Page 142 of The Glass Girl

The world does not break. The walls of Sonoran Sunrise don’t crumble. Violins do not erupt from nowhere. Tracy doesn’t clasp me in a bear hug as I weep on her shoulder.

But something, maybe the tiniest thing, loosens inside me. A relief.

—

In the activity room, Tracy gets the camera from the shelf.

I stand by the wall.

When she aims the camera at me, I look right into the lens and I do not blink.

Four

And oh, what do I do?

’Cause God how it hurts

—Julia Jacklin, “Pressure to Party”

I’m sitting in theactivity room with my suitcase and backpack by my feet, staring at my sneakers. Around me, kids are saying goodbye to each other. Long hugs. Tears. Phone numbers being traded. Adults waiting to take them away to whatever life will be like now.

I open the folder on my lap. A plethora of papers and brochures and aYou got this!sticker. A plethora of information for me on how to live now.

“Bella?”

I look up. Tracy sits down in the chair next to me.

“Your mom is waiting in the lobby. Your dad and sister are outside in the car. How are you feeling?”

“I…”

“It’s okay to be overwhelmed,” she says gently.

I still can’t get any words out of my mouth, but inside my brain, they’re flashing, hot and confused:worried hurt nervous scared sad help me.

“Breathe,” Tracy says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “It’s supposed to be hard. It’s not supposed to be easy, because living is never easy. Things are going to be hard. But you can do this.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “Do you have a Magic 8 Ball? Gideon and Holly were too scared to live on the outside and look what happened. How do you know I’ll be any different?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t.”

“Awesome,” I say. “That’s fantastic news.”

“Life is hard, Bella,” she says. “The world is uncontrollable, but you can claim your little spot if you want it, because everyone gets a little spot. It’s up to you what to do with it.”

She stands.

“And now,” she says, grinning, “it’s time to go home.”

—

My mother hugs me so hard she squeezes all the air out of me. I’m buried in her shoulder, my eyes closed, breathing in the fact of her: comfort, home, the smell of cinnamon from the tea she probably had in the car, the vanilla scent she dabs on her neck in the mornings.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she says into my hair. “Looks like I broke that promise.”

“Mom,” I say. “You can let go now, it’s okay.”

She doesn’t.

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