Thursday

Thursday

I wake up early to the sound of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. Ricci's still asleep, so I tiptoe past her. I make a quick stop in the bathroom to pee and to check the NyQuil supply under the counter. It's low, but enough to tide me over, I think. I rub the edge of the sink. Possibly, since it's a holiday, I can convince my dad to let me have some wine or a beer. I'm betting Vanessa brought some wine. Or if I can get them out of the kitchen somehow, I can snag that bottle of rum. If he notices, I'll just say I was looking for something and it broke.

I brush my teeth, head into the kitchen.

Vanessa and Dad are in their pajamas, surrounded by boxes and cans and bunches of broccoli and carrots and a giant hunk of meat in a pan. Vanessa has the cookbook propped open on the counter. They look flustered. Sometimes it still throws me when I see them together, doing things, like a couple. Dad always seems happier with Vanessa than he did with Mom. He touches her more. He and Mom just seemed like the walking dead at the end, lurching around the house in slow motion, silent and disheveled.

"You know, this really isn't a great day, historically speaking," I tell them. "I mean, I don't know if you have to go to huge trouble to make a giant meal that basically celebrates genocide."

"This is true," Vanessa says, holding up a finger. "Mostly, I'm thinking of this day as a day off from work in which I can expand my culinary skills beyond macaroni and cheese and toast."

My dad rubs his face sleepily. "What she said," he says. "You want to help?"

I hesitate. If I help, is that betraying my mom in some way? Pretending to be family without her? But if I don't help, am I hurting my dad's feelings by not stepping into this new life he seems to have suddenly created? This is so incredibly tiring, learning new routines all the time because of the divorce. One week here, one week there, better remember all the clothes you want to take, and oh, by the way, one year it's Christmas here and the next it's there, and oh, right, did I mention I'm bringing my girlfriend to our family holiday? Like, you know, occupying the space your mother used to take up?

I think of my mom in our house, alone. Probably finishing a show script before going to Agnes's house. Watching television, maybe. I wonder if she's thinking of us over here, together without her. I mean, what does she do when we aren't there?

"You don't have to," Vanessa says cheerily. "Me, I always slept in when I was your age. I won't be offended if you go back to bed."

My dad catches my eye. He ducks his head a little. This means he wants me to help. To spend time with him and Vanessa. Be nice.

"I guess I could chop something," I say finally. "I'm pretty good at chopping."

"Great!" my dad says, clapping his hands together. He gathers some broccoli, carrots, and onions and puts them on the breakfast bar, then hands me a knife and the cutting board.

I start chopping everything into tiny pieces and scooping the bits into bowls.

Dad's staring at me.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing," he says. "I just realized. You're not wearing any makeup. I hardly ever see you without all the…goop." He makes this wavy gesture across his face.

A flush creeps over my cheeks. "So?" My voice is kind of sharp.

"It's nice," my dad says.

"Are you saying my makeup is ugly?" I ask.

"No," my dad says slowly. "My daughter is beautiful with or without makeup. It's just, maybe you don't need so much. It's a little dramatic."

"It's my face," I say. "I can do what I want with it."

From behind him, Vanessa says, "Dan, how about getting the roast in? Kind of busy with these potatoes at the moment."

The air feels tense. My dad hesitates, then turns around and starts prepping the meat. I put down my knife. "I'm going to take a shower."

—

I make sure to put on extra eyeliner after my shower, just because. And to take a few gulps of the cough medicine under the counter.

This is going to be a long day.

—

I'm getting dressed in our bedroom, pleasantly numbed by the NyQuil, when Ricci wakes up. She looks at me blearily and sits up. "Are we late?" she asks sleepily. There's some dried drool on her cheek.

"No," I say. "Food won't be ready for a bit. You want some cereal?"

She gets out of her bunk.

"No," she says. "I mean for Agnes." She starts putting things in her backpack, stuff she likes to take on car rides, like her tablet and earbuds and markers and drawing book.

