Grief Girl by Erin Vincent

and I like to act stupid at every opportunity. It makes school more interesting. Her nickname is Speck. I don’t know how it started except to say she looks like a tiny speck. She’s even shorter than me, which is saying something. She’s as skinny as can be, with a face that’s round and square at the same time, and her short brown hair has curls that go every which way. Her forehead’s so high you could write a story on it.
    Julie’s the smartest person I know. I walk away from a situation thinking of all the things I could have said, but not Julie. She walks away relishing the things she
did
say. She’s quick and she makes me laugh, which I think I’ll be needing a lot of now. She’s probably the reason I can even think of getting through today.
    I’m walking with my friends along the beige corridors, on the beige linoleum floor, from class to class. I’m in a daze and don’t really hear anything the teachers say. I just copy down what they write on the blackboard and keep to myself. Except in science. My teacher, Mrs. Stockbridge, welcomes me back with a hug and gives me a warm smile. She makes everything seem like it might be manageable.
    I try not to think bad thoughts. I absolutely must not cry. I don’t want people to think I’m weak. But I am. I cry in economics and geography. I hate these subjects, so maybe that has something to do with it. Who cares about money and rocks at a time like this?
    Tracy and Trent are picking me up from school so we can drive straight to the hospital to see Dad.
    The VW Beetle is in the school parking lot and everyone looks at it, not because it’s the grief girl’s car but because it’s so cool you can’t
not
look at it. I feel proud to walk toward it. It’s like saying, “Yeah, my mother’s dead, but I’m no loser.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    I didn’t really notice this before, but the hospital Dad is in is like a five-star hotel.
    When we walk in, I try to pretend I actually
am
in a five-star hotel.
    I’m waltzing down the rust-colored carpeted corridor. I’m not in a hospital. I’m off to my penthouse suite—although the smell makes the lie more difficult to believe. And then I see Dad. He looks disgusting. Not like a hotel guest in a plush bathrobe. Sure, he’s now in a room by himself, but he’s wearing a paper hospital gown. His crushed legs are under a blanket. I don’t know why they leave that caked-on blood around his head. It looks like the almost-black red color of my nails. I decide to change my nail polish as soon as I get home.
    Lies we tell Dad:
    â€œYou look so much better today.”
    â€œWe’re doing great.”
    â€œDon’t worry about Trent. He’s fine.”
    â€œOh, I’m back at school and it’s going really well, actually.”
    I wonder what happens to Dad when we’re not around. What does he go through? He never lets us know.
    One nurse told us he cries all day. She said he cries hardest in the bathroom. The nurse knows because she has to take him there. He can’t move his legs. Apparently, when he’s sitting on the special seat in the shower, she can hear his sobs over the sound of the rushing water. I don’t know why she thought we needed to know this.
    Dad feels so guilty.
    â€œI’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he sobs over and over again. “It’s all my fault. She didn’t want to cross the road. She didn’t want to go to the fruit stand. She said, ‘No, Ron, let’s just get home.’ But I got angry and made her.”
    I’m not going to cry even though my eyes are getting that hot feeling. I’ve got to be positive for Dad.
    â€œYou have nothing to be sorry for, Dad,” I say, but he won’t stop crying and apologizing.
    He doesn’t realize yet that the accident was my fault. I made it happen by thinking it. I only wish I