Page 3 of Red Flags Only

I’m always… What now?

“Chrissy,” I try again. “I didn’t-”

“And you know what,Lyra,” she spits my name like a curse. “I don’t have to put up with this, you know? I’m better than this. I’m better thanyouwith your holier than thou attitude and the way you argue withevery single thingI say and your seriouslyuglyoutfits. Do you know you dress like a forest witch’s toddler? It really matches your immature, selfish,annoyingpersonality.”

Uh.

Um.

Wow.

Okay.

Wow.

I swallow, blinking hard at my hand, which hovers over an ever-growing pile of stickers on my desk.

I hate that her words slice me, bringing up a myriad of emotions better kept under the surface, covered with aplastic liner, a layer of mulch, and a very pretty plant. Perhaps a tulip.

Chrissy’s hard breathing pushes through the phone for several agonizing seconds while I attempt to shove the horrible, icky, gross gross gross feelings breaking through the garden bed of my brain way back down into the depths of me, next to all of my other repressed emotions. Self-hatred can stay in the box where it belongs, far below the roots of lovelier things, thank you very much. Inadequacies and that I’ve-never-been-good-or-right-and-I-never-will-be feeling can stay there too.

Goodbye, feelings, see you never.

“You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” Chrissy cuts into my valiant attempts at feeling absolutely nothing at all in the wake of feeling absolutely way too much.

Do I have anything to say for myself?

Huh.

“Not really,” I mutter.

I’m not one to make excuses.

I try my best to be kind and helpful and a good friend, but she’s probably not wrong. At my core, I am selfish. It’s no surprise that Chrissy would see that and point it out, being as close to me as she is. It’s not even really a surprise that she’d call meholier than thou, because what is self-righteousness if not the root of selfishness? At its core, selfishness is simply the belief that you deserve exactly what you want and exactly as much attention as you crave because you arebetterandmore worthyof those things.

My mother always called me too big for my britches. She ingrained in me a full understanding of just how selfishI really am, pointing out transgressions and correcting them as she saw fit until I learned how to work harder at kindness and be more considerate of those around me.I’m not raising no selfish witch, she always said. Except the word she used wasn’t exactly appropriate for children.

Chrissy scoffs, and I pull my legs up onto my chair with me, wrapping my arms around them, being careful to keep the phone tucked against my ear through the movement.

“Of course you don’t,” she scorns. “An innocent person would defend themselves, but you can’t dothatbecause I’m right.”

My desk goes blurry in front of me as I struggle to bury the unpleasant things in my mind.

I squeeze my legs tighter.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, wishing she’d hang up. Mom would leave when I was in Big Trouble. It’s the polite thing to do. Let me sit and think about what I’ve done as I piece my garden back together.

“Sorry,” she echoes. “You’resorry? Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

Yes, I know my own sins quite intimately, if perhaps I don’t know which specific instances have led to this final straw for her.

Still, I don’t answer.

She scoffs again. “Don’t come to me when you figure it out.”

And then she’s gone.

Like they always are when they figure out what I’m really like.

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