"Ricci," I say, the realization dawning on me that no one told her we aren't going to Agnes's this year, "we're…we're staying here."

She shakes her head. "We always go to Agnes's house. The Fabulous Band is there. Mommy's there."

Oh, no. No.

Ricci stares at me, then dashes from the room. I follow her.

She runs right in the kitchen, plants her hands on her hips. "Daddy, it's time to go to Agnes's house. I want to go to Agnes's house."

My dad's put a flowered apron on over his pajamas. He's holding a bowl of mashed potatoes in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks at Ricci, then me, panic slowly creasing his face. Vanessa turns from the stove.

"You didn't tell her?" he says to me.

"Me? Dad, you should have told her."

"Daddy!" Ricci shouts. She stomps her bare feet on the kitchen floor. "We always go to Agnes's. Let's go, Daddy, now. "

Vanessa kneels down in front of Ricci. "Oh, honey, we have a nice meal here, see? It'll be ready in a few hours. Then maybe we can go to the park. Or to a movie. I used to love to see movies on the holidays when I was little."

Ricci starts sobbing. The Fabulous Band. My chickens. I want to see Agnes and my chickens.

"Oh, honey," Vanessa says helplessly.

Ricci suddenly reaches out and pinches Vanessa, hard, on the arm.

Vanessa yelps, standing up and holding her arm.

The bowl of mashed potatoes drops from Dad's hands and shatters on the floor. He slams his beer on the counter.

"It's you," Ricci chokes out. "It's your fault I can't go see my chickens."

"Goddammit, Ricci, what is wrong with you?" our dad shouts, grabbing her thin shoulders with both hands.

"Dan," Vanessa says sharply. She's rubbing her arm where Ricci pinched her.

"Dad," I say, trying to wrestle Ricci out of his grip. "Stop. Just stop. She didn't mean it."

He holds on and Ricci wiggles. My dad says, "Jesus Christ, Bella. You and your mother. You couldn't have told her?"

"It's not my freaking job, Dad, it's yours. Let go of her."

Ricci is like a tug-of-war rope between us and then she suddenly squeals and goes limp.

There's blood on the floor. My dad releases her and Ricci sinks to the floor, wailing, holding her foot.

I bend down, take her foot in my hand, pick out a piece of broken bowl. "I hope you're happy now, Dad. Oh, wait, let me fix this for you, like I do everything." I'm so mad I can barely feel it as I pick Ricci up and carry her to the bathroom, her arms wrapped around my neck. I kick the toilet seat down with my foot and set her on it gently. Then I slam the bathroom door shut as hard as I can and lock it.

Ricci is hiccup-sobbing. I dampen a washcloth and dab her foot with it.

"It's okay," I tell her. "Look, it's not deep. Just a little cut. You can pick the Band-Aid, okay?"

I rummage inside the cabinet, hoping there's a stray Band-Aid in there somewhere.

Outside the door, I can hear the scraping of the broom and dustpan across the kitchen floor, my dad and Vanessa talking in low tones.

"Did you hear her? Do you see the way she speaks to me?" he says. "I don't understand her."

"Well, you could have told Ricci, Dan. I would have been okay with them going to that farm, or whatever it is."

"I deserve to have a life, too, Vanessa. They have to understand that."

Great. Maybe now Vanessa and Dad are going to go at it like Mom and Dad used to. I thought we were done with all that, but I guess not.

I grit my teeth as I hand Ricci a Band-Aid and watch her peel off the protective layer and gently lay the bandage across the cut on her foot.

I get a fresh washcloth and wipe her damp face.

"I'm sorry we aren't going to Agnes's this time," I tell her, stroking her hair. "Next year we will. That's how it happens, remember? Now we trade holidays every year. One year we have Thanksgiving with Dad, the next year with Mom. Same for Christmas. Our birthdays. This year we'll be with Mom for Christmas, next year Dad."

