Page 90 of The Glass Girl

“And you,” he says, turning to me. “You’ve been medically cleared, or you wouldn’t have been able to run with Chuck. But I got you. Don’t worry.”

He walks us over to a series of balls. They look like they’re made out of thick leather. The biggest ones are about as tall as my knees.

“I want you to move those balls,” he says. “Over there. Use your knees, you don’t want to hurt your back.”

He points to the end of the mat.

“Whatever, it’s just a freaking ball,” Brandy says, bending down. She tries to lift one, but groans and stands back up.

“This thing is like fifty freaking pounds!” she says, rubbing the small of her back.

“Pick a smaller one to start,” Phil says.

Brandy reminds me of a very cranky old person on a TV sitcom. Complaining about everything. Worried about her nails. I kind of like it.

Phil sits cross-legged on the floor.

“Brandy, how heavy is your addiction?”

“What?” she says. She looks pissed.

“Everything that you carry around on a daily basis. You’re adrinker, right? Thinking about how to get a drink, how many drinks to have, how many lies to tell so you can take that drink, how many lies to cover it up. That’s a pretty heavy load to carry every day, but you’ve been doing it. If you can carry that, you can carry this ball.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Brandy says. “I’m not addicted. I can stop any time I want.”

“Are you sure about that?” Phil asks.

“Yes,” Brandy says. “Yes, I am positive.”

Holly starts to fidget. She’s tearing up. “I don’t like this. I don’t.”

She’s scratching her wrists.

“Me neither,” Phil says. “But the fact that you’re crying right now tells me you’ve got a big weight inside and you need to release it. I’m showing you a healthy way to do that.”

He looks at me.

My brain says:Move the ball. You’ll get points.

I look at the balls.

“What kind of kid are you?” Fran asked me, and I told her, “I’m the kind of kid who wants you to tell me I got a good grade so I can go.”

If nobody else is going to start, I will. I bend my knees, put my hands on the sides of one of the midsize balls. Take a breath.

Jesusgod­christohmygodoh­nothisthing­issofreaking­heavybut­Imnotgoing­toletthem­seemefail.

I heave the ball up, stagger back, catch myself.

“Focus,” Phil says softly. “You can do this.”

I take a step, then another, grunting. Another step, another.

It is so, so heavy. Sweat is starting to drip down my temples. This might be worse than running with Chuck.

My stomach is starting to clench. My elbows are trembling.

One step, another.

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