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  My wardrobe, and social standing, have benefitted tremendously from her opinion on this subject. My closet is filled with the finest haute couture a midsized town has to offer, and, as a result, the popular crowd at school has been forced to accept me, even if it’s just as Sara’s friend. She’s a bit shy and cares way too much about school, but look at those boots!

  I take comfort from surveying the collection in my closet. I know I look terrible, soggy and pale, but at least I can dress like myself. I pat my vanity and pride on the back with this one consolation.

  It’s mid-November. During breakfast, before the stool interrupted, the news told me it was going to be in the low fifties. Flipping through the lineup, I choose a pink cable knit and reach to pull it off its plastic hanger. It’s one of my favorite and most expensive sweaters, and this is the first time this year it has been cold enough to warrant wearing it. I specifically remember Melanie Cutten, the notorious leader of Samuelson’s own mean girls, complimenting me on it last winter. It seems like the right thing to balance out the rest of my appearance.

  I’ve never not brushed my hair after the shower. I’m vaguely, if not morbidly, curious what it will look like in a few hours. As I grab the sleeve of the sweater and pull with my left hand, I work to unravel a dreadlock with my right.

  I’m overtaken by a wave of chills that sweeps through my distracted thoughts. The floor shakes violently, and I brace myself against the closet door. Suddenly, strong hands in rubber gloves grip tightly around my throat. I see a dead body swarmed by flies in an old, abandoned shed. My mother’s face as her car slams into a tree. Overtaken with the violent visions searing through my mind, I stumble backward a few steps and the montage immediately stops. The room and my brain fall perfectly silent, and the poisonous static evaporates.

  What was that? I stand frozen in the middle of the carpet, listening to my heart thud against my ribs. In the back of my mind, I’m almost annoyed at myself for bothering to try to stop my monster from labeling more items. It’s not like I have much of value left.

  After a few seconds, it’s clear the presence is gone. Still shaken, I take a step forward and once again grasp the sleeve of the sweater to pull it off its hanger. Feeling its wool in my hand, I’m slammed from my bedroom into complete darkness. My dad is begging for his life as he’s shot in the head. A sweaty, tattooed arm with a bloody dagger rises above me, poised to strike. I throw up my arms against the attacker, let out a painful scream, and crumple to the ground.

  I’m dazed on the carpet, back in my room. The images have disappeared with my fall. Death and tragedy are replaced by the universal beige carpet, the familiar posters and pictures on my wall. I don’t move. Swallowing hard against a lump of leftover fear, I’m shaken by all the things I just saw. Each story or warning was filled with terrible, unthinkable violence. Basically a summary of my worst fears. Besides their gore, they all had one other common denominator: contact with the pink sweater that is now swaying four feet above my head.

  I can feel the cable knit hanging ominously above me. It is staring, waiting to be acknowledged. With squinted eyes, I slowly move my head to look at what I used to think was one of my favorite items of clothing. Anger is glowing from its threads, its frustration emanating outward in waves. I close my eyes and raise my face to it, in a gesture of both respect and submission. I listen for its emotions, holding open my mind in welcome.

  A few seconds pass and I sense it preparing, clearing its throat. A pause. It is furious, it declares into the silence, for having been ignored all summer and fall. Folded up, hidden away in the corner of a dark drawer for months at a time, while striped V-neck T-shirt and blue jeans—it somehow nods to the clothes at the front of the closet—got to spend the entire year in the comfortable closet. I hate you! it screams. Those images were a warning, it threatens wordlessly. Wear me again and there will be blood.

  From below, I raise my eyebrows at this direct threat. The sweater is . . . jealous? I rub my palms against the carpet, and as my heart slows, I kind of understand the sentiment. I wouldn’t want to be stored in a drawer nine months out of the year either. But did it have to come to this? It’s not my fault there are four seasons.

  Rubbing my forehead gently, keeping a safe distance from the row of clothes in my closet, I look closely at each individual hanging piece. It feels like the sweater is the only one with an attitude problem. Without much additional thought, I go to the other side of the closet and pick a silent, gray, long-sleeve shirt, who seems to be a little more understanding.

