bottom, and the hole beneath my skate was filling up with water.
“You can never tell anyone,” she said, and she made me blood promise, so I knew it was serious. I picked a scab, and she squeezed her chapped lips, and we mixed the blood together with the tips of our fingers.
She looked at me, trying to decide if she could trust me. Yet her face was like a shiny tight balloon dying to burst with the news. “I . . .”
“What?” I asked her. I had no idea what could possibly be so hard to tell me. It had to be big.
“Maybe I should show you first,” she said. “Get up.” She held her hand out to me and hoisted me off the ice. It was like a cold desert out there. Or the moon. Everything was gray, white, and black. Like an Ansel Adams photo turned on its side. A strong breeze skimmed over the surface of the ice, blowing the snow into new shape-shifting formations. Still holding my hand, Zoe skated with me over the smooth black part of the lake—our scraping skates sounded like someone sharpening knives at Thanksgiving—until we got to the gray, opaque bumpy part. It was difficult to keep your balance over the bumps, but Zoe and I were expert lake-skaters, practicing pretend Olympic freestyle routines for hours at a time every weekend.
“Can you see it?” Zoe asked. We skated around in a bumpy circle following what seemed like the tracks of a snowmobile that had done a 360. It was the shape of an enormous bumpy snowflake.
“Snowmobile tracks?” I asked.
“No. Something else.”
“What?” I had known from experience that this was probably just clumps of snow that had frozen in place on the ice.
“A spaceship,” she said. “And I met them.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The extraterrestrials. They taught me their language and told me they’d come back.”
“When?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Zoe said, looking toward the sky. We heard a big thud and boom then—the sound of the ice shifting at the fault line beneath the lake. It sounded like God cracking his knuckles.
It was after that day that everyone noticed some changes in Zoe. She couldn’t control her impulses, and there was a lot of lashing out in school. She would forget where she was and speak out of turn. Teachers couldn’t control her. She took a lot of risks. Jumping off her roof and onto her trampoline. Stealing her mother’s car. Hooking up with boys while the rest of us were still playing Barbies. She felt invincible and superhuman sometimes and just acted on it. She thought she knew more about everything than anyone. I was her only friend.
But then she’d come crashing down. When she realized she wasn’t who she thought she was, she’d get so ashamed. Her self-worth would plummet. She’d go on long crying jags and wouldn’t want to leave the house.
To help her, I shared my Pippi idea. It was very simple.
If she was feeling too much like Pippi Longstocking—thoughts racing, larger than life, egotistical, invincible, frenzied—if she was feeling these things, she’d wear short stockings (socks), reminding her to slow down. She’d actually move in slow motion like she was doing tai chi or walking through water, but to everyone else she seemed to move at a normal pace. She trained herself to talk more slowly during these times, one word at a time, so that she was understood.
If I saw the short stockings, I’d remind her that she couldn’t
really
pick up a horse. She couldn’t
really
jump out of a moving car. She’s human. Not superhuman. If she didn’t recognize a Pippi episode coming on, and I noticed it before her, I would hand her some short socks that I always kept in my backpack.
When she was feeling the opposite, depressed and imagining dark scenarios that were far from the truth, when she felt like cement was filling her veins and she could barely get out of bed, she’d put on long socks, reminding her to be more like Pippi.
I’d see the long stockings and know to cheer her up. I’d remind her that
“You can never tell anyone,” she said, and she made me blood promise, so I knew it was serious. I picked a scab, and she squeezed her chapped lips, and we mixed the blood together with the tips of our fingers.
She looked at me, trying to decide if she could trust me. Yet her face was like a shiny tight balloon dying to burst with the news. “I . . .”
“What?” I asked her. I had no idea what could possibly be so hard to tell me. It had to be big.
“Maybe I should show you first,” she said. “Get up.” She held her hand out to me and hoisted me off the ice. It was like a cold desert out there. Or the moon. Everything was gray, white, and black. Like an Ansel Adams photo turned on its side. A strong breeze skimmed over the surface of the ice, blowing the snow into new shape-shifting formations. Still holding my hand, Zoe skated with me over the smooth black part of the lake—our scraping skates sounded like someone sharpening knives at Thanksgiving—until we got to the gray, opaque bumpy part. It was difficult to keep your balance over the bumps, but Zoe and I were expert lake-skaters, practicing pretend Olympic freestyle routines for hours at a time every weekend.
“Can you see it?” Zoe asked. We skated around in a bumpy circle following what seemed like the tracks of a snowmobile that had done a 360. It was the shape of an enormous bumpy snowflake.
“Snowmobile tracks?” I asked.
“No. Something else.”
“What?” I had known from experience that this was probably just clumps of snow that had frozen in place on the ice.
“A spaceship,” she said. “And I met them.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The extraterrestrials. They taught me their language and told me they’d come back.”
“When?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Zoe said, looking toward the sky. We heard a big thud and boom then—the sound of the ice shifting at the fault line beneath the lake. It sounded like God cracking his knuckles.
It was after that day that everyone noticed some changes in Zoe. She couldn’t control her impulses, and there was a lot of lashing out in school. She would forget where she was and speak out of turn. Teachers couldn’t control her. She took a lot of risks. Jumping off her roof and onto her trampoline. Stealing her mother’s car. Hooking up with boys while the rest of us were still playing Barbies. She felt invincible and superhuman sometimes and just acted on it. She thought she knew more about everything than anyone. I was her only friend.
But then she’d come crashing down. When she realized she wasn’t who she thought she was, she’d get so ashamed. Her self-worth would plummet. She’d go on long crying jags and wouldn’t want to leave the house.
To help her, I shared my Pippi idea. It was very simple.
If she was feeling too much like Pippi Longstocking—thoughts racing, larger than life, egotistical, invincible, frenzied—if she was feeling these things, she’d wear short stockings (socks), reminding her to slow down. She’d actually move in slow motion like she was doing tai chi or walking through water, but to everyone else she seemed to move at a normal pace. She trained herself to talk more slowly during these times, one word at a time, so that she was understood.
If I saw the short stockings, I’d remind her that she couldn’t
really
pick up a horse. She couldn’t
really
jump out of a moving car. She’s human. Not superhuman. If she didn’t recognize a Pippi episode coming on, and I noticed it before her, I would hand her some short socks that I always kept in my backpack.
When she was feeling the opposite, depressed and imagining dark scenarios that were far from the truth, when she felt like cement was filling her veins and she could barely get out of bed, she’d put on long socks, reminding her to be more like Pippi.
I’d see the long stockings and know to cheer her up. I’d remind her that
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