Page 11 of The Glass Girl

I hand my mom Ricci’s backpack.

“You were very rude to me, Bella,” she says, her eyes pinned to my face.

I sigh. “Fine. I’m sorry. Okay? Her sneakers are in the bathroom cabinet. She likes to hide them there, remember?”

My mom is flustered. “Ricci! You did that again?”

Ricci covers her mouth with her hands so we can’t see her devious smile.

“I’m off. See you in a week, I guess,” I say. Then I wait.

My mom doesn’t notice. She’s heading to the bathroom, muttering to herself.

“Okay then,” I say softly.

There was a time after the divorce when my mom made a point of hugging me when she knew I’d be at my dad’s for the week. “Let me get my love in. I’m gonna miss you,” she’d say. She’d even do it before we got in the car to go to school on days Dad was scheduled to pick us up, because she knew I’d be embarrassed if kids saw my mom giving me a giant hug by the curb in the drop-off line. I love her, but I don’t need to display that to my classmates.

She’s been forgetting the hug a lot lately.

I look at my sister.

“See you later, Ricci. Be good.”

But she’s not paying attention to me now, either. She’s making a fort with the couch cushions.

—

I stop by Grandma’s house and fill up the Sprodka bottle and dump out a water bottle and fill that up, too. I’m going to need sustenance at Dad’s. His is a beer-only house, and the few times I’ve tried to sneak one, he’s figured it out. He might be lackadaisical about some things, but he’s quite particular about his beer. I wash down a couple of ibuprofen with a can of Coke.

Outside, I slide my headphones on. It’s a good fifteen-minute walk to the library. Hopefully, my headache will ease up by then.

—

I will not stop and sip from the bottle. I will not stop and sip from the bottle. I will not stop and sip from the bottle. I have to do this project. I have to go to work. I will not miss Dylan. I will not stop and sip from this bottle. I will not. I will not. I will not.

—

I find my group in the back of the library at one of the teen study tables. Like I thought, my group doesn’t have any books out or laptops opened. I swear to god I’ve managed most of this project so far and it’s been a lot of hassle, even though this is my favorite class, except that Ms. Green is making us do a presentation. Speaking in public makes me nervous—like, gargantuan levels of distress—but I’m going to try not to thinkabout that. Maybe it will be better since we have to present as a group and I won’t be alone.

The group is me, Cherie, Dawn, and Lemon, whose first name is Rudy, but no one ever uses that. He moved here in sixth grade and we already had a Rudy in our class, so Lemon became Lemon.

Cherie’s head is on the table. I thunk my backpack down on the floor and she looks up blearily.

“You look horrible,” I say. “Must have been some party.”

“It was so much fun. The parts I remember, anyway. You look like shit, too, by the way.” She sighs. “Party of one?”

I ignore her. Her eyes are bloodshot. I’m glad I remembered to use eye drops after my shower.

Lemon looks up from his phone. “You shoulda been there, Bella. Oh, wait, you’re on parental probation afterthe incident.”

“Ha ha,” I say, sitting down.

“What incident?” Dawn says.

Dawn magically appeared at our school this year. I’ve never seen her at a party or the coffee shop or the mall or even hanging out with anyone, really. She keeps to herself, which must be kind of lonely. I mean, I have Amber, Cherie, and Kristen, and I’m lonely, too, but at least I’m not lonelyby myself.I think there’s a difference.

Dawn is wearing her usual outfit of overalls, Doc Martens, and a black long-sleeved shirt. She’s in three of my classes, so I see this outfit a few times a week. As someone who basically has a uniform as well (T-shirt, flannel, hoodie, jeans, Chucks), I admire her consistency.

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