Page 147 of The Glass Girl

I turn my phone off, my hands shaking, and shove it under my pillow.

But I feel like I can hear those messages from unknowns in my ears, so I get up, pull the phone out, walk over to my desk, and put the phone in my drawer.

Then I climb back under the covers and roll over, pressing myself against the wall and closing my eyes as tightly as I can.

—

I wake up in a haze, hot and sweaty. The room is dark except for the faint glow of my fairy lights. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. I feel panicky. I look around.

Where are Brandy and Holly and Gideon and Charlotte? Why aren’t they here?

Then I remember: I’m notthereanymore, I’mhere.

But that means…Where’s Ricci? It’s obviously late; I need her to get to bed so my mom can work, because I’m home now and that’s how things are here.

I get up and stagger out of my room. The kitchen light is on, my mom’s laptop and notepad are out on the kitchen island, but she’s not sitting on her stool. I make my way down the hall to Ricci’s room and hear faint voices coming from behind the half-opened door.

“Mom?” I say hoarsely, pushing it open farther. “What are you doing? I usually put Ricci to bed. You have to work.”

Ricci and our mom are snuggled in Ricci’s bed, reading a book.

Ricci says, “Mom learned how to put me to bed. It was hard, teaching her about the tree frogs and the fish, but she did a good job.”

My mom smiles at me. “I really did, Bella. I even get stickers when I do areallygood job.”

Above her head on the wall are a bunch of cat stickers with googly eyes.

“But it’s my job,” I say softly. “I like putting her to bed. Mostly.”

“Then get in and do your job!” Ricci shouts, scoochingcloser to Mom, making a space for me on the inside, next to the wall, under her poster of Antarctica.

I clamber over her, wedge myself under the blanket. I have to lie on my side to make myself fit.

“My girls,” my mom murmurs. “My beautiful girls.”

“Mommy,” Ricci says. “Shush now and keep reading.”

I’m asleep again before I know it, in shelter and warmth.

—

I wake up with a start.

Out of habit, I shoot out of bed, kneel down, look for my running sneakers and folded sweatshirt and sweatpants under the bed, where I always put them before I go to sleep. I want to be dressed and ready before Chuck begins obnoxiously banging, because I hate the sound of his metal water bottle on the door. I like to be the first one ready now.

But nothing’s under the bed except small pairs of underwear and a smattering of Woodzeez. I panic for a minute:Where’s my stuff? I don’t want a demerit.

Then I remember.

I’m not there anymore. I’m here. At home. In my sister’s room.

There’s no Chuck run.

I try to get my bearings. How long was I asleep? My mouth feels dry. I drag myself from the bed to the bathroom I share with Ricci, and pee. I flush the toilet, wash my hands, glance at myself in the mirror, still surprised at what I see these days.

It’s been two months. I have the Polaroids to prove it, carefully slipped into a ziplock baggie in the suitcase in my room.

My face is my face again, whatever that means. No moreswelling. No more meaty bruising. I brush my teeth, watching myself, as though my face might suddenly change now that I’m back here in the real world. Might turn into something else.

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