"I don't like it," she whispers, rubbing her pajama bottoms. "It's too much to remember."

"I know."

Her face crinkles. "I hurt Vanessa." She bites her lip.

"You did. But you were mad and didn't know what to do, so you did that."

She nods.

"She will hate me now."

"No," I say firmly, rubbing her hands. "No, she won't. You can say you're sorry and I know one hundred percent she'll forgive you."

"I don't like our life," she says in a small voice.

A little bit of me breaks inside, hearing that.

I look at her tiny face, her messy hair, and give her a big hug, rubbing her back. "I know," I say. "I know. I don't, either."

—

I bring her back out, holding her hand. The kitchen floor is clean now and the roast smells nice, salted and garlicked and in the oven. My dad has a scowl on his face and won't look at me.

"Hey, girl. You okay?" Vanessa says.

Ricci looks at the ground. "I'm sorry."

Vanessa kneels down. "I accept your apology. Maybe no more pinching when we're upset, okay? Use our words?"

My sister nods.

"I bet you're pretty hungry, huh?"

She hands Ricci a bear-claw pastry. "Eat this. We have a few hours to go yet."

Ricci smiles, but kind of sadly, like she's worn out. She takes the bear claw and nibbles. Usually, she would wolf that thing down.

My dad says, "I don't want to see that again, okay, Ricci?" He's wiping his hands with a dish towel.

"Dad," I say. "Just drop it. She said she was sorry."

He looks at me long and hard. "This is my house," he says. "We live here now. Things are different. I need everyone to get that. Can you get that?"

"It's an apartment, not a house," Ricci whispers.

My dad stares at her. "It's just an expression. You don't have to be rude. I work very hard for what I have."

Vanessa is twisting the dish towel in her hands. I can feel my body tensing.

My brain says: Your dad's getting ramped up. You know how he gets.

My heart says: Be careful.

My dad looks tired. When did he start getting angry? Was it when Ricci was born? Before that, he always seemed happy, or maybe it was just me thinking that, because I was a kid and didn't know any better. But he played games with me and sang songs on his guitar and then it was like, one day, with diapers and bottles everywhere and my mom so tired with Ricci's crying, he just…changed. Got mad if I didn't clean up my toys quick enough. Got annoyed with me when I couldn't figure out a math problem, my mom in the next room, fussing with Ricci. So I started cleaning. All the time. Everything nice and neat. Toys away. Practiced my math even when I didn't need to so I would be better at it. Wouldn't need to bother him. I can do it, I'd tell him. I'm good at it now.

I feel like half my life has been spent smoothing things over.

"Is there something you want to say, Bella? You look like you have something to say."

I think I forgot about a lot of that. Dad's anger, way back then.

Ricci backs into me, pressing her spine against my legs, the nibbled bear claw snug in her fist. I stroke her hair.

And something in me breaks again as I think how Ricci said she doesn't like our life. She's too little to not like her life.

I don't like our life. My life.

All of a sudden, I just feel…lost. Defeated. Like all the blood has leaked from me. Like my bones have fluttered into dust. I tried so hard, all week, for everything, and got nothing. Just fucked up over and over and over again. And now this.

Vanessa clears her throat. "Let's all take a breath," she says.

"Bella." My dad's voice is loud. "Are you listening to me? Answer me."

"No," I say. "I don't have anything to say."

"Perfect," he says. "That sounds like heaven."

He turns away from me.

—

I stay in our bedroom with Ricci while she looks at cat videos.

I have to get out of here.

