Page 10 of The Glass Girl

My mother looks at me. “How about you?”

“I have to work tonight. I’ll go over after. I need to finish a group project for art class with some kids at the library first, because one of the guys was out sick and the teacher gave us an extension. It’s due Monday.”

“Are you going to get graded down because it’s late? That doesn’t seem like it should be your fault, if another student was sick. You don’t look so great yourself.”

She moves toward me like she’s going to put her hand on my forehead. I back away.

She looks at me. “Geez, somebody’s touchy.”

“Just don’t,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you should ask the teacher to extend—”

I cut her off. “Please don’t start—”

But she’s starting. I’m gripping the mug so hard I feel like it might break.

“Did you write your draft for the lit essay yet? You don’t want to wait until the last minute. You always do. And then what happens? You start to panic. Your grades are shaky at the moment—”

I grit my teeth. My mother is obsessed with my grades. What makes it worse is that parents can look at this online school portal to keep tabs on what assignments are missing or late and see grades in real time, and honestly, I’m already anxious about school, I don’t need my mother’s anxiety on top of my own. I mean, what is so bad about getting a B in a class? Or a C? My mother didn’t evengoto an actual school for a long time. Laurel lived in an artists collective in the woods in Upstate New York for years before she moved them to the city. The parents took turns teaching the kids in a yurt. Sometimes a whole day of learning meant baking bread from scratch. Weeks might be devoted to putting onRomeo and Juliet,right down to sewing the costumes, painting the scenery, and building a stage and set out of cardboard, drywall, and scavenged wood. If you ask me, that sounds better than endless percentage points and advanced-this-and-thatand everything pointing to this faraway, mythical dream ofcollege.

“I have my book. I have notes. I’m set. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Is your dad picking you up after work? You know I don’t like you taking the bus that late by yourself.”

I swirl the cold coffee in my cup with my forefinger, trying not to smirk. My mother is worried about me riding the bus at night when I stand on the sidewalk outside sketchy liquor stores and ask literal strangers to buy us vodka.

“Yes, we texted about it.” Actually, I think I forgot that, too.

I can feel things starting to pile up inside me: essay, art project, Dad, work.

My mother keeps pressing. “And did he respond to the text? You know, if he doesn’t respond, it means he might not have read it, or—”

“Heresponded.” I make a mental note to see if he did, or if I even texted him.

“What did he say, exactly? You told him what time, right? That means he’ll have to keep Ricci up later, and that’s not good for her—”

“He said, ‘Cool, ten o’clock, see you then, no problem.’ Do you actually need to read the text? And it’s Saturday. She can stay up and watch a movie. She’s not a baby.”

I have to lie to get her to stop, but my voice is too loud. It makes my head hurt even worse.

“Bella, your tone—” my mom starts.

“My tone is fine. I mean, my god, climb off my back, Mom. You’re making me late and I need to shower,” I say, getting up. “I’ll check Ricci’s bag before I leave and make sure she has herstuff.”

And I’m out of the kitchen before my mother can say anymore.

—

My hair wet and flapping in my face, I frantically search for my work shirt in my room. My headache hasn’t gone away and my mouth is really dry. I find a bottle of water on the desk and take a long guzzle. I finally locate my shirt under a pile of clothes on my desk chair and give it a sniff. Not too bad, but there’s a stain in the middle, which will irritate Patty. Maybe I can wear my apron higher tonight to cover it. I have two shirts, but one is at Dad’s, and I don’t want to go there before I have to, and who knows if he did the laundry anyway. There are so many things involved in living at two places. Like what clothes are where, whether you forgot your charger at this house or the other, remembering to pack school folders, who’s picking you up and when. It’s exhausting. Not to mention that Dad’s way of parenting seems specifically designed to flip the bird at my mother: Ricci stays up too late, even on school nights, because he doesn’t want to be the “mean” one; he doesn’t give me a curfew, because he feels that “restricts a normal level of adolescent exploration”; there’s no place to do homework except at the tiny table in the kitchen, which barely fits the three of us; dinners are mostly takeout or frozen pizza. And then there’s Vanessa, which is a whole other thing entirely.

My head hurts so bad I can hardly think as I shove my school stuff in my backpack, make sure I have a couple of my favorite shirts and pairs of jeans, my makeup, and some tampons, because I’m trying to stockpile some at Dad’s. He’s not very good at remembering that sort of stuff.

I check Ricci’s backpack, too. Like I thought, she lied to mymom, probably hoping that if she forgot something, my mom would bring it over, and then Ricci would have a meltdown and want to go back with Mom and not stay with Dad, which happens more often than not. She does it to both of them, in fact.

I shove in her green homework folder, her tablet and headphones, and a couple of shirts, socks, pants, and clean underwear. Done.

My mom and Ricci are in the living room, searching for Ricci’s sneakers. They have the couch cushions pulled out and everything.

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