another one.
"Did you really have a bullet? Or was it just a prank call? Because he sounded really worried and really convincing to me. I need to know who it was. The police will want to talk to him, and I want to at least talk to his parents."
The police ...
There's
a thought. But no—Fanboy would just say I stole the bullet and I could lie and say he gave it to me, but it would be his word against mine and he's a goody-goody, so they would believe him and not me.
"Do you have any idea what I went through? Hanging up the phone? Rushing out of work, driving home at a hundred miles an hour, thinking you'd be ... you'd be
dead?
"
Yeah, I know. I know because he told me over and over again when he sent me away, and then he told me again every time he came to visit.
"You owe me an explanation."
No, I don't. I keep staring at the crack. I don't owe him anything. I'm allowed to have my secrets.
Just like Fanboy has his. His "third thing." He told me that there were three things in the world that he wanted more than anything. Three, OK? One, two, three. And then he only told me two of them.
And when I asked about the third, he lied and said he meant there were only two, so I kept at him and he admitted there was a third, but he wouldn't tell me what it was.
The thing he wants more than
anything else in the world.
And he wouldn't tell me. Bastard.
I told him
everything.
Even when I lied, I was telling him something.
"Kyra, goddammit!" Into hard-core Pissed Off. I can always count on Roger.
Staring at the crack. Wondering where it came from. It was just
there
one day, like it had always been there. I don't remember doing something to cause it. It's like the world just decided to break right there, right on my windowsill.
"I don't understand how you can be in the hospital for so long, dealing with all those wackos and doctors, and not understand how goddamn serious this all is!"
"Eff off, Roger!" I spin around to him and he actually takes a step back, which is so. Damn. Cool. "I was in the hospital be cause
you
put me there. And guess what?
I
was one of the wackos. So get the hell off my back!"
He stares at me. Still Pissed Off. But bleeding back into Sad, Tired. Because the truth hurts, bitch.
"You gave up the right to ask me questions when you locked me up somewhere for
other
people to ask me questions."
Ooh, to the gut! He deflates. He goes all guilty-looking. Easiest thing in the world, making him feel guilty. I'm pretty good at it.
"You can't blame me for that," he says, but there's no strength behind the words. None at all. "You were out of control."
"You got a phone call. A goddamn phone call. And you committed me."
"You have a history—"
"Of slitting my wrists, not blowing my head off."
Now he's fully in Sad, Tired. He's guilty. He's wondering if he's a Bad Dad.
I could go on, but there's no point. Right now, nothing I say—absolutely
nothing
—could be one-tenth as bad as what he's got scrolling through his brain. So I just look back at the crack, staring at it until he leaves.
The Dreaming
I HAVE A DREAM SOMEONE IS touching me.
Not just, like, touching me on the shoulder or something. I mean
touching
me. Hands from behind, cupping my breasts, and for the first time in my life, I don't mind them. For the first time in my life, I
like
that they're big. The weight of them—the heft—feels good in someone else's hands.
Lips touch the back of my neck. The side of my neck. My collarbone. Oh, God—I'm naked. I just realized it. I'm totally naked. And someone is behind me, arms wrapped around, lips on my skin, hands on my breasts and now moving down, down, and God oh God I didn't know. I didn't know—
It's Jecca. I know her lips. Oh. Jecca. I turn. Turn to see her. To kiss her.
But it's not Jecca.
It's not a
her
at all.
Twenty-two
I WAKE UP. N OT A HER . Oh. Shit. Shit and goddamn. What the hell is
wrong
with me?
I lie there in bed, confused, messed up, effed up. My breath is coming too
"Did you really have a bullet? Or was it just a prank call? Because he sounded really worried and really convincing to me. I need to know who it was. The police will want to talk to him, and I want to at least talk to his parents."
The police ...
There's
a thought. But no—Fanboy would just say I stole the bullet and I could lie and say he gave it to me, but it would be his word against mine and he's a goody-goody, so they would believe him and not me.
"Do you have any idea what I went through? Hanging up the phone? Rushing out of work, driving home at a hundred miles an hour, thinking you'd be ... you'd be
dead?
"
Yeah, I know. I know because he told me over and over again when he sent me away, and then he told me again every time he came to visit.
"You owe me an explanation."
No, I don't. I keep staring at the crack. I don't owe him anything. I'm allowed to have my secrets.
Just like Fanboy has his. His "third thing." He told me that there were three things in the world that he wanted more than anything. Three, OK? One, two, three. And then he only told me two of them.
And when I asked about the third, he lied and said he meant there were only two, so I kept at him and he admitted there was a third, but he wouldn't tell me what it was.
The thing he wants more than
anything else in the world.
And he wouldn't tell me. Bastard.
I told him
everything.
Even when I lied, I was telling him something.
"Kyra, goddammit!" Into hard-core Pissed Off. I can always count on Roger.
Staring at the crack. Wondering where it came from. It was just
there
one day, like it had always been there. I don't remember doing something to cause it. It's like the world just decided to break right there, right on my windowsill.
"I don't understand how you can be in the hospital for so long, dealing with all those wackos and doctors, and not understand how goddamn serious this all is!"
"Eff off, Roger!" I spin around to him and he actually takes a step back, which is so. Damn. Cool. "I was in the hospital be cause
you
put me there. And guess what?
I
was one of the wackos. So get the hell off my back!"
He stares at me. Still Pissed Off. But bleeding back into Sad, Tired. Because the truth hurts, bitch.
"You gave up the right to ask me questions when you locked me up somewhere for
other
people to ask me questions."
Ooh, to the gut! He deflates. He goes all guilty-looking. Easiest thing in the world, making him feel guilty. I'm pretty good at it.
"You can't blame me for that," he says, but there's no strength behind the words. None at all. "You were out of control."
"You got a phone call. A goddamn phone call. And you committed me."
"You have a history—"
"Of slitting my wrists, not blowing my head off."
Now he's fully in Sad, Tired. He's guilty. He's wondering if he's a Bad Dad.
I could go on, but there's no point. Right now, nothing I say—absolutely
nothing
—could be one-tenth as bad as what he's got scrolling through his brain. So I just look back at the crack, staring at it until he leaves.
The Dreaming
I HAVE A DREAM SOMEONE IS touching me.
Not just, like, touching me on the shoulder or something. I mean
touching
me. Hands from behind, cupping my breasts, and for the first time in my life, I don't mind them. For the first time in my life, I
like
that they're big. The weight of them—the heft—feels good in someone else's hands.
Lips touch the back of my neck. The side of my neck. My collarbone. Oh, God—I'm naked. I just realized it. I'm totally naked. And someone is behind me, arms wrapped around, lips on my skin, hands on my breasts and now moving down, down, and God oh God I didn't know. I didn't know—
It's Jecca. I know her lips. Oh. Jecca. I turn. Turn to see her. To kiss her.
But it's not Jecca.
It's not a
her
at all.
Twenty-two
I WAKE UP. N OT A HER . Oh. Shit. Shit and goddamn. What the hell is
wrong
with me?
I lie there in bed, confused, messed up, effed up. My breath is coming too
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