Page 34 of The Glass Girl

My brain says:Take it. You can pour it over ice, it’ll look like soda. Add some water.

My heart says:No, if it’s soda, Ricci will want some and pitch a fit.

I could do it during her bath. It’s bath night. She’s fine in the bath by herself. She just plays with toys and dunks herself over and over and generally makes a big mess. Dad won’t be home until later.

It’s so high up, I’d have to climb on the counter, or use one of the kitchen chairs.

I’d feel so much better. Amber would never know. I could just havesome,and then nothing tomorrow. I haven’t had any in like two days. Just that NyQuil, and that shouldn’t count. That’s a long time. And I had a shitty day. That’s what adults do: they drink after a shitty day. Why can’t I?

Sweat is prickling at my hairline. My mouth is watering a little just thinking about how that first swallow will feel when it hits my stomach and the warmth starts spreading. My breath catches in my throat.

My brain says:Bella, do it.

The front door opens.

I whirl around, almost knocking the pea pot off the stove.

My dad throws his bag on the couch. “Hey-oh,” he calls, coming into the kitchen. “Oh, peas, my favorite. Peas and pizza.”

He grabs a beer from the refrigerator and pops the cap off. “Oof, I had a rough day,” he says to me, taking a drink from the bottle.

I shut the cabinet door. Ricci shoves the phone back in my hand and grabs Dad in a hug.

“I petted a goat!” she yells. “Can we get one?”

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Ricci’s bath, then Ricci’s two pages of homework, which entails twelve Skittles, one for each math problem, a lot of whining, four giant teardrops, a glass of milk, and six frog stickers on her homework folder. My dad is asleep on the couch. I spend an hour getting Ricci to sleep and then go back out into the front room.

I put the dishes in the dishwasher. Make lunches for me and Ricci tomorrow.

Turn around, look over the breakfast bar.

Dad’s still asleep, dressed in his cubicle-job outfit of button-up shirt, chinos, brown shoes, hair in a ponytail. He works for a retailer helpline and takes phone calls all day from people complaining about faulty recliners and refrigerators, uncooperative ovens and misbehaving rice cookers.

Open the kitchen cabinet, look at the bottle, so high up.

You can make it another day,I tell myself.

My brain says:Why do you have to? You had a bad day. A total suck day. You just need a little help.

I can feel it then, the anticipation of maybe having a drink. The little pops of excitement pinging around my stomach, sortof like when Dylan and I first started kissing, how everything slowed down as our mouths crept closer and my body would flood with warmth, knowing that soon everything would fall away and it would just be that, our bodies pressed together, time disappearing.

Bella, you shouldn’t drink so much. It’s kind of not cool.

I shake my head like someone’s slapped me. Why is Dylan’s voice in my head?

Dylan, staring at me at 191 Toole, the music pounding around us, his face disappointed.Bella, I can taste it. You don’t need to do that so much, okay?

Me pulling him back, wanting to kiss more.

Nah, let’s go home.

Silent bus ride home, him letting me get off the bus by myself at Amber’s corner, no kiss or hug goodbye.

“Baby?”

I slam the cabinet door shut and whirl around. My dad is rubbing his eyes. “It’s almost ten-thirty. Did you finish your homework? Vanessa said something about a paper?”

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