—

Dad and Vanessa have pulled the small round table into the middle of the kitchen. There are three regular chairs and one stool from the breakfast bar. Ricci sits on that. The roast and vegetables are on the counter. Vanessa makes the plates and sets them down. The edges of our plates touch since the table is so tiny. Vanessa ended up making macaroni and cheese for Ricci. We eat quietly. I make sure to tell Vanessa that everything is great, and it is, but it barely registers for me. I'm just mouthing the words. No one mentions the missing mashed potatoes or the broken bowl or the Band-Aid on Ricci's swinging foot. Dad drinks three beers and has two plates of food. Vanessa and Ricci make funny faces at each other. Dad finishes and goes to the front room, turning on football on the television. Stretches out on the couch, calls to me, "Bella, clean up. Vanessa did all the cooking. You can do something, too."

I do the dishes, waving Vanessa off. Put away the food. Wipe the table, push it back. Put the chairs back in place. Put the stool back by the breakfast bar. Make everything just so, like there was never a fight here, or an incident with a shattered bowl and a bloody foot. Vanessa gets dressed and takes Ricci to the park, lets her stay in her pajamas.

—

In my room, I climb onto my bunk and stare at the ceiling. I feelinside myself and outside myself all at once. I am not in a good place. I should stop my thoughts but I can't, my brain and my heart are fighting, like they always do, and one by one, all my failures flood back to me, like text floating by on PowerPoint slides and notecards, just like my stupid presentation forart:

Had a boyfriend.

He left because I was too much.

Got drunk and had a meltdown and cried in a bathtub at a party.

My grandmother died.

Amber hates me.

My mom is lonely and sad.

My dad is mad and sad.

My little sister is seven and already says she hates her life.

Cherie hates me.

I messed up the art project.

I didn't put myself in the tree.

I messed up my lit project.

Points off

Points off

Points off

Bella, do it

Bella, do it

Bella, do it

—

I pull out my phone.

Text Kristen. What r u doing

Hey!!!!!

Hey

I had a feeling you might ping me

…

You wanna go out

Okay. My dad's mad, tho, I don't know if he'll let me go

Ugh. Just tell him I broke up with my boyfriend orsomething

…

And that I'm crying

…

And you need to help me for a little while. Dads can't handle crying girls.

…

Okay

My dad is snoring softly on the couch. I push his shoulder a little. "Dad," I say. Then, louder, "Dad."

His eyes shoot open. "What? How long have I been sleeping?" He looks at the television. "Who's winning?"

"Dad, can I go to Kristen's? Her boyfriend broke up with her. She's really upset."

He blinks at me. He's confused.

"Kristen?" He asks. "Red-bow girl?" Unlike my mom, my dad likes Kristen. Says she has a "passion for life."

"Yeah. She's really upset. And crying."

"Oh, that's too bad," he says, rearranging the couch pillow under his head. "Okay. Sure. Wait, how are you getting there and back? I don't…I'm pretty tired. Where's Vanessa?"

He's buzzed from the beers.

"Vanessa is still at the park with Ricci. Kristen's coming to get me," I tell him. "I'll text you later."

He mumbles and closes his eyes.

I wait until his breathing gets heavy, then go into the kitchen, push a chair close to the counter, take the bottle of rum from the cabinet, and put it in my backpack.

I text Kristen.

Come get me

So Gucci

…

B there in 10

—

Kristen is with Lemon and Lemon's friend, who doesn't go to our school. He's got scraggly hair and black-rimmed glasses and seems older and doesn't say much, just looks at me in the rearview mirror as I slide into the back seat. He gives me that chin raise certain guys like to do, that one that means Yo. Why do they do that and not just say hello? I will never figure that out.

Lemon turns around. "Bellllllaaaaaaa. You broke your party probation."

Holds up his palm. I high-five him. His palm is sticky with something and I wipe my hand on my jeans.

"You got anything?" Kristen asks. "Man, my house was crazy. My mom has, like, twenty people there plus my relatives. They've been hitting it since they woke up."

I pull the bottle of rum out of my backpack and hand it to her. "Sweet," she crows, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. She hands it to Lemon, who holds it out to his friend, who waves it off. He's got a joint in his hand, though. I don't know whether to be relieved about that or not. Maybe if things get too weird later Kristen and I can Uber home.

