Page 19 of The Glass Girl

I start crying again.

They’re kissing.

Did he play air hockey with her in the theater arcade before the movie, like he did with me, our laughter mixing with the clack and slide of the puck across the table? Does she like to breathe in his smell, just like I did? She doesn’t look any different from me, really, just a girl with messy hair and better eyeliner and jeans and sneakers, so why am Itoo muchand she is not?

I slide down the ladder of the bunk and rip off my jeans and work shirt and jam on pajama pants and an oversize T-shirt and hoodie and grab the laundry basket from the corner. I throw my work clothes in there, along with some dirty clothes lying on the floor, and my headphones and phone, and tuck the Sprodka bottle under the clothes.

In the front room, Ricci and Vanessa are on the couch eating popcorn and watchingFrozen.Ricci has a hot chocolate mustache.

Vanessa looks up at me. “A little late for laundry, don’t you think?”

“I’m working a double tomorrow and I need clean work clothes. Dad’s not a great laundry person, if you haven’t noticed.”

She gives me a look like she’s considering very carefully what to say.

“Okay then,” she says. “Maybe when you’re done, you’ll be ready to hang out?”

“No. Homework, remember?”

She tucks a strand of blond hair behind one ear and crunches a piece of popcorn. “Right. Homework.”

She’s wearing pink pajama pants and a tank top, which means she’s staying over.

After the divorce, Ricci and I had barely just started getting used to Dad’s apartment and, well, Dad,alone,without the presence of my mom, before Vanessa appeared. She was just there one night, like it wasn’t a big deal, or anything my dad had to prepare us for, or even, I don’t know,askus about. He just slotted her into our lives, like our mom didn’t matter, like maybe I wasn’t kind of looking forward to just being with my dad by himself, away from all the fighting and tension with my mom, maybe figuring out who he was when he wasn’t angry and sad all the time. No one ever asked me what I wanted.

And looking at Vanessa on this couch right now, even though she’s being sweet and cool and nice with my little sister, I kind of hate her.

—

The laundry room is dead, so I have the machines to myself. I’m grateful that nobody left any wet clothes in the washer, because that’s awkward, wondering if you should just pull out a stranger’s clothes and dump them on the table. Who wants a stranger touching their clothes? Also, I do not want to touch anyone else’s wet underwear.

I stuff my clothes in the washer, add detergent and quarters,and start the machine. Then I plug my headphones into my phone and go sit in the corner with my backpack and Sprodka bottle. If anyone comes in, I’m just some loser girl, doing her laundry on a Saturday night, listening to music and drinking her soda, occasional bursts of heat from the dryers keeping me warm.

—

I almost trip on the stairs going back up to the apartment andI have to stop and take a couple of breaths to steady myself. I’m not sure how long I was in the laundry room; I stayed long after the clothes in the dryer stopped tumbling, just looking at pictures on my phone and listening to music.

I’m unsteady. I was down there too long. I take a deep breath, standing outside the door to the apartment, listening. It’s quiet inside. Ricci always goes to sleep for Vanessa, no problem, which I’ve never understood. I hope Vanessa is asleep, too.

I just have to get through the living room and to our bedroom. That’s it. I try to imagine the path I have to take: being careful not to walk into the couch, which juts in front of the door; angle around the easy chair and then take a sharp right down the short hall to our room, open the door, set down the laundry basket with my clothes, manage the three steps on the bunk ladder—

No. I’m going to have to pee. No, Idohave to pee. I start giggling at the absurdity of it, having to plan out my path like a master spy, but I’m also a little panicked. Please do not let Vanessa be up, please, please, please. I don’t want to have to talk to her. My mouth is as thick as mud; I’ll definitely slur.

No one is in the front room when I step inside. I breathe a sigh of relief. They’re in bed. I’m almost around the sharpcorner, one eye squinting because things are a little fuzzy, when Vanessa calls out from the room down the opposite hall, “Bella? That you?”

I freeze, then turn slightly. The door to the bedroom is half open. She’s in bed with the light on.

“Yes.” My lips are rubbery as I speak. Am I slurring? I cough to cover the possibility. Lick my lips.

“Okay. Did you lock the door? Your dad won’t be home until later.”

“Yes.” Did I? I can’t remember. Should I go back and check? No. Screw it.

“Don’t stay up too late studying, okay?” She sounds sleepy. The light clicks off. “Good night.”

“Night.” I cough again.

There’s a silence and then, “You sound a little off. I think youaregetting sick.”

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