Page 7 of The Glass Girl

Our last game of Scrabble is still on the table.

I get a glass, some ice, and pour myself some vodka, add some Sprite from a can, sit at the table, look at our leftover words.

Apothecary. Hidden. You. Hush.

I pull my phone from my jacket pocket.

My mother’s texted me three times. I ignore her.

Kristen and Cherie are posting from the party. Hazy lights behind them, glossy faces. I zoom in. Is Dylan there in the background? I don’t see him.

I check his Stories, my heart pounding.

Nothing.

Once, he told me I was the coolest girl he’d ever known. Pressed me against the lockers at school and kissed me. Didn’t drop my hand when his friends came around.

I told Laurel about Dylan before my mom even knew. She shifted letters on her tile holder and looked at me.

“Romantic love is dizzying and wonderful and frightening and lovely, but don’t let it obscure you.” Her sea-blue eyes were serious; the charcoal eyeliner lopsided at the corners. It was hard for her to apply with her hands so shaky, but she was determined to do it, every day.

My grandmother was an artist; everything she said was fascinating and strange to me. I didn’t understand what she meant then, and I’m not sure I do now. Maybe I will when I’m older.

My stomach tightens. I wish she was here at this table with me right now. I wish I’d never—

I close my eyes and drink.

Move letters around on my Scrabble tile holder. I could spelldouse.

Once, I asked Laurel about my mother’s father and who he was and where he was and she just said, “Sometimes you can’t take people to the places you need to go.”

I wonder if Laurel was evertoo much.

She always liked me just as I was.

I drink drink drink.

It’s so quiet here. It’s the only quiet place I know in my world of noise.

I brush my teeth before I leave, careful to rinse off the toothbrush. I wash the glass, dry it, put it back in the kitchen cabinet. I pop three mints just in case. Pinch my cheeks to feel more alert and less woozy. Fill up my Sprodka bottle again, shove it in my backpack. Make sure the lights are off and the door is locked and everything is just so. Outside, the cool air feels good on my skin, sobering me up a little.

When I’m two houses from ours, I can already hear Ricci, long whines and cries of “Nooo.I don’t want to.”

I take a deep breath as I open the front door. I’m so glad I have something inside me to blunt all this, just a little.

My mother is standing in the living room, her face exasperated and pink, hands on hips, as my little sister rolls around on the floor, clutching her tablet.

I close the door. Mom swivels toward me. “Where were you? I texted you.”

The house smells like overcooked noodles. Macaroni and cheese is the only thing Ricci will eat right now, and she likes the noodles so soft they practically dissolve on her fork.

“With Amber. I told you this morning.”

She sniffs the air. “What is that smell? Were you smoking?”

I drop my backpack on the ground.

My brain says:Tell her it was Kristen. She doesn’t like Kristen anyway.

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