Walking on Glass (2 page)

Jack says, “What a riot.”

I stare out the window,

not answering.

“You want the shoes?” he asks.

“No.”

“You should take them.

Your shoes suck.

They keep falling off,” he says.

“Mom bought me these shoes.”

I look straight at him,

daring him to say something.

But he doesn't.

He just shrugs

and throws the shoes

on the backseat.

I curl up on my bed,

clutching my pillow.

Trickles of sweat

drip down the sides of my face.

I shiver.

My chest is locked

like an iron cage.

I gasp for air,

but the cage just

tightens.

Every time

I close my eyes,

I see blood

gushing from that kid's nose,

spilling onto his shoes,

and me laughing,

like some kind of an animal.

I grip the pillow tighter.

The cage grips me

hard enough to make

my heart pop.

I sob,

wishing my mother

was home

to open

the iron bars.

But she chose

not to be.

That kid's shoes

are still in the back of Jack's car

untouched.

There's a mural

painted on the side of

Mulier's Grocery.

An eagle.

Flying free.

Jack and I shake cans of paint

and spray lines through the eagle.

I step back, and it looks like a cage.

At home,

I stare at the ceiling,

thinking about Mom's photo.

The word
caged

echoes through

my mind.

I race downtown

with soap and paint thinner.

Instead of freeing the eagle,

I smudge it into

nothing.

The beeping

from her machines

shrieks.

A reminder

her soul is tethered to the ground,

a captive falcon,

circling in confusion,

longing for someone

to set it

free.

I remember the Mulier's eagle

smudging away,

and I think maybe sometimes

nonexistence

is better than being

caged.

I stand watching her.

I want to smack her

for putting us through this.

I want to scream,

“Why didn't you want to live?

You're supposed to want to stay here

with us!”

If she's going to die,

she should get it over with

and just

do

it.

Dad's right.

Maybe

Mom will fight.

Maybe

she will come back.

Maybe

things will change.

Maybe…

Right now,

I want to party

as much as I want to

shove glass under my fingernails.

Jack says, “I'll pick you up.”

So I go.

At the party

there's a

new girl.

Alissa.

Alissa

smiles at me.

I smile

back.

Jack yells

at his mother.

Her tears dry

on the cold linoleum.

Like the blood

I found on the floor

of my house.

Later, I say,

“You should be nicer

to your mother.”

Jack says,

“You're turning into a wuss

like your father.”

And I wonder

if I am.

I can't believe it.

Just because I blow up at some kid,

I have to see some

school counselor,

who is going to overanalyze

everything

I do.

It's bad enough that I have to see

Dr. Mac once a week,

because of my
stupid
mother.

I'm refusing to go.

I have to dissolve

one tiny tablet

under my tongue

every night.

But unlike the pill,

the pain won't

melt away.

Alissa sings in the choir.

A soloist,

with a voice

beautiful enough

to make anyone's problems

disappear.

Almost.

By the way,

I didn't mean it.

Mom's not

stupid.

I stand over Mom,

shaking inside,

and wonder why she did it.

Why she didn't think

about anyone

but herself.

Why she didn't think

about us.

Why she didn't think

about me.

Jack and some of the Crypt

push around

some kids from the choir.

Alissa is there.

“Knock it off, Jack,” I say.

“You gonna stop us?” he asks.

I don't answer.

“Loosen up.”

Jack shoves my shoulder

and walks away.

I sit on my bed,

staring at the walls.

When we were eight,

Jack and I rode our bikes to the lake.

I remember having to pedal

against the wind

and was tired by the time we got

there.

When we were swimming,

a big wave washed over me

and was pulling me out

deeper into the lake.

Jack grabbed my arm.

He dragged me out of the water.

After that, we promised we'd be

best friends forever.

Nurses lurk

around Mom's bed

like vultures.

But Dad guards her—

a lion

ready to pounce on

the vultures as they swoop

to take away his mate.

He doesn't seem to know

what the vultures

already know.

She's gone.

If Mom came home,

things wouldn't change.

Her mood would always flip

from bad to worse

in a matter of seconds,

and for the rest of our lives

Dad and I would

be walking on

shards of glass

from a broken

chandelier.

After French class,

Alissa says,
“Bonjour.

Comment ça va?”

I say, “Lahblah.”

But she doesn't

seem to mind.

Dad says, “Do your homework.

It's important to get good grades

so you can go to college.”

I won't go to college.

Mom's machines suck the

money out of our lives.

Leaving nothing.

Jack has so much

money

now

he just buys things

without looking

at how much they cost.

When I was fourteen,

I was suspended from school

because I was caught with drugs.

Mom freaked.

She yelled, “Drugs will take you on

the road to nowhere.

They'll control your life

and you'll end up a nobody

behind caged walls.

Don't let anything trap

you like that.”

I wonder if she knew then

that she'd be the one

to trap me.

Dr. Mac asks,

“How is school?”

“Great.”

“Do you have friends there?”

“There's the girl I like, Alissa,

and there's Jack.”

“Jack's your best friend?”

“I guess,” I say.

“You guess?”

“He's changing.”

“How's that?” he asks.

I go on to tell him about

the look in Jack's eyes

when he beat that kid up.

And how he took his shoes.

“Why do you suppose

Jack would steal the shoes

for you?” Dr. Mac asks.

“Huh?”

I look at him,

confused.

My teacher asks everyone,

“If you could change

anything in history,

what would it be?”

Kids say things like,

I'd prevent wars

or Bin Laden and Hitler

wouldn't have been born.

Other kids nod their heads to agree.

When the teacher asks me,

I say,

“Four months ago,

I would have come home

five minutes earlier.”

Everyone looks away from me

like my face is on

sideways.

It's too quiet

at home,

and it smells different.

There's no longer

the scent of the fresh flowers

Mom always kept

in the living room.

Instead I smell

dust, rot, and,

even after cleaning the floor,

blood.

Why can I still smell

the blood?

Jack calls.

“Come on a run with the gang.

We'll have a blast.”

“I can't. I have a date

with Alissa.”

“Pussy whipped,”

Jack jokes.

I don't answer.

“Later then.” He hangs up.

I borrow Dad's car

to pick up Alissa.

After the show she asks,

“How's your mother?”

“Same, I guess.”

Without saying anything,

she takes my hand

and I notice I can

breathe.

Everything seems normal.

Like nothing has happened.

Like Mom never did it.

Like it's all a dream.

I look in Mom's room

and expect to find her there.

But she's not.

I pull her picture

out of my pocket

and rip it in half,

dropping it in the garbage

as I leave her room.

Clear tape

works miracles

on the back

of old photographs.

Jack can't see

mothers are fragile

like a robin's egg

easily broken

by a child's hand.

Every day

I make sure

I'm extra nice

to Jack's mother.

So she knows

someone cares.

As I sit on the couch

staring at a cushion,

in silence,

I keep seeing Mom

curled up and gripping

this cushion on this couch,

alone,

crying

in the dark.

Instead of going to her,

I walked by.

Saying nothing,

like she was

invisible.

I hug the cushion

and smell it,

hoping to get a hint

of her perfume,

but it's gone.

All I can smell

is the

dust

left behind.

I go to my room,

take a pill,

and turn up the music

loud

so I can forget what

I remember.