  CHAPTER 11

  Today is the third day I’ve shown up to school with no makeup and tangled hair. The past few days I have feigned illness to explain my ragged, damp mane and bare face. Other students, even Ms. Matthews, have inquired about my health. “Oh my gosh, you look terrible! Are you sick?” I was so nauseous this morning, I say, no time for primping and makeup. Must be that bug, you know? The one going around.

  I scuttle between classes, head down, trying to hide my face of gleaming pimples behind my wall of tangled hair. I’m embarrassed and ashamed to my core. My toothbrush has also been banned. I purse my lips against fuzzy teeth and rancid breath.

  It’s like everyone in the school has heard about me. Maybe not by name, but as the anorexic cross-country runner, or the crazy sophomore, or the girl who counts her steps out loud. I feel it in all the sidelong glances as I tiptoe down the hallway. The slightly squinted eyes and raised eyebrows that say, What happened to her? or Oh, so the rumors are true.

  Each questioning stare is a tiny dagger, and with each stab wound I get more worked up. This is absolutely ridiculous. I look absolutely ridiculous. I’m a sideshow attraction. A wet, dripping, pale, ugly monster. I flinch at the last word. A wet, dripping, pale, ugly freak.

  But do I really have a choice? Am I just supposed to wear cancer makeup and brush my hair like it was simply another step in my normal morning routine? Not possible.

  The school day is divided into seven class periods and a lunch round. Because each of my classes has its own enormous textbook and dedicated binder, I visit my locker three times a day. Once before first period, once during lunch, once after school. In the morning I put away the binders and textbooks I used for homework and load up my book bag with the things I will need for my morning classes. At lunch I trade my four morning classes for the materials I will need for the coming afternoon. With this system, I’m never carrying more than three or four textbooks and binders at one time, ensuring the weight of my backpack is manageable for my scrawny body.

  As I kneel at my locker, unloading the books and binders out of my bag from last night’s homework, my knotty hair falls forward over my shoulder. It turns out that in its natural dried state—no towel, no hair dryer, no brush—my hair is a flat, gnarled nest. It begins the morning in wet dreadlocks and progresses through a series of unappealing stages before reaching the final limp, tangled state it’s in now.

  Over the summer, Sara and I squealed at each other on the phone when we realized our lockers would be close to each other. It didn’t make up for being apart for lunch, but it was better than nothing. At least we would get to see each other multiple times a day.

  But now, months later, I’m packing my book bag as quickly as possible to avoid running into her. Having lockers near each other, once a cause for celebration, has become one of the main stressors of my school day. I miss her, I miss our inside jokes, I miss her texts. But letting her see me again with no makeup and ratty hair isn’t going to help my cause. With her focus on finding an older guy and getting invited to upperclassman parties, I know that this is something she just won’t understand, nor tolerate. Both Friday and yesterday, I’ve felt her glancing at me from her locker, surrounded by a gaggle of whispering girls.

  She can’t see me today. A third day without makeup, a third day with raucous tangles. I got flustered picking a shirt from my closet this morning and ended up settling on a misshapen turtleneck that I quickly found out is much
too small. It’s clear I’m not sick. That excuse can only work for so long. This is the new me.

  As I hurriedly try to pack up my materials, my schoolbooks and binders angrily voice their dislike of my locker. I will fail all my classes, they threaten, if they have to spend one more minute cooped up in a metal cage. And so, looking over my shoulder for Sara, I quickly shove two additional textbooks into my backpack and wrestle the zipper closed. Like a turtle with an oversized shell, I struggle to my feet under its weight. Moving slowly to maintain my balance, I bend over and wrap my arms around the remaining two-foot-tall stack of grumbling binders and books. Lifting, straining my quads, I clumsily stand upright, about twenty pounds heavier. Once I’ve pushed the doors open with my back, I wobble down the sidewalk, tiptoeing and counting.

