Kiss of Broken Glass (7 page)

Then the horse begins to run.

A great Goliath gallop

that shakes the ground

and spits mud in every direction.

I know what’s coming next,

even before the white flesh

tears across the barbs.

I hear a voice screaming in my head:

Wake up.

Wake up.

Just drop the freaking spoon already!

Then the dream ends.

Just like that.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed.

Catching my breath.

Feeling as psycho as Dalí.

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That’s what Ding Dong says.

I sit at the night-nurse station

while she rifles through my chart

checking to see if Mom authorized

any medication like sleeping pills.

Fat chance of that.

But I let Ding Dong search anyway,

digging through random papers,

jabbering away.

“Did you have one a them falling-down dreams?

Then you’re probably just feeling helpless. That’s all.

Or maybe you dreamed about being naked.

Was that it? You don’t have to hide it, girl.

That doesn’t mean nothing bad. You’re just shy.”

She pauses and stares at me hard.

Then shivers shimmy across her shoulders.

“I think you had one of them ugly dreams.

Where your teeth were falling out.”

That one makes me smile

and I think about telling her

I had a whole set of snaggleteeth

that wiggled like worms

right out of my mouth,

because that kind of dream

might get her dreads in a wad,

and then maybe she’d give me the meds

without my mother’s precious signature.

But I don’t say a word.

Because I’m afraid if I open my mouth

the white horse might gallop out instead.

So I go back to bed pill-less and prickly,

all twisted up by the last thing she said:

“
Trust me, girl. Whatever it was,

that dream is tellin’ you something.”

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Breakfast on the second day.

I see a butterfly on Skylar’s arm,

a swallowtail with swooping swirls

and polka-dot wings.

She drew it herself with a black Sharpie.

“For the Butterfly Project,” she says.

Then she tells me how it works.

First, you feel the urge to cut,

but instead of picking up the blade

you pick up a pen

and draw a butterfly

on your arm

or your ankle

or anywhere you want.

It doesn’t really matter

as long as it’s on your body.

Then you name it for someone special.

That’s what brings the butterfly to life.

So now you’ve got this living, breathing ink

on your forearm or by your belly button

or the dimple behind your knee,

and the butterfly is flapping its wonderful wings

while you take algebra tests and clean your room

and eat cold chicken nuggets in the cafeteria.

And because you love it so much

you stay away from the blade

because that’s the only way

to save your swallowtail’s life.

You can’t wash it off either.

The butterfly has to fade on its own.

Because if you wash it off in the sink

or cut before the ink fades naturally,

then your butterfly dies.

Those are the rules.

Sick, huh?

But Skylar’s so sure it’ll work,

she floats away from the table

like she’s a butterfly herself.

I don’t know if I should feel

sorry for her

for putting so much faith

in permanent marker

or if I should feel

just a teeny bit good inside

because Skylar named her butterfly

for me.

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It’s all Bullhorn’s fault.

She never should’ve said that

Skylar’s gonna become another

Teenage Statistic if she doesn’t

start seeing herself for

the Beautiful Person that she is.

Then Donya wouldn’t have said,

“Oh yeah, twigs are soooo hot.”

And Jag wouldn’t have laughed

until chocolate milk spurted out his nose.

And Skylar wouldn’t have bolted

down the hallway screaming,

“Lemmeout! Lemmeout!”

And I wouldn’t have sat there

with my mouth open

wishing I’d said thank you

for the butterfly.

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My mother thinks it’s all because

of the hormones in cow’s milk

making girls hit puberty way too soon.

And not just the early bloomers.

A whole generation of twelve-year-olds

budding in their teeny-weeny bikinis

and sprouting armpit hair

before their frontal lobes

have a chance to catch up.

But what does she know?

My mother also thinks that margarine

is one molecule away from plastic

and that fried food will make

her hair turn gray.

That’s whacked.

But sometimes I wish she was right,

because to tell you the truth,

I’d give up dairy products all together

if it would make all the drama go away.

And Skylar come back.

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I’m staring at Jag’s

perfect pecs,

his awesome abs,

his flawless face

when Roger points

at sneakers propped

on Skylar’s empty seat

and says,

“Take them off.”

And then . . .

Plop.

           
Plop
.

I’m staring at Jag’s

pissed and perfect feet.

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Why does Roger look at me like that?

