The Girl in the Well Is Me by Karen Rivers Page A

the peach, only to find they are on the ocean. I eat my way to the surface of me. On my head, there is a tube that is blowing cold air.
    â€œ
Zut alors, Papa!
” I say. “Lassie,
quelle heure est-­il?
”
    â€œ
Le woof
,” says the dog sadly.
    Dad says, “Do you hear music? I love this song.”
    â€œBut you have terrible taste,” I say. “What song is this?”
    â€œIt’s that kid,” he says. “Rory Darren? The one with the bad hair.”
    â€œHe doesn’t sing, mostly he just meows,” I say. “And it’s
Devon
.” My dad laughs because I’m the funniest and my head is blocking the TV and no one can see whether the thing about the salsa is a myth or if it’s really going to work next time one of us needs to bust our way to freedom.
    I look up at the hole at the entrance to my freedom, which is bruised with night now, black and final, an abyss or a black hole or both. There are two new faces up there, both wearing large red hats. Santa! No, wait, they are cartoon firemen, which must mean it is Saturday morning and I am on the rec room floor with Robby, arguing over which cartoon to watch, but where are my Froot Loops?
    â€œTHIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!” I shout, which isn’t what comes out of my mouth, but never mind.
Glarg, glarg
. Words mean more than you want them to most of the time, or less, but never the right amount.
    â€œKAMMIE,” shouts a man in a red hat with a light on it, which is the light at the end of the tunnel, which means he is probably God or maybe a coal miner. If so, he took a wrong turn. This is a warehouse town! No one mines anymore. Or if they do, they don’t do it here. They must. Somewhere, someone is a miner, down there in the tunnels in the dark. Poor man.
    â€œKAMMIE,” says the man again. I bet he wishes he’d taken a job at the warehouse instead, even though those jobs are terrible and Mom’s feet are lumpy with raw blisters from all the walking and running she does all day long to meet the one-­day delivery promises made by the company. “KAMMIE, YOU HAVE TO TRY TO ANSWER.”
    My name, Kammie, is very strange. Listen to the two syllables:
Kam. Me
.
    â€œAMEN!” I mumble-­shout because that sounds like the password into Heaven. How do dying people remember what to say? I hope Dad can come, too, and his little French lass, Doggie, and even the goat zombies, who are now like brothers to me, I call them Robby Robby and Le Robby-­Robby.
    â€œROBBY!” I say, which is also not really a winner, being
Rob
and
Bee
.
I went on a robbing bee, and I took all the money.
You have to sing it with money having three syllables instead of two. Like mu-­uh-­nee. Try it.
    â€œKAMMIE,” the man shouts again. “THIS IS SERIOUS. WE THINK YOU MIGHT BE RUNNING OUT OF OXYGEN DOWN THERE AND THE TUBE ON YOUR HEAD HAS OXYGEN. YOU NEED TO GET IT INTO YOUR MOUTH AND THEN TRY TO BREATHE ONLY THROUGH YOUR MOUTH. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? IT’S LIKE DRINKING FROM A STRAW.”
    I hear, “Oxygen oxygen oxygen.” Everyone wants me to put things in my mouth. Haven’t they heard of hygiene? Hygiene and oxygen are both words that are made of silk yarn. My brain tries to weave that into a scarf. It doesn’t work. Why? It’s a straw! This hatted man-­angel, unemployed coal miner must think I’m very dumb, but he doesn’t know I have the brain power of all of us in the well. I am pulling more and more power in through my one bare foot, which is sadly now being nibbled by a crab who would prefer peaches. We can’t all be a peach. My name is Kammie. Kammie is peachy keen. I like saying peachy keen. I think I used to say it all the time. Tracy would say, “Do you like my new haircut?” And I’d say, “It’s so peachy keen.” This book is peachy keen. This show is peachy keen. How was school? Peachy keen. It’s an old fashioned