  I skip lunch again. I’ve already bartered away almost all my food for the day and I don’t feel like roasting under Jenny’s and Rebecca’s suspicious gazes. And how would I explain this enormous stack of books? Note to self: Come up with a good lie.

  I follow my newly familiar path past the cafeteria, keeping my head tilted away from the entrance so no one will see my bare face. I’m trembling. Starving. The bowl of cereal I had for breakfast does nothing against a month of not eating lunch or dinner. The weight of the stack of books in my arms pulls me quickly down the stairs and I slam out of the building through the double doors. I half lurch, half tiptoe to my favorite place. My hiding spot behind the cafeteria.

  Safe behind the brick partition, I tear open my lunch bag and pull out the bag of cucumbers I am allowed to eat for lunch. It’s freezing today. My skin turns a gentle red against the dry November wind. Stuffing two slices of cucumber in my mouth at once, I think of my mother. I could hear her chopping the cucumber this morning while I was getting dressed. Strangely, surrounded by trash cans on an overcast afternoon, I feel a surge of love for her. Quietly, day in, day out, she makes my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Never complaining, only interested in taking care of her daughter. Popping another slice of cucumber into my mouth, I feel the heavy bagged lunch under my arm. My mom’s love-filled creation. In the back of my mind, I recall her explaining her lunch-building philosophy to me one morning as I crunched on a bowl of cereal: “I make either a ham or turkey sandwich, then throw in something salty, something crunchy, and something sweet!” (Warm smile.) My heart surges. My mother! My darling mother! She puts so much effort into these brown bags, and I just . . . I just throw it away? Surely getting rid of something she put so much time and effort into can only lead to tragedy. Throwing her lunch away is basically my telling the world, telling my protector, that I don’t care about her. This lunch is a piece of her, and I need to treat it with the respect it deserves.

  With that, my passionate speech ends and my mind is silent. I know that I’ve stumbled onto something important. Its weight sits comfortingly on my heart. I pull my lunch bag out from under my arm and, with a small smile, zip it gently into my book bag.

  I arrive early to precalculus, having left my peaceful hideaway as soon as the bell sounded to end lunch. My skin is chapped from the cold air, my nose running slightly. A few steps into the warm classroom, I look up from my counting to find myself directly in front of Sara’s desk. I smile at her, out of reflex and naive optimism. For a moment I forget I’m the new me. The pimples. The gnarly hair. The constant counting. Briefly, she’s just Sara and I’m just Allison, and my heart leaps as I think that she might have a good tidbit of news for me about Sam. But as we make eye contact, as I feel her examine my undecorated face and tangled hair, as her lips turn down into a frown, I’m yanked back to the present. She pulls her head back in mock disgust, gesturing at the pile in my arms. “Why don’t you get a storage locker for all that crap, Allison?” She looks around to make sure the few other students in the room are listening. “Or at least a hairbrush.”

  • • •

  Usually, both of my parents leave the house for work within thirty minutes of me getting up. And I’ve always appreciated this time alone in the morning. Before my nightmare, it meant I could get away with wearing more or less whatever I wanted to school. That halter top my mom would buy me only if I wore it with a sweater? These rules don’t apply when there is no one to enforce them. Recently, too, my parents’ schedule has allowed me to keep my new views on hair dryers, brushes, makeup, and a growing portion of my school clothes a secret. My parents see me in my early-morning pajamas and my late-afternoon running clothes (which I change into before they get home at night), but never in my actual school-day glory.

  It’s about eight fifteen a.m., and I’m counting gently to myself as I inch my way across the downstairs hallway. I’m startled when I look up from my toes to see my mom sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Hi, hon!” she calls without looking up.

  “Uhhh, hey, Mom.” I freeze in my steps. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I have a dentist appointment at nine. I figured I would drive you to school, then head on over there.” She is intently flipping through a magazine and hasn’t seen me yet. Holding my breath, I take a few tentative steps back, carefully eyeing the nearby cracks. I need to escape. I can’t let her see me. “I figured it would be a nice treat for you to not have to walk, especially in this cold.” My mom looks up. And on seeing me, her face immediately changes.

