Kiss of Broken Glass (10 page)

to be a temple and all.

But I don’t feel like a temple.

I feel like a shack.

And here’s the thing.

Once I get out of here,

there’s gonna be triggers

around every corner,

and blades in my purse,

and voices in my head

telling me to use them.

And I’m sorry to say this,

but I probably will.

That’s just the way it is.

I don’t feel like I have a choice,

or another road to take, or whatever.

And don’t worry.

I don’t expect you to fix me.

But I was sort of thinking maybe

you could do some of that God stuff,

with your hands on my head or whatever,

and just make the pain a little looser,

so it doesn’t always feel like a jacket

wrapped around me so tight.

And maybe you could do that for Skylar, too.

That would be good.

Then I try to remember how

prayers are supposed to end,

with
lay me down to sleep,

and souls to keep
, and all that

other nursery rhyme stuff,

but that doesn’t seem to fit.

So finally, I just say Thanks, God,

and I roll over on my pillow.

Then, the strangest thing happens.

I don’t see angels or hear harps

or feel the hand of God

slipping into my life

just when I need him.

The lightbulb doesn’t flicker

and Colin Krusher doesn’t materialize

through the air duct (
dammit
).

It’s nothing like that.

It’s way more subtle.

And I’m sure some people

would say it’s all in my head.

But all I can say is that it
does
feel

like my troubles are looser somehow,

like the jacket isn’t zipped

to my chin anymore.

And it’s not like I jump

up and down on the bed yelling,

Holy crap!

It worked.

But I say it to myself.

Real quiet.

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So take a guess where I am.

Dark country road.

Electric purple sky.

Yada yada yada.

And here comes that freaking white horse.

Only this time, she’s sort of still.

Like she’s thinking about something.

And I’m calm too, scanning the road.

Waiting for somebody.

And I know they’re coming

because I feel so inflated,

it’s like I’m walking on helium.

Then Jag rolls up on his RipStik

and I can tell right away,

he’s the one I’ve been waiting for,

because my heart floats even higher

and we seem to talk without words.

He sees a patch of flowers by the road,

white fairy orchids growing wild,

and he smiles that crooked smile

and leans to pick one for me.

And then, here’s where the dream goes to shit.

When Jag stands back up,

there’s a sea of spiders at his feet,

so many spiders that it looks like

the ground is moving.

And in fact, the ground
is
moving.

It’s opening up like the mouth of a sinkhole

and Jag is losing his footing and spiraling in,

and the last thing I see before it swallows him up,

are the five pointed petals of white fairy orchid

spilling to the ground like falling stars.

The horse is going ballistic now.

She’s bucking and snorting and

making all kinds of terrible sounds

that should never come out of an animal.

She rears away from the fence again and again,

but in the end she tears her flesh across the barbs.

I run to her and throw my arms around her neck.

I try to stop the bleeding but the harder I squeeze,

the more the blood flows. It’s like a stream spilling

down the horse’s shoulders, splashing to the earth.

I pull off my jacket and press the cloth against her skin.

I can hear her heavy breath and feel her deep, dark pulse

throbbing beneath my fingers. Like we’re connected.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump
.

Then I feel something shift.

And suddenly I’m not holding the horse anymore.

I look down only to discover that I’m

pressing the jacket against my own arm,

feeling the beat of my own pulse,

watching the cloth turn red,

under the light of the moon.

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So that’s it?

That’s what the dream means?

I’m
the freaking horse?

I storm out of the bedroom and

head straight to Ding Dong’s desk.

“Did you dream about them teeth again?” she asks.

I shake my head and start ranting.

This time I don’t hold anything back.

Not one single detail.

I figure Ding Dong’s going to make a big deal

about all the dark images like the black sky

and lightning and how that probably means

I’m on some kind of evil path. Or maybe

she’s gonna key in on Rennie and the spiders

and say that means I’m caught in a web.

But Ding Dong doesn’t seem to care

about any of that. All she wants to know

is what the horse is doing.

The bucking.

The kicking.

The flailing.

The fury.

Ding Dong takes in all in, studying me with her dark eyes,

and I wait for her big dream interpretation to ramble out.

But in the end, she only has one thing to say:

“Seems to me, if you are that horse,

you’re tryin’ awfully hard to fight that fence.”

And that’s all I can think about for the rest of the night.

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Donya’s packing up.

Her 72 hours were officially over last night

but her mom works second shift at a factory,

soldering circuit boards, and Donya says

the supervisor’s a real prick and wouldn’t

let her mom off. So she’s coming today instead.

I don’t ask Donya about her dad.

It feels weird.

How I know so many things about Donya,

but I don’t really know anything at all.

