None of them, not even Benedict, thinks I have my head on straight, I know it. Sometimes I’ll hear them snicker when I walk out of a room or when I go up to bed. I’ll hear Cole talking about me, Benedict not saying a word, and I always grab the stair railing as hard as I can to keep me steady, I clutch until my knuckles go white.
I know I look crazy, but I wasn’t always like that. When I was little, I had just one screw loose. Daddy was always telling me that was what made me special. He called it my best feature, because that way nobody’d ever forget me.
After we lost Cassandra, though, I didn’t react the way I was supposed to. I didn’t know what we were supposed to do at times like that. I figure nobody does. There’s no how-to book to tell you what to say, what look to give people, what other folks expect of you. I knew I was getting odd stares because I wouldn’t change, not even on the day of her funeral. I was wearing my yellow T-shirt, the one with Jim Morrison in a blond wig, that was the one she’d liked best, the one I’d never let her borrow. I’d have given anything for my sister to be able to ask me for it, for me to be able to tell her she could have this shirt and anything else she asked for. That’s why I wore it that day and not black clothes. That would have been anything but paying my respects.
Nobody understood. Nobody understood that part of me was missing, that there was a hole in my body and all the air I breathed in went out it. I didn’t know how to cope, so I acted like nothing mattered. Only a fool would think that, but they were all fools. Sometimes grown-ups really are that blind.
I don’t think I’m actually crazy, at least no more than those guys who got it in their heads that it would be nice to up and move to this hell. That creep Cole, who thinks he’s as sly as a fox but who’s good and stuck here. Anyone can see he couldn’t hack it in the city, since that’s a whole different ball game. Clifford’s not a talker but I’ve seen how he always looks at me, it’ll make your blood run cold, like living here’s made an animal out of him. And Freeman—I don’t even know his first name—he’s decided to retire here, never mind that he doesn’t have the muscles or the brains of any of the others. I don’t get it. Nature, wide-open space—maybe those are magic words that change everything. Wide-open space, ah, there’s no lack of that in the world, and you won’t get half as bored elsewhere.
Myself, I’ve always liked it when there were people all around. I never feel lost when I’m in a big crowd, it’s like being in a school of fish. I always watched them go by and wondered if the man who killed her was there, with all the others, his Lakers cap covering his eyes. Maybe he’s just like me, looking at the bodies all around to pick out a face. Except he’d be out for some little thing to snatch, a little, light, fragile thing he could just grab and break in two.