Page 33 of This I Know
“I don’t want to see this,” I say, shoving it back into the farthest, darkest corner of my closet.
“I almost forgot,” she says, not even shocked. She pushes the hoodie back in. “You gave all that up after it happened.”
All that.
Dancing.
She’s talking about my dancing.
And is she pissed at me? She actually sounds pissed at me. She’s the one who came in here and woke me up before my alarm on a school day, and then pulled out my one traumatizing garment and swung it in front of my dazed face, and she’s pissed at me.
Traumatizing garment.Listen to me.
“I gave a lot of things up after it happened. I had to.” I curl my legs underneath me and cover them with my comforter. “You can’t dance with a bum leg.”
“No, but you can try.” She rests next to me and her weight causes me to sink toward her. “The doctor said it was okay to try, Avery.”
I curl over myself. “I don’t want to.”
“Okay. But will you ever want to? Or should I get rid of that thing right now?” She eyes the closet.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “I have no idea.”
She stands, puts a hand on my shoulder. “I want you to try. When the time is right for you.”
A ringing echoes from downstairs.
“Ugh,” she says, and without another word she rushes out of the room.
I hang up the call and collapse back into my overstuffed pillow. There’s still fifteen more precious minutes before I have to be up for school, and I’ll be damned it I’m going to waste it.
The alarm goes off, breaking through my delicious silence like a pickaxe.
I jump out of bed, still groggy but having at least expected the abrupt awakening this time around. I go to the same closet my mother was just evaluating and I pick out some clothes that will help me look presentable. I never have much energy in the mornings and I usually sleep in until the last minute, so this is something I really should do the night before. But I guess I haven’t learned.
My mom is right. My clothes are in bad shape. I frown as I sift through them and flick the hangers when I find nothing acceptable. I settle on my usual fallback: a pair of black yoga pants and a loose fitting sweater.
Neutral colors, check. Safely hidden leg, check. Minimal effort, check.
Perfect.
Once dressed, I leave my room, making sure to close my door behind me for the sake of privacy – not that it’ll keep her out if she gets another idea in that head of hers.
I stop in the bathroom and brush my teeth. In the middle, I catch myself in the mirror and I freeze.
My God.
I’m only in high school and already I’m showing some age. Am I deformed? The skin around my eyes is thin and some dark circles peek through. I didn’t know that was possible at only eighteen, but I once heard that stress – or trauma, in my case – can do that to you. I use a brush to swipe on some makeup and after a puff of face powder, I head downstairs for some breakfast.
“Mom,” I say, my mouth in a straight, tight-lipped line before I even hit the bottom stair. I hold the railing but I move down each step at a pretty good pace. Not bad for someone with a bum leg, if you ask me, and it gives me hope for the day. I hit the wood floor with a thud. Maybe not.
“Youcannotdo that,” I go on. “I beg of you.”
I step into the kitchen, ready to beg for her mercy next time, when I stop short.
She’s not there. No one is. The house is empty.
Of course.