Like I know

that when Donya’s tense she grinds her teeth,

and that her hair color isn’t permanent

because she leaves purple streaks in the sink,

and that there really
was
a girl at Chicory’s

because Donya cries about it in her sleep.

I know all those inside-out, private little things.

But I don’t even know Donya’s last name

or where she lives, or goes to school,

or if that buzz-gone-wrong

was really something more.

And I still don’t know what to expect from her.

Not from one minute to the next.

Which is why I’m only half surprised

when she takes the silver stud out of her tongue.

“Going away present,” she says.

She can tell I’m trying to puzzle it out,

so she shakes her head and fills in the blanks.

“I told those idiots it was a fresh piercing.

That I had to keep it in for medical reasons.

But really, I just needed it in case of emergency.”

She unscrews the bottom of the barbell

and shows me the sharp point at the end.

“Anyway, it’s yours now.”

She drops the stud in my hand and

I curl my fingers around it fast.

When I hear footsteps in the hall

I slip it into my pocket, like instinct.

Bullhorn tells her it’s time to go,

and since Donya’s not the hugging kind

she gives me a quick wink and one last
hooyah.

Then she’s gone.

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Military school.

The Florida Sheriff Youth Ranch.

A group home for troubled teens.

Or suck it up and do the family meeting.

We’re sitting in the TV room and I say how

it sucks to be fifteen because all our so-called

choices are like the consolation prizes on a

really lame game show.

Sorry you didn’t win the BRAND-NEW CAR!

But here’s a bag of corn chips

and a cheesy bumper sticker.

Jag’s lips curl into that sexy half smile

and I feel this global warming rise up

in my body all the way from that tickly

spot in my stomach to top of my head.

I get so nervous that I fumble my

notebook, and little wisps of paper

flutter to the ground.

Jag drops to one knee and I swear when

he picks them up it look like he’s holding

the five pointed petals of white fairy orchid.

And that’s when the universe

starts moving in slow motion.

Jag reaches across the invisible hula hoop

of space and he touches my arm. The one

that’s still laced with screaming red lines.

And suddenly I’m aware how ugly it is.

But before I can pull my arm back,

Jag leans down and plants his lips,

soft and tender,

right on my scars.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “All of you.”

And then this planetary blackout happens.

Or maybe I just close my eyes.

All I know is that when I open them

Jag’s already back in the beanbag chair

and Roger is walking in the door and

it almost seems like nothing happened.

Except for the blush on Jag’s cheeks

and this feeling inside me

that something is different.

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With Skylar and Donya gone,

and Jag in Roger’s office

“exploring his alternatives.”

I’m all alone

with my daydreams,

and my unfinished drawing,

and Donya’s good-bye present in my pocket.

I try to concentrate on pencil shading.

But the problem with drawing hands is that

they have just as much expression as a face.

They’re emotional.

Personal.

Revealing.

You could paint the freaking
Mona Lisa
,

but if you gave her Skylar’s happy hands

or Donya’s fighting fists, the whole picture

would go to crap, because that’s not who

Mona Lisa is.

I think about Skylar’s question.

Is that you?

Two days ago I told her no.

But today, I think—

yeah, maybe it is.

And then I feel myself being pulled into the zone

where I’m not really thinking about what I’m drawing

but stuff is streaming out stroke after stroke and I’m so

wrapped up in the art there could be a jackhammer

blaring right next to me and I wouldn’t even hear it.

I’m surprised when I put the pencil down.

They’re the best hands I’ve ever drawn.

And they’re not hiding inside sleeves, either,

with just the fingertips poking out,

holding the fabric tight so the cotton won’t roll up.

They’re out in the light. Palms open.

With soft, slender fingers and just enough

lines and creases to make them look real.

They’re the kind of hands an art teacher might

hold up in front of the class and while the other kids

roll their eyes or crumple up their own papers,

the teacher keeps gushing away.

I mean look at these hands,
she might say.

So full of hope
.

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Roger likes my drawing.

It’s much better than the crayon crap

hanging in his office where we meet

an hour before the family meeting.

He explains how he has to make sure

he’s releasing me to a stable situation

and that I’ll have a strong support network

on the outside.

I think he’s gonna lecture me about not cutting

or how to use the 937 Things to Do Instead.

But he doesn’t.

He talks about relapse.

How it’s just a part of recovery.

That I shouldn’t beat myself up if it happens to me.

I know he thinks he’s helping

with his fancy Walmart diploma and all.

But I almost wish he would just shut up

because it feels like he’s giving me permission.

Like he knows it’s inevitable.

I’m bound to screw up.

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Mom—

Shifting in her seat.

Checking the clock.

Clutching that ugly Vera Bradley

that cost her $118 but looks like

it’s made out of pot holders.

Avery—

Texting away.

Twirling her hair.

Pretending she’s not even here.