Page 8 of The Glass Girl

“Kristen vapes. I don’t. You know that.”

“Was there drinking? We made a deal, Bella.”

Ah yes, the deal after Luis’s party: no drinking, no parties.

“Nope. Want to smell my breath?” I open my mouth.

My mother considers me.

If you want to pretend nothing is amiss, pretend nothing is amiss. Like you have nothing to hide. I’m a good girl. I get good grades. I do a lot around the house. I have a job. I keep everything together. I’ve survived death and divorce. I had a little blip with my Unfortunate Public Breakdown, that’s all.

I keep my eyes on my mother’s face as I say, “Mom, come on. Honestly?”

“You know how I feel about Kristen.”

I shrug. I’m safe. My mother’s dislike of Kristen will override any suspicion of me. Also, she’s too frustrated with Ricci right now.

Her shoulders sag. “I need help here. She only lasted half the day at school today and I have a deadline. I can’t miss it. Can you…”

My mother is a writer for a weird daily radio show based in another state. In seven years, she’s never even met her boss in person, just exchanged emails and phone calls and Zoomswith the producer. They send her ideas for stories, like about aliens in Roswell, or how a famous Hollywood actor has cryogenically preserved his mother in his mansion. She researches all the theories and news stories and then writes up the content, and the radio host, some guy named A. W. Stryker, does shows about them. I like listening to it—it’s a trip. He gets dozens of calls for every episode, and believe me, like Laurel said, people really do have darkness in them. And a lot of time on their hands. It’s a very popular show, but the host is weird and sometimes switches up the topics at the last minute, leaving my mom to work and write late at night. I know she wants to do something else, like what she’ll sometimes call “real writing,” but it’s the only job that lets her deal with Ricci.

Ricci is a lot of work.

“Ricci!” I shout, standing above my sister. “Ten hut.”

She stops rolling and pops up, standing at attention, tablet wedged under one arm.

“Sergeant Sister, are you ready for bed.”

“No, ma’am, no.”

“Sergeant Sister, will you be ready for bed after thirty minutes of cat videos and three Oreos and one glass of milk? Major Mom is on work detail and must be released or it’s the stockade for her. Do we want that to happen to Major Mom?”

“No, we don’t.”

“Do we understand each other, Sergeant Sister? This is your captain speaking.”

My sister straightens her shoulders. “I am ready, Captain.”

“Then forward, one two, one two.” I make marching steps, pointing down the hall to her bedroom.

My sister, blond ponytail swinging, Olaf pajamas sagging around her butt, one-twos down the hall. I follow her.

“Ricci, did you fake being sick at school again so you could come home?” I ask softly, once we’re in her room. “You know Mom needs time to work.”

“Sorry,” she says, rubbing her face.

Ricci has a hard time at school. My parents moved her to a new one, where they have beanbags and forts for quiet time, but you also have to pay for it. At least twice a week, Ricci complains of stomach trouble, or a headache, and either my mom or my dad, depending on who has us that week, has to stop everything and go get her. Each time, she miraculously improves the instant she gets home and my parents have an argument over the phone about what’s wrong with her and whose fault it is and meanwhile I’m screaming inside my headIt’s because our grandmother died and you got divorced and every day when she leaves the house she’s afraid something else is going to change while she isn’t looking and she is seven years old and can’t take one more awful thing.

Ricci hasn’t told me this, of course. It’s just a theory of mine.

“Okay,” I say. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“What are the topics tonight?” I ask my mother as I walk into the kitchen, pour Ricci some milk, gather Oreos in a napkin.

My mother’s got deep shadows under her eyes and looks like she didn’t get a chance to shower today. She shuffles work papers on the kitchen counter. “A woman in Arkansas saw Jesus in her grilled cheese sandwich and a man in Italy is marrying the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

“I hope they’ll be very happy together.”

---