UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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My eyes in the mirror look too far away, and the air seems to pulse in tandem with the blood in my temples, my wrists. Touching the wall, touching the faucet takes effort. If I stop thinking about breathing, I’ll stop doing it.
This energy has to go somewhere. I could break the mirror, slam my hand against it, scream. I reach for the water instead and turn it as hot as it will go.
I used to do this all the time back in middle school when I’d lost one of my games and couldn’t accept the consequences. I would wash away the game and my fears until my skin turned red and raw. Sometimes it would bleed.
The hot water burns, but that feels right. Okay, it’s okay.
I start with my hands, then move on to my face. Washing doesn’t take away the sense of a seal being broken, of Pandora’s box being opened and the monsters spilling out, but I have to believe it can help, or I’m lost.
I can’t afford to start doing this again—it takes up a suspicious amount of time for one thing, and it shows. The cracked and bleeding skin made Mom and Dad take me to a doctor in sixth grade—for allergies, they thought, but I’m not allergic to anything.
“It’s so strange,” Mom said. “What else could be causing it?”
I managed to change the game before they could figure it out, replacing the washing with silent thoughts up in my head—a prayer, please, don’t touch.
If the washing comes back, I’ll know I’ve really lost control.
I should make it a rule that accidental touching doesn’t count, but my body’s telling me it does. That it might, which is just as bad.
The girl in the mirror touches her face, presses the red places under her eyes, smoothes her brow and tries to wipe the tension from her skin.
I look crazy in the mirror. Ophelia has nothing on me.
As I’m rubbing the liquid soap into my cheeks for a second round, Mandy opens the bathroom door. Our eyes meet in the mirror and I hurry to wash the suds away. I feel her watching me, and sure enough, when I straighten to pull a couple of paper towels down to pat myself dry, she’s still staring.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Your face is all red.”
“I just washed. Oscar smeared my makeup and I looked splotchy.”
Mandy nods, but I don’t think she buys it. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Oscar was totally out of line.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“If you want, I can tell him to find someplace else to sit and he will. He’s afraid of me.”
She smiles, and I smile back.
She says, “I think he’s a little afraid of you, too.”
“I elbowed him pretty hard.”
“Well, yeah, but what you said to him . . . Oscar’s used to being treated like he’s famous. It turned his world upside-down that you called him out.”
“Good.”
“Caddie . . .”
Here it comes.
“Is something else wrong?”
No, of course not, nothing is wrong . . . besides the insane monster stress of trying to make a good first impression, of knowing my first acting class is still to come, my family is falling apart, and, oh right, I’m crazy.
“No, I’m good.”
Mandy waits a long time before asking again. I would brush it off, leave, but she’s blocking the door, so I try to stay calm, wait her out. “You looked so upset,” she says. “I thought maybe something bad happened this morning, or, like, with your parents?”
Something bad might be happening right now because of me.
I shake my head. “The house isn’t tense all the time now. It’s great.”
Again, the skeptical nod.
“Look,” I say, “I’m stressed out. It’s my first day here. I want these people to like me, and I completely freaked.” I let the tears come. “I have plenty to be upset about without thinking about my parents.”
This is true. It’s also true that the only thing I could think about when Oscar ripped my glove was the two of them calling it quits, giving up, because I slipped.
It wasn’t my fault.
I’ll make sure that it won’t be my fault if my family stays broken.
I turn back to the sink, wash my hands one more time.