I’ve never soaked gummy bears in vodka

or snuck off campus to get high at lunch,

and just because I smoked pot

one time
with Rennie,

that doesn’t mean

I’m addicted.

But Roger says

if you
crave
something

and lose
control

and keep doing it

over and over

despite the
consequences
,

then you’re addicted.

Yeah?

So what?

Why does he keep looking at me like that?

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Five carrot sticks she pretended to eat at lunch.

Four clumps of hair that brushed right off her head.

Three unopened letters.

Two bloody tissues.

And a poem she wrote today—

What the Blade Says

I am the shadow

that waits in dark places,

silent and patient,

to follow you home.

I am the tiger

that eagerly chases,

racing and running,

wherever you roam.

I am the hunger

that feeds on your madness,

biting and clawing,

to swallow you whole.

I am the silver

that soaks up your sadness,

body and spirit

and all of your soul.

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Donya finds me in Skylar’s room

and sees the bloody tissues in the trash.

She says she knows exactly what that

means and she pulls me out of the room.

She points down this long narrow hall,

past the rec room and the emergency exit,

to a thick black door with a tiny slit of a window.

I tell Donya we shouldn’t go,

not because the room is
restricted

but because if Skylar
is
in there

I don’t want to see her,

not like that.

But Donya makes me go.

Well, not exactly
makes
me.

I mean, it’s not like she drags

me by the hair. But she has this way

of making you think that
not
doing

something is way worse than doing it,

no matter how bad that something seems.

Sort of like Rennie.

So we slip past Bullhorn

on our rubber-soled socks

and we figure we’ve got like

two and a half minutes until

Bullhorn discovers that we’re gone.

But even before we get to the door

I hear this sound that makes me

want to turn around again.

I wouldn’t call in crying exactly.

It’s more high pitched than that,

like a kitten.

Donya pushes me to the window.

This time with more than her words.

“Is she in there?”

The window is smudged and the room gray

so I can’t make anything out at first,

except for how the walls look like

they’re covered in mattresses,

and the floor is sort of spongy.

But then I see something

in the far back corner,

and I feel my ears get hot

like they always do when I’m mad.

“Is it her?”

“See for yourself,” I say.

Then I brush past Donya

pissed at her for making me look,

because that’s the kind of picture

I’ll never get out of my head.

That poor little pencil stabber.

He looks so much like Sean.

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So I wedge myself by the window and I watch

garbage men heaving green plastic cans,

and a man running to catch the bus,

and a woman walking her mop dog,

and wrapping up its poop like a present.

It’s like there are two worlds now.

The In Here.

And the Out There.

The suspended animation.

And the full speed ahead.

And suddenly I’m desperate

to know what Rennie’s doing.

In the Out There.

Right now.

This very minute.

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It feels like a century since I saw Rennie

through that dirty squad-car window,

looking sort of shocked and mad,

like someone had splashed water in her face.

She must’ve been really pissed at the cop.

I drum my fingers on the counter

as the phone rings five times.

Come on. Come on.

I know you’re in art class.

Just pick up already
.

And then I hear her.

“This better be good.”

Her words are like punches

knocking the breath out of me.

I want her to say:

OMG! Are you okay?

This is sooooo unfair!

Are they gonna let you out soon?

Everybody misses you like crazy.

But something’s off.

“I just wanted to talk,” I say.

“So talk,” she answers.

I hear water running and someone giggling

in the background. Then Rennie sighs,

like she’s bored with me already.

“Look. The school’s on high alert,” she says.

“A message went home telling parents to be

on guard for the Top Ten Signs of Self-Harm

and now every mom in Manatee County

is searching for scissors under the bed

and taking inventory of their Band-Aid boxes.”

I hear the phone changing hands

and another voice jumps on the line.

“You can’t even get a plastic knife

in the cafeteria thanks to you.”

And right away I’m sick to my stomach

because I know who it is. That growly,

annoying, gag-me voice could only be

coming from one person.

And that’s Tara.

Yeah.

The Two Face.

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All I want is scalding water

to sear down my spine

like a hot blade,

to blister my back,

to char my chest,

to melt me to pieces

so I can dissolve down the drain,

evaporate into steam,

and disappear.

That would feel good right now.

That would make sense.

But all I can find is one button,

no hot or cold knob,

no temperature dial,

just a single silver square

that says On/Off

like a light switch,

and when I press it

the drops that spill