thoughtfully. He dog-ears the page he’s reading. “What did it say?”
“You can read it for yourself.” I take the letter out of my back pocket and hand it to him. The sleeve of my hoodie pulls back, revealing the edge of my Ace bandage.
“Your wrist,” he says quickly, as if the bandage might vanish if he didn’t say he saw it.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” My heart pounds in my ears, my cheeks burn red.
“What happened?” he asks. “Is it sprained?”
“Don’t you want to read about how Clad is suffering in prison?”
“What did she do?” He holds my wrist firmly in his hand and pushes back my sleeve.
“She didn’t,” I say.
I have never been able to hear the pounding of my heart so clearly.
Spencer unravels the bandage.
“Stop,” I squeak. “ Don’t .”
He’s coming to the end of it, soon the bloody gauze will show and he’ll see what I’ve done to myself. His grip is tight, so tight it hurts. He pulls away the gauze, and then the angry red line is in both our faces.
“I told you not to.”
“You cut yourself?” he says, throwing my wrist at me in disgust.
“I was so upset…” Blood trickles out, the pressure gone that was holding it in. “I wanted to stop hurting, but I just made the pain more real.”
Spencer gets up and walks into the back room. He crosses his arms and chews on his thumb nail, thinking deep thoughts. Hoarder thoughts .
“You really outdid yourself this time, Bailey.”
Chapter 7
I put my hoodie up and draw the strings, until they can’t be pulled anymore. I look like Kenny from South Park. Pulling the sleeves over both my hands, I pinch them closed. If I’m wound up tight enough in my oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, maybe Spencer won’t even see me.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I couldn’t go chameleon fast enough.
I want to sink into the walls, sink into the floor, and sink right out of sight. Through the small hole of my tightened hoodie, I can see his ripped, faded jeans and the tops of his black and white Converse.
He puts his hand on my knee and I shake it off. A sob is trying to escape me, but I refuse to let it.
“Is it me, is it the drugs? Your mom? Clad? Why, Bailey?”
Don’t sob. Don’t break. Sink, sink, sink.
“Speak to me!” Spencer says. “Damnit, Bailey!” He pushes my hood back.
A sob comes tearing out of me. Spencer lifts the blood stained hoodie over my head. Breaking my arms apart he puts them around his neck, embracing me. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore,” he says into my hair.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” I sob.
“It’s okay, baby,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”
“Clad’s upset I didn’t see him…” Another sob rolls through me. “And he hates me.”
“Shhh,” Spencer says. “He doesn’t hate you. No one could hate you.” His breath on my scalp sends warm shivers down my spine, my crying gives over. “I’ll sing.”
His lips move and his diaphragm fills with air, and then hot like a dry, summer breeze, his breath blows on the top of my head again.
His song tells the story of a bird caught in a trap and how it longs to be free. The bird tries to escape by pulling on its wings, but they snag on metal teeth and he becomes more imprisoned.
By the end of Spencer’s song, the bird has given up hope; he’s dying when a child finds him and sets him free. He flies into the sun, through puffy white clouds, past airplanes, joining other flocks of birds.
My head is resting on Spencer’s knees. “That’s lovely,” I say, my voice subdued. The Vicodin has made me too sleepy to speak.
“You’re not trapped,” he says. “Clad set you free. He’s given you hope.”
I stop thinking about the song and about my naked back, visible through glass doors. My tears, Spencer’s tears, and my cut, dripping red on the grey store carpet.
Red drops of blood sinking into carpet. Like me – sink, sink, sinking with the Vicodin - six little pieces of heaven swirling inside my
“You can read it for yourself.” I take the letter out of my back pocket and hand it to him. The sleeve of my hoodie pulls back, revealing the edge of my Ace bandage.
“Your wrist,” he says quickly, as if the bandage might vanish if he didn’t say he saw it.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” My heart pounds in my ears, my cheeks burn red.
“What happened?” he asks. “Is it sprained?”
“Don’t you want to read about how Clad is suffering in prison?”
“What did she do?” He holds my wrist firmly in his hand and pushes back my sleeve.
“She didn’t,” I say.
I have never been able to hear the pounding of my heart so clearly.
Spencer unravels the bandage.
“Stop,” I squeak. “ Don’t .”
He’s coming to the end of it, soon the bloody gauze will show and he’ll see what I’ve done to myself. His grip is tight, so tight it hurts. He pulls away the gauze, and then the angry red line is in both our faces.
“I told you not to.”
“You cut yourself?” he says, throwing my wrist at me in disgust.
“I was so upset…” Blood trickles out, the pressure gone that was holding it in. “I wanted to stop hurting, but I just made the pain more real.”
Spencer gets up and walks into the back room. He crosses his arms and chews on his thumb nail, thinking deep thoughts. Hoarder thoughts .
“You really outdid yourself this time, Bailey.”
Chapter 7
I put my hoodie up and draw the strings, until they can’t be pulled anymore. I look like Kenny from South Park. Pulling the sleeves over both my hands, I pinch them closed. If I’m wound up tight enough in my oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, maybe Spencer won’t even see me.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I couldn’t go chameleon fast enough.
I want to sink into the walls, sink into the floor, and sink right out of sight. Through the small hole of my tightened hoodie, I can see his ripped, faded jeans and the tops of his black and white Converse.
He puts his hand on my knee and I shake it off. A sob is trying to escape me, but I refuse to let it.
“Is it me, is it the drugs? Your mom? Clad? Why, Bailey?”
Don’t sob. Don’t break. Sink, sink, sink.
“Speak to me!” Spencer says. “Damnit, Bailey!” He pushes my hood back.
A sob comes tearing out of me. Spencer lifts the blood stained hoodie over my head. Breaking my arms apart he puts them around his neck, embracing me. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore,” he says into my hair.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” I sob.
“It’s okay, baby,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”
“Clad’s upset I didn’t see him…” Another sob rolls through me. “And he hates me.”
“Shhh,” Spencer says. “He doesn’t hate you. No one could hate you.” His breath on my scalp sends warm shivers down my spine, my crying gives over. “I’ll sing.”
His lips move and his diaphragm fills with air, and then hot like a dry, summer breeze, his breath blows on the top of my head again.
His song tells the story of a bird caught in a trap and how it longs to be free. The bird tries to escape by pulling on its wings, but they snag on metal teeth and he becomes more imprisoned.
By the end of Spencer’s song, the bird has given up hope; he’s dying when a child finds him and sets him free. He flies into the sun, through puffy white clouds, past airplanes, joining other flocks of birds.
My head is resting on Spencer’s knees. “That’s lovely,” I say, my voice subdued. The Vicodin has made me too sleepy to speak.
“You’re not trapped,” he says. “Clad set you free. He’s given you hope.”
I stop thinking about the song and about my naked back, visible through glass doors. My tears, Spencer’s tears, and my cut, dripping red on the grey store carpet.
Red drops of blood sinking into carpet. Like me – sink, sink, sinking with the Vicodin - six little pieces of heaven swirling inside my
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