  “Allison!” She closes her magazine with a sigh. “You’re supposed to be ready! It’s eight twenty! We need to go!”

  “I am ready?” I glance at her as I walk over to my book bag and the enormous pile of books resting on the kitchen floor beside it.

  “This is you ready for school? Wet hair? You didn’t even brush it. No makeup. Yeah, right, I think I know you better than this. Now go finish up.”

  I look at her directly, a rogue tendril of frozen hair glued across my chin. “I. Am. Ready.” With a grunt, I throw my book bag onto my back.

  “Allison Marie. You cannot go to school with wet hair. Go dry it. Now. And do it quickly.” She snaps her fingers at me to draw my attention from adjusting my book bag and points down the hallway toward the stairs. Then she looks at her wristwatch. “Seriously, no more than five minutes. Bring your brush in the car, and you can fix your hair on the way to school.”

  An icy drop of water falls from my hair and runs down my back. Chills spread across my skin, and I feel anger bubbling rapidly to the surface. Why is she here? I just want to go to school. I just want to be left alone. She has no idea what she is doing. She doesn’t know the truth.

  “Mom, my hair is fine like it is. I’m ready to go now. Please.”

  “Allison, it’s November, for goodness’ sakes. You’ll freeze. Just go blow-dry it.” She can sense my mounting agitation but misjudges its source. “We’re not in that big of a rush. I’ll wait, don’t worry.”

  As she is talking, I bend over and lurch the foot-high stack of books into my arms. I lean backward slightly under their weight. After a few moments I find my balance and toddle away from her toward the door to the garage.

  “And those books! Honey! Go upstairs and get an extra tote bag. You can’t just carry that around like that. It’s not good for you. Why do you have so many books? This is ridiculous.” She is moving toward me now, arms outstretched, Mom mode activated. “Here, let me get a grocery bag to put all of them in.” She is touching my binders, trying to separate them into different stacks. Pulling my book bag off me, she is chattering about overworked students and our aching backs.

  With her every motion, or maybe her very existence, my anger rises by a few degrees. My blood is boiling, not at her specifically but at the situation. I don’t need her nosing around my life. I have too many secrets and there is too much at risk. She is digging through the pantry for a thick paper grocery bag. I can tell she is still speed-talking, but I don’t hear anything through the low buzzing in my ears. I don’t want her asking questions. I don’t want her interfering. I don’t want help!

  “Leave me alone!” I scream at the side of her
face as she tries to move my English binder from my hands into a brown grocery bag. My fingers clench under the stack of books and I shake the huge book bag on my back violently from side to side. “It’s time to go!” This is a full-blown temper tantrum. “My hair is fine. My books are fine.” A thread of spit flies across my face. I can feel my skin burning red. “Get away from me!” I’ve only ever screamed at my mother like this through the safety of my bedroom door. I glance up at her under heavy breaths. Her face is expressionless.

  There is a full ten seconds of thick silence. My breathing calms as I keep staring down at my book pile. When she finally moves, it is slowly, as if I’m a rabid animal. My mom stares at me. There isn’t anger in her face but something else. What is that look? It’s not one I’ve seen before. She licks her lips and nods her head, gathering herself before responding. “That is an inappropriate way to talk to me.” I can feel her skin inches from mine, her body heat pouring out from under her suit blazer. “I’m going to blame this on working too hard and exhaustion. I know you’re always up late doing homework.” We look at each other, but her eyes don’t have their usual smile. “But if this ever happens again, ever, there will be serious consequences.” She turns away from me toward the stairs to the garage. “Let’s go.”

  I galumph slowly behind her. I hear her get into the car, the engine roaring to life. If only she knew everything I’m doing every second of every day to keep myself safe. Then she would get it. Then she wouldn’t ask so many questions. But there’s no way for her to know, I acknowledge begrudgingly, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs. I’m always sneaking around, lying, hiding. I can’t expect her to see through walls. But she’s my mom, I protest to myself. I want her to just be able to feel it. I want her mom sense to tell her something is off. I haven’t been eating. I look like a deranged homeless person. Has she really not noticed?