuts are so much prettier.

Thin as spider silk.

Laced around my wrists like bracelets.

In a week they’ll start to heal

and I’ll watch as they fade

from rubies,

to ripples,

to smooth opal skin.

When they’re gone,

I know I’ll miss them.

I wonder if Skylar ever had cuts like that.

Pretty as pink pearls.

Before the leeches came.

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I look away

but not fast enough

and her fragile smile melts.

“Sorry,” I say.

“I’ve just never seen scars

like that before.”

She studies me.

Traces a finger across her arm.

Tells me they’re her babies.

She’s even got names for them.

Fat baby.

Ugly baby.

Lonely baby.

Failed- a-test baby.

Dissed-at-school baby.

Argued-with-mother baby.

Why-don’t-you-just-kill-yourself baby.

My cuts don’t have names like that.

But if I gave them names, they’d all be Rennie.

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Where do I begin?

I guess we met around

the second week of sixth grade.

Right about the time I was discovering

that in middle school there’s no such thing

as being a wallflower.

You’re either popular or ridiculed.

Accepted or abandoned.

Worshiped or crucified.

There’s no in-between.

No place for invisible.

Nowhere to hide.

I was a little unprepared for that,

having been a houseplant all my life.

Comfortably nonexistent.

But Rennie took me in.

Introduced me to the black-booted,

purple-haired dress-code violators

who would one day be

the Sisters of the Broken Glass.

And for the first time,

I belonged to something.

           was seen as someone.

                 was popular somehow.

I belonged . . .

Even though I knew that meant

I’d have to cut too.

Sometime.

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Elbow on the sink.

Right hand trembling.

Drag–––––the–––––glass–––––across–––––my–––––wrist–––––

chalky–––––dotted–––––lines–––––

don’t–––––even–––––break–––––the–––––skin–––––

Lungs are feeling tight.

Heart is thumping hard.

Rennie’s words are swirling in my head.

Just one cut to feel alive . . .

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Whoosh!

The skin tears

and I feel this rush

swirling in my brain

like a waterspout.

A finger-tingling,

tongue-numbing,

heart-pounding

rush.

And the pain doesn’t feel like pain

but more like energy

moving through my body

in waves.

Rushing.

           Cleansing.

                       Pulsing.

Purging all the broken bits out of me

like a tsunami washing debris to the shore.

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I feel the calm,

the bliss,

the sheer weightlessness

of zero worry.

I’m floating on a smooth glass pond

with bottle-nosed endorphins

swimming all around,

splashing their tails,

smiling their perpetual smiles.

And I want this feeling to last forever.

Because if the feeling lasts,

it won’t matter what Avery says,

or what my mother doesn’t say,

or how twisted I feel inside

because I know for sure

that on this calm, tranquil pond

nothing and I mean
nothing

can ever make a ripple in my heart.

But here’s the bad thing:

The feeling doesn’t last forever.

It
never
lasts forever.

In fact, it barely lasts ten freaking minutes.

Before the guilt sets in.

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Hope.

Because part of me really hopes I can quit.

So I can stop feeling guilty all the time.

Like when I’m washing laundry in secret.

Or wasting my allowance on sterile gauze.

Or lying to my little brother, Sean, about

why I can’t go swimming with him.

Those are the times I fumble around

looking for
hope
.

I
hope
Rennie will still like me if I quit.

I
hope
I can stop wearing concealer on my arms.

I
hope
Bio-Oil really works.

I
hope
I won’t miss my scars (too much).

But then I remember those ten mind-blowing minutes,

and I think about how it feels the next day,

when everyone crowds around me at lunch,

looking at my cuts, rubbing my shoulders,

dabbing me with
I-feel-so-bad-for-you
ointment.

And I remember the spotlight of Rennie’s grin

and the way her approval makes me feel special,

and I gotta say, that’s a pretty ginormous feeling.

Like an over-the-top, Sears Tower kinda high.

And just thinking about that

makes my little wad of hope

fell like a spitball

slipping through my fingers

103 stories down

to the bottom

of

my

pocket.

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It’s been 24 hours since I got to Attaboys.

Donya says they have to give me

my official psych evaluation

in the first 24 hours,

or they’ll have to let me go.

That’s part of the Baker Act.

I guess that’s why Roger’s waving me over now.

He introduces me to this pinched-up

Pomeranian face with a clipboard.

Dr. Annoyed-To-Meet-Me

doesn’t even look up.

She just drones off

the same pointless questions

they asked in the ER.

Hmmm. Let me see.

I’m here because Tara-the-Two-Face

is a big drama queen who peddles gossip

like Girl Scout cookies, and opening

that bathroom door was like selling

a thousand boxes of Thin Mints.

Do I think I need to be here?

Are you kidding me?

NO. I don’t need to be here.

But this works perfect for Tara,

because she’d do
anything

to have Rennie all to herself.

And what will I do when I get out?

First off, I’m gonna strangle Tara

with a fat wad of dental floss,

now that I know how dangerous

waxed string can be. Then I’ll friend Jag