M.I.N.D. by Elissa Harris

fake-patient voice. “You’re supposed to come home right after school, not go wandering off God-knows-where with your friend. You know how I feel about teenagers driving. What about that accident on Canton Hill Road? That little girl died today. It was just on the news. Rose, her name was. Poor little Rose, only three years old, her life cut short by a senseless hit-and-run.”
    â€œAre you saying it was a teenager who was driving?” I’d heard about the hit-and-run, and I’m really sorry about that little girl, but sometimes my mother’s logic totally evades me. “Did they actually say that on the news? Did the girl’s parents identify him?”
    â€œWell, no. It happened so fast, and they were knocked out on impact. But the police are saying it was a stolen car. Apparently, it was taken from the parking lot of that snobby country club. The driver abandoned it after the accident. It was a Porsche,” she adds, like that explains everything.
    â€œRight. So that automatically means the thief was a teenager.”
    She flushes. “All I’m saying is that the roads in this area aren’t safe. Too many twists and turns, not to mention that two-lane highway. You kids can’t handle them.”
    Again, totally illogical. “Mom. How are we supposed to get experience if we’re not allowed to drive?”
    â€œI’m talking about maturity, Cassie.”
    â€œYou’re right,” I say, and tune her out. How many times do I have to hear this?
    I head upstairs to work on my essay for Mr. Greene. I fire up my laptop and punch in the heading, “WHY YOU SHOULDN’T BREAK THE RULES.” Then I key in, “Reason #1: Your mother will drive you crazy.” I think for a moment, then enter, “Reason #2: So you won’t have to write an essay on why you shouldn’t break the rules.” Then I delete it all. I rest my hands on the keyboard and let my mind wander. Oreo lets out a grunt from the top of my dresser, and I remember the locket stashed in my drawer.
    Maybe there’s an inscription inside, or a photograph. I go over to the dresser, take out the locket, pry it open. Inside is a picture of a single red rose. I scrape it out with my nail. There’s nothing underneath, nothing engraved in the metal. No name, no date, no initials. I turn the picture over. Not a mark there either. It slips through my fingers and flutters to the floor. I pick it up, then gently replace it in its cradle.
    Poor little Rose.
    For the second time today, I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. But this time the feeling is mine.

Five
    My Mother, My Self
    It’s Tuesday after school and I’m at my desk, staring at my laptop. I’m trying to come up with ideas for my presentation while simultaneously reminding myself why I decided to take psychology in the first place. Here’s what I have so far (reasons, not ideas):
1. I heard from Leanne, who heard from Josh, who used to work with Zack at the country club, that Zack had signed up for the class. He probably thought it was an easy A. Apparently so did Brendan. He was the first in line.
2. See Reason #1, the part about it being an easy A. I was wrong.
3. I thought it would meet my science requirement. It doesn’t. Turns out I need something hardcore like biology. Hence the frog-dissecting in first period.
4. I thought figuring out why people do the things they do would be fun. And it is, except for these presentations. I hate speaking in public. Everyone stares at me like I’m about to go off like a shorted-out toaster.
    â€œIt’s hopeless,” I tell Leanne. “My mind’s a blank.”
    She’s in her usual spot on the floor, leaning on her elbow, examining the locket. “That’s because you’re not organized,” she says, fiddling with the clasp. “I bet you didn’t even start on your social studies paper yet. I handed mine in on