The word breakthrough has been very important in the past few days, one that Amanda keeps repeating and saying forcefully, even though she treats me like I might shatter while doing so. She’s been doing a lot of explaining, told me how I’ve used Shanna to allow myself a little room to “act out” without the guilt. She even said that the white things I’ve been pulling out of my gums aren’t reed splinters or my twin’s fetal bones—they’re mine. Apparently when your wisdom teeth are super deep your jaw gets chipped a lot while they’re digging the teeth out, and those bits work their way up to the surface. Amanda has an answer for everything; she even explained away whatever Nadine thought she heard when I was talking to Heath, asking the staff if they want to know what a conversation between a teenage boy and girl that uses the word absorbed is really about.
Nadine has kept a safe distance, Jo retreating back across whatever line exists between those two and the rest of us. Layla and Brandy have been supportive in the best way they know how—by keeping me up to date on deaths in the area.
“Shooting on the east side,” Layla says, scrolling on her tablet.
“Read it to us,” Brandy says, and Layla does, all of us getting a little excited when she gets to the part about it being execution style.
“Head shot, good for us.” Brandy pulls out her phone. “There a name?”
Layla finds it and Brandy shoots a text off to her buddy at the DMV. “What are our odds, Sasha?”
I glance over at them from the window, where a solid inch of snow has fallen to top off the three that settled from last night. “It’s impossible to say. There are just too many variables: blood type, Rh factor, tissue match, distance from donor to recipient, plus we don’t know where we fall on the donor list, so—”
“Yadda yadda, blah blah,” Brandy says, mimicking a hand puppet at me. “It’s a game. You don’t have to be right.”
That’s the thing though, I kind of do. All the time. But my friend wants me to say something so I’ll do what I’m supposed to. I’ve learned that.
“One in eight,” I say, making up anything to get her off my case.
“I’ll take those odds,” Layla says.
My phone vibrates in my lap, and I tilt it so I can read the message against the glare coming from the windows. It’s a new message from Brooke, waiting underneath the one that came in right before Amanda made me find my soul in a microwave box.
Assuming yu r dead. Pls spectrally instruct yur parents to give me my old phone back.
I’m here—doing better.
Snow day 2day. BORED. Send invasive procedure pics.
Snowing here too.
My thumbs hover over the screen, wanting to say more, thank Brooke for being a real friend. I’m not good with those moments though, even when they’re not face-to-face. Maybe I’ll get a transplant and ask them to film my surgery for her instead.
A piece of paper slides under Layla’s door, and Brandy snatches it up, waving it in the air. “Oohhh, TODAY AT THE CARDIAC CENTER!” she announces.
I groan, not even turning my head away from the storm outside. Snow is piling on the window ledge, each flake distinct until it smears into the next.
“There’s not a whole hell of a lot going on,” Brandy says, scanning the page. “‘Scrappy Over Scrabble,’” she reads. “‘Come to the common room to outwit fellow wordsters’—oh Jesus, never mind.”
“‘Outwit fellow wordsters’?” I repeat. “That’s a mouthful.”
“This bit must be in there just for us,” Brandy says, still reading. “‘Note: Please no actual scrapping.’”
“Sounds more like Karen’s scrapbooking class,” Layla mutters, scrolling through her news feed.
“Ooooo, burn,” Brandy says, followed by, “Oh my actual God.”
“What?”
But Brandy doesn’t answer me, and her silence gets my attention as well as Layla’s. Brandy is holding the agenda out so we can read it, because she’s incapable of speech.
TODAY AT THE CARDIAC CENTER!
2:00 p.m.—Two Girls, One Cup! Join junior jokesters Paula and Mei as they entertain us with their stand-up routine. Note: The girls say audience participation is welcome, but bring your own cup! Can’t wait to see what these krazy kids have up their sleeves!
“They can’t possibly know,” Brandy says.
“They don’t know,” Layla agrees.
“Two girls one cup is—”
“I KNOW,” I stop Brandy before she can get far.
“We’re definitely going to that,” Layla says. “Those junior jokesters sound like some funny fillies.”
