Cut by Patricia McCormick

air. I wipe my eyes; the feet are still there. But the crying won’t stop. I’m shaking and trying not to shake, but it’s no good. I can’t stop. Claire says something about going to get help.
    Finally, a pair of white shoes pushes through the semicircle. Ruby’s there, rubbing my back, saying, “There, there, baby. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”
    Then you’re standing there, in your little fabric shoes, saying the same thing, that it’s all right now.
    You shut your door; I notice that it’s getting dark outside and wonder if you’d be home walking your dog or making your dinner right now if I hadn’t freaked out.
    “Can you tell me what upset you so much in Group?”
    I shrug. “Debbie.” It’s all I can say.
    “How did Debbie upset you?”
    “No.” I blow my nose. “Debbie didn’t do anything. I …she …” I rip the tissue in two and start again. “She thought it was her fault. About Becca.”
    I don’t dare to look at you.
    “I thought it was my fault,” I whisper.
    I glance at you, then away. You look worried.
    “I think everything’s my fault.”
    “What else is your fault?”
    “I don’t know. Everything. Sam.”
    “Sam?”
    “It’s my fault he’s sick. Which means it’s my fault my mom’s not the same anymore and my fault my dad’s not around. It’s all my fault.”
    “Callie.” Your voice is gentle. “How can all those things be your fault?”
    “I don’t know. They just are.”
    “How is it your fault that Sam is sick?”
    “I made him cry? I got him upset?” I’ve always taken this for granted; as I say it out loud, though, it sounds stupid.
    “Callie, I’m a doctor,” you say. “If I tell you that a person doesn’t get asthma from crying, from being upset, will you believe me?”
    I shrug.
    “Asthma is a kind of allergic reaction. People can develop it when they come in contact with certain substances, like pollen or dust. Sometimes a viral infection can trigger an attack. But you can’t give asthma to someone. The allergic response is already in their system.”
    The fog is clouding my mind again. What you’re saying sounds like something from biology class; it doesn’t have anything to do with me or Sam or my mom being scared all the time and my dad being gone all the time. I look for the rabbit on the ceiling but can’t quite find him.
    “Has anyone told you all these things are your fault?” you interrupt.
    “No one has to. I just know.”
    “Does anyone punish you for these things?”
    I shake my head.
    “No one?”
    I look up at you. You still look concerned.
    “What about you? Aren’t you punishing yourself? By hurting yourself?”
    I don’t understand. “No.”
    “Then why do you think you cut yourself?”
    “I don’t know.” I tear the tissue to shreds. “It just happens. I can’t help it.”
    You furrow your brow.
    “I know it’s bad,” I say. “I guess I do it because I’m …bad.”
    “How are you bad?”
    “I don’t know. I just feel like I’m this bad person.”
    “What have you done that’s so bad?”
    “I don’t know.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. “I really don’t know.”
    You look pleased and say that’s enough for one day.
    Right before dinner there’s always a crowd of people on the smoking porch. As I go past, Sydney taps on the glass door. I stop and watch as she gestures for me to come out. Before I can decide what to do, she grinds out her cigarette and comes in to get me.
    “C’mon, S.T.,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Come outside with us.”
    I pull my sleeve down over my thumb and follow, trying to match her big strides as her ponytail bobs up and down in front of me.
    “Guess I can’t call you S.T anymore.” She waits at the door for me to catch up. “Now that you’re talking.”
    “It’s OK,” I say. “You can still call me that.”
    There’s a blast of cold, smoky air as Sydney opens the door. I step onto the porch,