Lemon hands the bottle back to me and I take a drink.

I decide not to think about anything. About my promise to Amber. My parents. My grades. Any of it. I'm going to make it all go away. Dull it down. Chop it up. Erase it. For a little while.

Bella, I tell myself. Bella, do it.

And I do.

—

Lemon's friend's car is dirty. Polar Pup cups rolling around in the back seat, moldy fast-food wrappers stuck to the floor. Lemon lights up a joint and passes it to his friend. The stereo is too loud, so I put on my headphones and listen to my own music. We drive around. The thing at Killian's isn't until later, I think. Kristen was vague when I asked her earlier and said we were just going to chill for a while.

I don't know where we're going. We're just driving around aimlessly. Sound of the engine. Music. Nothing hurting. I slide down in my seat, my body a pool of relaxation.

I take the joint when Lemon's friend holds it toward the back seat, because why not? What does it matter? It doesn't matter that I'm breaking the rules, because I don't care anymore. I've never actually smoked pot before and it tastes weird and I cough but all I want to do is feel numb.

I imagine everything I am inside now as a weird sandwich: the NyQuil on the bottom, the rum in the middle, and the weed on top, an odd green top to the sandwich. I giggle. Then Kristen giggles at my giggle and then we're full-on laughing.

My phone buzzes. Amber.

Hey you, she's typed. What are you doing?

My brain says: Lie to her.

My heart says: Oh, Bella. Not again.

Happy turkey day, I type.

I start giggling and I can't stop.

Type: gobble gobble

Funny, she types back.

…

I miss u. Hope u r ok, she types.

I'm good, I type. Fine

Talk 2 u later

I send her an emoji of a turkey and Kristen looks and laughs so hard tears come out of her eyes.

—

Lemon's friend drives us to eegee's. He and Lemon scrounge around for money in the console. Kristen gives them some crumpled bills. They get Skinny Berries and grinders and we park in the lot and they pour the rum in the slushies and I listen to them all eat and slurp and giggle and I'm high and drunk at the same time, I think. Everything is simultaneously amplified and dulled. My phone buzzes and it's my mom Hi Agnes says hello and I type tell her hello back and my mother types Are you having a nice day and I type yes very good I miss you because I do miss her and she types Can I talk to Ricci and I don't even feel nervous or anything I just text back She fell asleep early from all that food and we took her to the park because my mom will never call my dad to ask to talk to Ricci, he hates it when she does that, so she goes through me and just like I thought, my mom is all Oh that's good she probably needs sleep and I type Yeah and she types What are you up to and I text back Oh just watching a movie and she types Okay sounds good and I type how is the farm and I see the little dots appear and disappear and then she's all Hard. Lonely and I know she's talking about my grandmother and a sudden wave of longing and missing swells up inside me and I press the letters on my phone but I can't find the right combination of words to type I'm sorry I couldn't save her because that's not something we ever talked about, how I found her on the brick walkway on the set of particular bricks that I do not walk on anymore, and my heart hurts so much right now and my eyes are getting full. Kristen says Girl, what's going on and I manage to type Okay bye before Lemon's friend suddenly throws his grinder wrapper out his window and starts the car and presses the gas so quickly I lurch forward and my phone slips from my hands and smacks the back of Lemon's seat in front of me and we're off again.

—

Driving, driving. Up over Pantano Wash. Farther than I've been in a long time. Windows down. Cold air. Hard and angry music. How can Lemon and his friend even hear each other talk? But they do. They're talking about something. Lemon's friend keeps looking back at me in the rearview mirror. The streets are quiet, barely any cars, because everyone is inside somewhere, eating or watching football or arguing or drinking like we are and the only other people out are the ones who have nowhere to go, trudging along with their tarped-up shopping carts or sleeping in doorways, mounds of blankets piled on, panting dogs by their sides. Everyone is so lonely.

"True that," Lemon's friend says, meeting my eyes in the rearview.

