strange in your pocket— something that shouldn’t be there.”
Oh, God!
My chest aches with held-in air.
He can’t have seen the blade. He can’t have!
“Kendra,” Mom says, and she’s crying now, “you’re not thinking of suicide, are you?”
“Of course not!” I force a laugh. “That’s absurd.”
“Even so—I need to check your pockets. I need to know … . ”
I can’t breathe properly, can’t suck in air. I drop my backpack to the floor, lick my lips. “Mom—” I try to smile, but I know I’m grimacing. “This is all a mistake. I was a little down today; I admit it. I probably flunked my history test. That must have been what Mr. Blair was picking up on.”
One little lie isn’t so bad.
“But I’m not suicidal. I haven’t thought about it for months.”
Not since I’ve been seeing Carolyn.
“And what he thought he saw in my pocket—”
Is still there—
“was something I borrowed from the art room, to cut some matting. I meant to return it today and forgot.”
Okay, two little lies.
I reach for my blade and pull it out, trying to look nonchalant. I’m glad I always clean it off after I cut, glad there’s nothing to give away what I use it for, except a slight discoloration.
“But a blade, Kendra? Why would you have a blade in your pocket? And one without a handle?”
“It made it easier to carry. And I just forgot about it. I’ll return it on Monday, I promise.”
I don’t know if I’m making sense. I don’t even care; I just want her to believe me.
“But that’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be carrying it around like that.”
“I know how to handle mat knives, Mom. I respect them, believe me.” I tuck it back into my pocket.
Mom’s looking at me like she’s not sure what to think.
Sweat trickles down my sides. “Come on, Mom…. Has Carolyn called you? Have you heard any worried reports from her?”
“No, but—”
“Mr. Blair doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I tell Carolyn everything. There’s nothing wrong, okay?” I hug her fast.
Mom clings to me. “Your dad and I were so worried about you.”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Mom pulls back and looks me deep in the eyes. “You’re telling me the truth?”
“Yes, I’m telling you the truth,” I say.
And I am. Cutting isn’t anything to worry about. Now, the footsteps and the man coming after me—that’s something else again.
The kettle screams, and Mom switches the burner off. “Your dad thinks we should set up a session with Carolyn, to find out what you haven’t been telling us.”
“You can’t do that. My sessions are private!”
“How else are we supposed to find out what’s going on? You never talk to us.”
“I’m not supposed to!” I want to rip my arm open andlet the blood gush out. “That’s what teenagers do; they grow away from their parents!”
“Not like this. We’re worried about you, Kendra. You’re so unhappy. And if you won’t talk to us, we’ll have to find some other way of getting the information. We have the right to know what’s going on. Carolyn said as much to me.”
And you pay the bills. I can’t believe this is happening. But money talks. I just didn’t think Carolyn would be like that.
I want to slash my arm as hard and as fast as I can. But I can’t give in; I can’t risk Mom finding out.
I shove my hand into my pocket, touch the sharp edge of the blade, then the smooth warmth of the stone. I won’t let myself panic. Not until I talk to Carolyn and find out what’s going on. Because Mom doesn’t always tell the truth.
22
I shut the door to my room, take out my cell, and punch the speed dial button for Carolyn.
Her voicemail switches on.
I throw my phone onto my bed, pace over to my window, then come back again. The light on my alarm clock blinks at me like a warning signal. I yank out the plug.
I can’t keep the blade in my pocket any more—not now that Mom’s seen it—but I have to have it on me.
Need
to
Oh, God!
My chest aches with held-in air.
He can’t have seen the blade. He can’t have!
“Kendra,” Mom says, and she’s crying now, “you’re not thinking of suicide, are you?”
“Of course not!” I force a laugh. “That’s absurd.”
“Even so—I need to check your pockets. I need to know … . ”
I can’t breathe properly, can’t suck in air. I drop my backpack to the floor, lick my lips. “Mom—” I try to smile, but I know I’m grimacing. “This is all a mistake. I was a little down today; I admit it. I probably flunked my history test. That must have been what Mr. Blair was picking up on.”
One little lie isn’t so bad.
“But I’m not suicidal. I haven’t thought about it for months.”
Not since I’ve been seeing Carolyn.
“And what he thought he saw in my pocket—”
Is still there—
“was something I borrowed from the art room, to cut some matting. I meant to return it today and forgot.”
Okay, two little lies.
I reach for my blade and pull it out, trying to look nonchalant. I’m glad I always clean it off after I cut, glad there’s nothing to give away what I use it for, except a slight discoloration.
“But a blade, Kendra? Why would you have a blade in your pocket? And one without a handle?”
“It made it easier to carry. And I just forgot about it. I’ll return it on Monday, I promise.”
I don’t know if I’m making sense. I don’t even care; I just want her to believe me.
“But that’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be carrying it around like that.”
“I know how to handle mat knives, Mom. I respect them, believe me.” I tuck it back into my pocket.
Mom’s looking at me like she’s not sure what to think.
Sweat trickles down my sides. “Come on, Mom…. Has Carolyn called you? Have you heard any worried reports from her?”
“No, but—”
“Mr. Blair doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I tell Carolyn everything. There’s nothing wrong, okay?” I hug her fast.
Mom clings to me. “Your dad and I were so worried about you.”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Mom pulls back and looks me deep in the eyes. “You’re telling me the truth?”
“Yes, I’m telling you the truth,” I say.
And I am. Cutting isn’t anything to worry about. Now, the footsteps and the man coming after me—that’s something else again.
The kettle screams, and Mom switches the burner off. “Your dad thinks we should set up a session with Carolyn, to find out what you haven’t been telling us.”
“You can’t do that. My sessions are private!”
“How else are we supposed to find out what’s going on? You never talk to us.”
“I’m not supposed to!” I want to rip my arm open andlet the blood gush out. “That’s what teenagers do; they grow away from their parents!”
“Not like this. We’re worried about you, Kendra. You’re so unhappy. And if you won’t talk to us, we’ll have to find some other way of getting the information. We have the right to know what’s going on. Carolyn said as much to me.”
And you pay the bills. I can’t believe this is happening. But money talks. I just didn’t think Carolyn would be like that.
I want to slash my arm as hard and as fast as I can. But I can’t give in; I can’t risk Mom finding out.
I shove my hand into my pocket, touch the sharp edge of the blade, then the smooth warmth of the stone. I won’t let myself panic. Not until I talk to Carolyn and find out what’s going on. Because Mom doesn’t always tell the truth.
22
I shut the door to my room, take out my cell, and punch the speed dial button for Carolyn.
Her voicemail switches on.
I throw my phone onto my bed, pace over to my window, then come back again. The light on my alarm clock blinks at me like a warning signal. I yank out the plug.
I can’t keep the blade in my pocket any more—not now that Mom’s seen it—but I have to have it on me.
Need
to
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