Kiss of Broken Glass (9 page)

Once you start, it’s really hard to quit.”

Skylar tells me she had a long talk about it

with Dr. McKay and it takes me a minute

to realize she means the Pomeranian.

“I’m really sorry about the butterfly,” she adds.

“But Dr. McKay says I’ve taken a HUGE first step.

Just by admitting I have a problem. So maybe,

in a way, your butterfly saved me.”

She bites her lower lip and fidgets in her seat

like she’s trying hard to believe her own words.

But somehow she’s not sure. Then she pulls my

arm into her lap and before I can yank it away,

she swirls her black Sharpie across my wrist.

“Your first butterfly!”

She smiles and says how it’s stronger because she

drew it for me, instead of me drawing it for myself.

Then, she adds a dot to each antenna and tells me

I need to name it. And it’s just like when someone

sets out a birthday cake and says,

“Blow out the candles and make a wish.”

You can’t really help yourself.

The wish just pops into your head,

and before you know it, people are clapping,

and wax is dripping all over the frosting.

That’s how it is with Sean’s name.

It just pops into my head.

Like a wish.

A wish to be a better big sister.

A wish to be a halfway decent role model.

And most of all, a wish not to be

a pathological liar who someday cuts herself

with her little brother’s Cub Scout knife

and traumatizes him so bad that

he ends up locked in a rubber room

just like that poor pencil stabber.

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I don’t know why but even after

Skylar draws the butterfly on me,

I’m still thinking about that plastic

tape dispenser and I decide to start

talking with an English accent.

Just like Dan and Phil.

From YouTube.

“Hello, Love,” I say.

“Have you seen Dan and Phil?

Well, they’re bloody brilliant!

I just saw their shoot on Pancake Day,

and Dan wore his trousers ‘round his arse.”

Skylar joins in with her pinky in the air

like she’s sipping Earl Grey and she says

how she’d fancy another cup.

And Donya says, “Get off your bum,

you lazy wanker, and get the tea yourself.”

Then Jag tells Donya to piss off.

But not in a mean way.

More as a joke.

And we talk about how

Attaboys smells like a loo

and therapy sessions are rubbish

and we can’t wait to get our own flats

so we can faff around all day

and do nothing but watch BBC on the telly.

It’s fun talking like this.

Oh bloody hell.

It’s aces.

And it makes me forget

about the tape dispenser.

Completely.

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But that’s okay.

Because Mom’s picking Dad up at the airport,

so he’ll be here for tomorrow’s family meeting.

And I suppose there was only one flight available

from O’Hare to TIA and that was the 6 p.m.

The exact same time as visiting hour.

And I guess there must’ve been no taxicabs,

or airport shuttles, or rental cars, or buses

in the entire state of Florida, so the only option

was for Mom to circle around the terminal

in her Lexus until Dad’s plane touched down.

That’s the reason they’re not here.

It’s not because Mom thinks her car’s gonna

get jacked in this
lovely
part of town,

or because Avery needs a ride to gymnastics,

or because Dad can’t look at me yet,

It’s just a transportation problem.

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Since we don’t have any visitors,

Ding Dong lets me and Jag watch TV

but I have to sit on the end of the couch

and Jag has to straddle the beanbag chair

and she makes us promise to keep an invisible

hula hoop of space between us at all times.

“I’m watchin’ you, my little bandulus,”

Ding Dong says as she walks out.

But she has nothing to worry about,

because as soon as I’m alone with Jag,

I feel like I’m in one of those space-saving

storage bags with every ounce of air sucked

out and my thoughts are winter sweaters,

stuck together, flat as pancakes.

It’s a good thing Jag likes to talk.

He skates over every inch of awkward silence

telling me how he kickflips and ollies and caspers

as good as Tony Hawk. And even though I’d trip

just looking at a skateboard, Jag makes me feel like

I’m right there with him, sliding and grinding down

ledges and rails.

“It’s dangerous,” he says. “That’s why I like it.”

Then he raises his shirt and shows me a patch

of road rash chaffed across his ribs. But when he

sees my eyes wander to the small red-brown circles

singed on his side, he covers up again.

“They’re old,” he says. “Cigarette burns.”

He wrings his hands and looks at the clock,

and I can tell he thinks I’m judging him,

like self-harm is some kind of girl problem,

and any boy who would snuff out cigs on his

own skin must be weak or wimpy or worse.

Every brain cell in my head is screaming out

how wrong he is, that I don’t think that at all,

but I’m stuck in the vacuum bag without an

ounce of oxygen and it takes everything I have

just to squeak out two tiny words.

“It’s okay,” I say.

The room is dead still. And I’m worried that

I hurt him without even meaning to.