Did I say that out loud? I guess I said that out loud. I feel like a roller coaster inside. Up and down. Up and down. Twist and turn.

"It's a dog-eat-dog world out there," Lemon shouts.

Kristen says, "Woof," and laughs and laughs.

My inside roller coaster takes a sharp turn and things get dim, like when clouds suddenly block the sun.

—

Kristen is pushing me and says, "Killian's. Wake up," and I didn't realize I fell asleep. It's dark now. We crunch across a gravel driveway to a brick house pulsing with music. Older kids, maybe college? Some kids from school. Kristen takes my hand and hers is very warm. She seems nervous. Should I be nervous, too? There are a lot of bodies here. Everyone bumping into each other. Keg in the corner. Red cups. The overhead kitchen light is very bright. Feel dizzy from that sleep. Need to wake up. Cold beer. That will wake me up. Nice in my throat. Kristen lets go of my hand and she bounces up and down, up and down, red matte lipstick glowing, red-bowed ponytails flying up, down, up, down. She's not nervous anymore, her red cup in her hand. She has a passion for life.

—

Lemon's friend has a gray tooth. How do you get a gray tooth? I wish he'd stop smiling at me, because all I can focus on is that gray tooth. I think he is much older than us, now that I'm so close to him. Like, not in high school at all. He's sweaty. Hot in here. He grabs my cup, pours something brown in it. It tastes sweet and sickly at the same time, like over-sugared Coke, but down, down, down it goes because you can't drown unless you let go. Lemon's friend's hand creeps around the small of my back. He smiles at me, that gray tooth like a stone in his mouth.

I angle away from him.

—

Drinking is good because you can be someone else. Not lonely. Not quiet. Not on the edges of things. Someone says I love your eyes and I say Thank you and they keep talking and I keep answering and see I can be normal. Just a girl at a party. Normal. Drinking gives you a voice and a person to be. Adds color to what was just plain and ugly.

—

Whose house is this and where are we? Why are there so many kids here on Thanksgiving? Maybe their parents don't love them, either. Maybe their parents are too busy all the time. Maybe their parents are drunk, too, right now. All those talks they give you in school. In one ear and out the other. You matter. You belong. It's a lie. If we mattered or belonged we would not be here right now, smoking and drinking and getting high. Right?

—

I try to find the bathroom, but I open the wrong door and there are just kids on a floor in a room in the dark, sitting against the wall, staring at the ceiling. I'm not sure what's so interesting up there but they seem fixated. I ease around them and open another door in the room and flick on the light, hurting my eyes. The door doesn't lock and there's toilet paper stuck to the seat and something pulpy and greenish in the sink. I almost fall trying to sit on the toilet and catch myself against the tank at the last minute. I take deep breaths. It smells in here. I'm having problems with the zipper on my jeans and when I finally sit down I've forgotten about the toilet paper stuck to the seat but all I can think about is peeing. There's no more toilet paper when I reach for some and I sigh. I stand up, peeling the paper from my ass and flicking it into the toilet. I get my jeans done and wash my hands, the greenish sink stinking. Is it vomit? I gag a little. I wipe my hands on my jeans. I feel very heavy. I think I should go home.

—

I'm getting hot, face red from jumping up and down with all the other kids jumping up and down to the music. What time is it? It must be late now. I wanted to go home but I can't find Kristen and someone gave me another red cup full of something. I'm starting to see double, maybe. I stop jumping and squint a bit. Something is tickling my leg. I swat. Oh. My phone. I squeeze my eyes together. Dad.

I'm sorry, he typed.

I can't really see. Must be careful. Not too many words. No misspelling.

Me 2

Your friend feeling better?

Gng 2 stay over, I type. I add a crying emoji.

Okay. Call me tomorrow.

K

Phone back in jean pocket. Room spinning.

—

Lemon is talking, but I can't hear him. Are there two Lemons or four? I can't tell.