“Punny preteens,” I add.
“Clever cu—Ow!” Brandy yells as I throw a pencil at her. “You could’ve put my eye out.”
“She’s just trying to even you up. You’re top heavy with two eyes and one foot,” Layla says, and my phone vibrates again.
From Isaac
That wierd girl said you’re doing better? Why don’t you answer me?
I try to ignore the fact that he must have misspelled weird enough times that autocorrect gave up on him.
“Be right back,” I tell the girls, unfolding myself off Layla’s couch. “And I think the Scrabble thing could be cool.”
Brandy makes a face. “For you, maybe.”
I cross the hall to my room, shut the door behind me, and call Isaac. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey.” He’s guarded, fences up in his voice that I’ve never heard there before. That’s on me, ignoring his texts while I sort out Sasha from Shanna. But I can’t explain, not right now, so I’ll pretend I don’t notice.
“Hey. So . . . you talked to Brooke?”
“The blond one?”
“Yeah.” There’s a hot spark of jealousy in my gut that he would even notice her hair color. What else did he notice? Her scarless face? No wires coming out of her torso?
“She told me at school you had some kind of attack but you’re okay now, or something?”
“That’s a bit of an overstatement. I’ve been running a fever, and they can’t pin down the source.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself to tell a lie. “They took my phone away because I’m supposed to be resting a lot. I just got it back but I didn’t text you because I’m not supposed to”—I pitch my voice low and sexy—“get overly excited.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second, and I think either I really screwed up the vocals or we got cut off.
“Wouldn’t want that,” he finally says, sounding pacified. “Smart move.”
“I am smart,” I agree.
Smart enough to have taken apart Amanda’s crappy do-it-yourself psychology project to find only one mirror when she left to talk to my parents after my supposed breakthrough. Smart enough to know it wasn’t an inverted image because Shanna’s scar was on the same side of her face as mine. Smart enough to pretend like I fell for it. Smart enough to say what Sasha Stone was expected to say.
“Smart, but a little effed too, you know?” Isaac goes on. “And I kinda like it.”
“A little effed?”
“Yeah, you know. With a shaved head and scars, the wild part of you is on the outside now too. We match.”
“Yeah, match,” I say, pulling a hangnail.
“So I been meaning to tell you . . .” His voice fades out like he’s about to admit something heinous and my breath catches in my throat. Isaac Harver defaced petroglyphs without blinking so what he’s about to say must be pretty awful.
“I read The Divine Comedy.”
It’s so unexpected that I burst out laughing, the sound so unfamiliar to my throat that it catches there, a jagged thing.
“What did you think of it?” I ask.
“It’s not very funny,” he says, which sends me into another bout of laughter. I consider explaining to him about how the ancient Greeks use the word comedy differently than we do, but since my life is currently measured by an unknown increment of time I decide not to bother breaking it down for him.
“So listen,” I say. “If I called you suddenly and said I needed you here right away, would you come?”
“You know the answer to that.”
I do know. And I know the sex is only part of it. There’s a lingering in his touch that goes past sensuality into affection, an edge of panic in his unanswered texts that is more than the loss of his go-to booty call.
“Good,” I say. “Keep your phone close.”
I hang up and slide my hand under the mattress to double-check that the knife I nicked from the kitchen is still here. I suck my lip in when the blade snags under my thumbnail, yanking my hand back to inspect the bloody half-moon forming. In my other hand, my phone buzzes with a text from Isaac, something he didn’t have the guts to ask me over the phone.
The sister thing, is that bullshit? Is your heart yours or what?
. . . maybe it’s yours ☺
Like the sound of that.
Talk later. Call whenever.
I drop the mattress, pressing down on my thumb until the drop of blood squeezes out the tip, my skin angry and purple. I wipe my finger on the clean sheet, leaving behind a streak of red, and glance back at the text.
Yes, this is probably going to hurt him.
But it’s going to hurt me a hell of a lot more.
I. Things I Know
A. This will work.
II. Things I Don’t Know
A. N/A