But then Jag smiles and runs his hand

through his hair and starts telling me about

this electric blue RipStik he’s gonna

buy when he gets out of here.

And I feel this huge rush of relief.

I guess sometimes

two words

are just enough.

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Yeah.

Right now.

At 6:30 p.m.

When I should be pulling her aside

and telling her about my amazing,

wordless conversation with Jag.

But she has to go.

Just like that.

They’re taking her to a long term

treatment center because Attaboys

doesn’t actually
treat
anybody.

Unless you count the drive-by pep talks

and a few minutes with a jelly jar.

They’re just a stabilization facility,

kind of like a drunk tank for psychos

where they wait to see if you sober up

and get your head on straight.

But if you don’t stabilize,

if you’re still a danger to self or others,

if you decide to rip your arm up

with a tape dispenser,

well then that’s it,

you’re gonna get committed to a place

where there’s even more chicken wire

in the window glass than here.

Before she leaves,

Skylar says good-bye

to everybody one by one,

and she saves me for last.

“I’m sorry you have to go,” I say.

“I need to,” she answers. “So I can get better.”

And this time she seems sure of it.

I think about her telling me how killing

my butterfly might’ve saved her and

how admitting that she was addicted

felt like a
huge
first step.

I still can’t believe she told

the Pomeranian of all people.

But Skylar insists it was

the right thing to do.

“It feels like such a weight off,” she says.

She rests her cheek on my shoulder

and gives me an armless hug,

so we don’t hurt each other.

Then she slips me a piece of paper.

“I even wrote it down.

So I’d never forget how bad it got.

It’s kind of like a confession.”

When Skylar walks out,

she’s smiling and waving,

tracing infinity signs in the air

with a feathery finger.

Friends forever.

I want to run after her

and get her phone number

even though that’s against the rules.

But before I can move my feet

or swallow the lump in my throat,

the double doors shut and Skylar’s gone.

Just like that robin in the sky.

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I wait a long time before I open it,

maybe because I’m afraid that

Skylar’s words will be like a mirror.

I might see myself in them.

When I unfold the paper,

I feel my chest tighten up

like a charley horse in my heart,

but I can’t stop thinking about

how Skylar looked when she left,

with her wide smile and her

infinitely happy hands.

So I force myself to read the poem

because I want to see how heavy

this weight must’ve been. How

getting it off her chest could make

her float like a feather.

And I just gotta say,

it was pretty freaking heavy.

This is what she wrote:

I made the first cut razor thin,

a gentle kiss on virgin skin,

then traded nights of peaceful sleep

for kisses that grew dark and deep,

until the slices on my thighs

soon withered hearts of butterflies,

and now there’s nothing left but this—

my aching for that empty kiss.

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On one side there’s Skylar,

putting the mirror in my hand,

telling me to take a real good look at myself.

On the other side there’s Rennie

and all the Sisters of the Broken Glass,

breaking the mirror and handing me the sharpest piece.

And Skylar is saying:

Stay strong.

Keep fighting.

Just admit you need help.

But Rennie is saying:

Have fun.

Feel good.

There’s nothing to admit.

And even though Skylar’s a two-ounce Tweety Bird

and Rennie’s a ten-foot, spider-legged giant,

they start to go at it, beak against claws,

and there’s no telling who’s gonna win.

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I figure the first list is going to be the longest

since that’s where I’m writing all the facts

that prove I’m not really addicted to cutting.

The second list is supposed to be short.

With the one or two things I hate about it.

Like the lying part.

And the laundry stains.

But that’s not exactly how it turns out.

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1. I don’t do it every day.

2. I can stop at just one cut.

3. I’ve never tried crazy places like my feet.

4. I don’t go very deep.

5. I quit once. For the whole summer!

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It’s all I think about.

It’s all I think about.

It’s all I think about.

It’s all I think about.

Even in my dreams.

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I can’t sleep thinking about those

stupid lists and I’m getting sick

of counting cracks in the wall.

So I start thinking about what

Jag said the other day.

How God could be whoever

I understand Him to be.

That doesn’t seem as pushy as I

remembered from my old church

with those stiff wooden pews

and all that Our Father and Kingdom Come crap.

It seems sorta . . . I don’t know . . . inviting.

So I figure, what the hell. Maybe I should pray.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Who knows? It might even put me to sleep.

So I do that sign of the cross thing.

Backward probably. Then I close my eyes

and sort of talk in my head. Like

Hey God.

It’s Kenna.

Remember me?

I’m stuck here

in this psycho ward.

But you already know that.

Anyway . . .

You’re probably pissed at me

for the whole cutting thing

because of the Bible business

that says how my body’s supposed