I might be a little sick after the sickly sweet drink and the pot and I should go. I tell him that but I don't think he hears me.

Or maybe he doesn't care. Maybe all four Lemons don't care.

I should go lie down somewhere No, wait, that's not safe. I don't know many people here. Where is my phone so I can call someone.

Not Amber. She's so mad.

You have a problem, Bella but

I AM the problem.

It's me. I'm the problem no one wants to solve or love.

I made so many tree branches in my sketch because I don't want anyone to see me.

I am a watercolor, I wash off.

Feel in my pocket for my phone. Not there.

Jumpup-jumpdown-jumpup-jumpdown.

Lemon's friend has his hands on my shoulders.

I don't like the way that feels.

It makes me feel trapped.

I bounce away. I don't like him very much.

I need to find my backpack. Wait, I didn't bring my backpack. Did I?

My phone. Call someone so I can go home.

Why can't I find Kristen?

My face is hot. Falling. Floor slick with spilled drink. Someone pulls me back up.

An ocean rises in my stomach.

Eyes blur, like someone stretched gauze across them.

Sick. Cover mouth. I don't know this house. Going to be sick. Need the bathroom.

Push, push, push, through bodies to a door.

Backyard. Oh, cold air, so good on my face. Then

Sick, sick, sick.

Everything comes up, up, up, and there is Lemon's friend with the gray tooth. Gross.

That's what he says. Gross.

He calls me gross and he does not help me.

I have to get away from him.

—

Back in house, stomach hurts.

Where is Kristen? Is that her? Gauze still over my eyes.

Oh, there is Lemon. Across the room.

He has his phone out—maybe he can drive me.

Wait, no. Can he? Is he fifteen and six months like you have to be to drive here?

Wait, no, it was Lemon's friend who drove us here.

I don't like him.

Maybe Kristen can Uber us to her house.

I can't find her.

Push, push, push, through bodies to get to Lemon.

—

Bodies push back. Stomach twirls.

And

No

There they are

Corner. Kissing. DylanWillow-DylanWillow.

Her hands in his hair. His hands on her jeaned hips.

And I am a thousand things all at once none of them good.

I am a million things bursting into flame.

You're too much.

Why are they here Why can't they leave me alone

Why is he staring at me now when he was kissing her just then

Why is he talking to me What is he saying

Hey Bella you

But his words go in my ears and die inside me

You okay Bella

With that mouth that mouth that once was mine

Get away from me

I push

Just get away from me

Oh there is Lemon in the middle of the room

Shouting and laughing

Hey Bella show me your nips

—

Holding up his phone

Bella be like the statues, he shouts.

We did this art project, he tells the people around him.

The human body is a beautiful thing, he says.

Gray tooth's eyes are glistening he is watching me closely

Chanting all the kids chanting

Nip slip nip slip and

Dylan get your hands off me

don't touch me

your skin hurts me

all of you hurts me

and I'm flying apart and moving toward Lemon

chants in my ears

and I will be the statue

This is like a movie of me

That I'm watching

Like it's not happening to me

Dylan holding my arm

He took my heart and ate it up and swallowed it

And still looking at him

I'm all open yearning and love me

How pathetic is that

I'll show him

Everyone

If I am too much I will be all the way too much

I will break the world

Bella don't what are you doing Bella

Dylan is concerned, Dylan is in my way

Everyone chanting

Bella do it Bella do it

all I ever hear

Bella do it Bella will do it

Dylan's face is one face two face three faces four

Saying Bella don't

what are you doing Bella

I'll take you home Bella

but I'm moving toward Lemon like in a dream

On a cloud through rain

Everything hazy

Unbuttoning my flannel shirt

Because what does it matter

I am a watercolor, I wash off

—

My mother is screaming but I cannot move

The porch light hurts my eyes

Why am I outside my house

Why am I on the stoop

My mother is screaming and I close my eyes

I do not like this dream