Page 2 of The Glass Girl

Fine,I say.Fine, you cowards.I snatch the money, warm and wrinkled, from their hands.

Bella,they say.Bella, you’re the best.

I’m not the best. I’m the worst. But it doesn’t matter. All I want right now is to dull the sharpness inside me. The stuff that no one can see. The stuff poking me and making me bleed.

I open the car door and get out.

There are rules you have to follow, things you have to remember.

Like waiting a little bit, but not too long, and not too close to the store or somebody might get suspicious. An older lady in a Lexus, pulling into the store, pretending she’s there justfor Arizona Iced Tea and Altoids. Those ladies are righteously judgmental and need to be avoided, even though they’ll come out with plastic bags of wine they’ll probably finish in a couple of hours. I mean, comeon.The reason they’re at this crappy liquor store in a crappy neighborhood is so nobody they know sees them buying all that wine in theirownneighborhood. Because they drinka lotand don’t want anyone to know how much. And there’s always some old suit heading inside, frowning at the girl on the sidewalk (me) pretending to check her phone.You need something?he might say, his bald head shining.You lost?Even though that’s not really what he’s asking. You can tell because they always look you up and down. You can’t pick them. They’ll want to walk you back to the car, “make sure you’re safe,” check out your friends, be pervy. They probably have daughters and would die if they knew their daughters did this. We are all someone’s daughter.

You have to choose carefully. It can never be a lady unless she’s slightly disheveled and kind of dumpy (flannel shirt, cigs in pocket, flip-flops), which signifies she doesn’t give a damn. She might do it, say,You be careful with your party, now,as she hands over the bag.Don’t get into any trouble.

It can be a guy in his twenties, maybe, but not too cool, not too slick, maybe lonely-looking (taped eyeglasses, T-shirt with inscrutable cultural reference, dirty sneakers), but you can’t let him think he can walk back to the car with you, or get your number, and you can’t talk to him too long or it turns into athing,which did actually happen once and ended with Kristen literally catching the guy’s fingers in the car window as she furiously rolled it up, him calling us names, and Amber hitting the gas. We screamed hysterically in the car, everyone’s voices blending together in a high pitch, but soon enough we werebuzzed (not Amber) and laughing hysterically. That’s the kind of nice thing about drinking: what seemed to be one thing becomes an entirely different thing once you’re drunk.

That can also be bad but I’m trying to stay away from bad stuff and thoughts. Like Dylan. Which was definitely a situation where one thing became another, and not in a good way. That was the night I had what Kristen refers to as Bella’s Extremely Unfortunate Public Downfall.

Anyway, you need a person who doesn’t care. A person going into the store for their own reasons. You want a person who doesn’t even bat an eye, just listens to you and takes the money and comes back with their bag and gives you yours and takes the change and goes back to their car or walks down the sidewalk into the night without even sayinggoodbyeorwhere you partyingorbe safe,because they’ve got to get on with the night, too. You need to scope out who is absolutely here for alcohol, who has to have itnow,like you, and doesn’t mind making an extra ten for their trouble.

You have to make it quick and clean. Blunt. I’ve learned a lot just from the few times we’ve done it this way.

Hey, will you buy me a fifth of vodka? You can keep the change.

You want a guy. Oldish, hair messy, ball cap, band T-shirt under a sports jacket, shuffling along in his low-rise Converse, smelling like cigarettes. Like one of my dad’s friends, actually: used to be in a band “or something” and on the wrong side of cool now. Maybe thought he’d be a rock star, but now he’s cubicle-bound during the day, dreams dead and gone in a blur of Excel spreadsheets. All he’s got comes from this store.

On the sidewalk, I jiggle my toes inside my sneakers, pretending to scroll on my phone but peeking up furtively every few seconds to scope out the situation. If I’m being honest, Idon’t actually mind doing this, because I know where I’ll end up: feeling better. And a tiny part of me gets a little thrill from it.

Then I see him.

I can tell; he’ll do it. This guy doesn’t give a damn. Eyes on the sidewalk; doesn’t care if I’m cute or hot or not. He doesn’t give a crap about me. He’s here for the same thing I am: to get drunk.

Right when he’s about to pass me by, out it comes.

“Hey, could you buy me some vodka? You can keep the extra money.” I make sure my voice is neutral my face expressionless. “A fifth. Not the little bottle.”

He doesn’t stop to stare at me. Look me up and down like the guys in suits. He’s got things to do.

He barely stops. Nods. His hands have ink on them and his skin is dry as he takes the money and says, “Yeah, sure.”

There’s always that moment when my heart beats too quickly and my hairline prickles with sweat. Will he come out and take off in the opposite direction? I can’t chase someone down. Will he come back and walk right by me, give me an evil grin, and sayStupid kidas he taps the bags and keeps going? That’s happened a couple of times.

I track his progress through the barred glass windows of the store. Chips aisle, Gatorade, beer cooler, liquor aisle, then the counter, his lips moving, his nod to the cashier, the bottles being bagged up, my heart still racing, my palms a little wet.

I text Kristen.All good.

She texts back. Hero.

The gentlebing-bongbell of the door as he pushes it open and walks across the parking lot to the back edge, where I’m standing on the sidewalk, half hidden by a shrub.

He’s got the bag in one hand and a case of beer in the other,the Gatorade shoved in his jacket pocket, its weight making the fabric sag.

“Cheers,” he says, and that’s that, he’s gone, shuffling downthe sidewalk.

When I’m back inside the car, Kristen and Cherie cheer, but Amber stays silent.

“Bella!” they shout. “Bella, our queen!”

“First one’s mine,” I say, cracking the bottle and pouring as much as I think I can get away with into my half-empty bottle of Sprite.

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