the air heavier, greener , the weeds tickling my ankles.
My stomach cramped with hunger as we moved in a single line, but I wasn’t about to ask for a break when we’d just gotten started. Still, everything I saw and heard seemed to remind me of food. The crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot drifted from the upper reaches like overturned potato chips, while the bag that bumped with regularity against my leg created a staccato of orange splats, like melted cheese dripping onto a counter.
I’m sure Jazz noticed from behind whenever I tripped over a root or rock, though she never said anything. Hobbs, who led the way, didn’t speak, either, unless I spoke first, like the time I realized I couldn’t see Jazz behind us when I stopped to look.
“Don’t go too fast, or we’ll lose Jazz,” I said.
“Right.” He shifted his backpack. “We wouldn’t want to lose Jazz.”
I should’ve been happy, because we were on our way; we’d get to the glades. But it was hard to be happy when the day smelled like a big pot of I-hate-your-guts.
When I was five, there was a storm cloud over Tramp that hadthe eye and tail of a monster, and brought the loudest thunder I can remember, filling my head with black icicles along with the regular burst of mustard-gold fog. Some in town swore that it brought a tornado, because it ripped limbs off trees and knocked the power out for a week. Whatever it was, it became a source of childhood nightmares for me. I’d wake after being chased by black icicles, and Mama would bring in a damp washcloth to soothe my skin and wipe away my tears. Oftentimes she’d fall asleep on the covers with me still attached to her like a barnacle, and I’d drape the washcloth over her nose and eyes to try to wake her. But not much bothered Mama when she was sleeping.
If Jazz were a storm, she’d be a storm like that. I could feel the pressure of her sometimes in the small spaces behind my cheeks—a promise of hard rain and wind and darkness, a willingness to rip limbs from branches. Whenever I’d felt that pressure from her at home, I’d left the house. Gone for a walk or a swim in the stream that ran through town, or headed across the road to see if Mrs. Magee’s cat had more babies. Something about Pippin’s purr always put my head back in the right place, the deep sounds spindling from ear to spine, relaxing my muscles as I pet her and admired her wee ones. I couldn’t do anything like that now. I couldn’t leave. I needed my companions, was dependent on them both.
I tried to remember that there were two ways to see even this situation. I would be stuck with a pair of mad and quiet people for three days. But being stuck would give me time to practice using my peripheral vision. Maybe I’d get better at everything. Maybe I’d prove that I didn’t need those glasses after all. It was the last thought I had before I tripped and fell on my forearms again.
In retrospect, I’d say the fall was a good and fortunate thing, but in that moment it seemed like anything but. Jazz helped me up with a tug of hands, and called Hobbs back to us with a sharp word. He pulled out his bottle of Vladimir to help clean what Jazz called a mess of dirt and blood , and again offered me a sip as a mentalanalgesic. That’s when Jazz said something along the lines of “Booze? Olivia needs to reduce her inhibitions like I need another excuse to punch you in the face.”
It didn’t matter that I would’ve said no.
They started in on each other again, name-calling worse than ever, until the pressure building inside me threatened to rip the skin clear off my body.
“Go away!” I cried, covering my ears with my hands. “Both of you, just get away from me!”
I never yelled—not ever—but I guess I was pretty good at it when I put my mind to it, because they shut up.
“I mean it,” I told them with a neon voice that warned, I am seriously on the edge, don’t push it or I will explode all over you . “Take a
My stomach cramped with hunger as we moved in a single line, but I wasn’t about to ask for a break when we’d just gotten started. Still, everything I saw and heard seemed to remind me of food. The crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot drifted from the upper reaches like overturned potato chips, while the bag that bumped with regularity against my leg created a staccato of orange splats, like melted cheese dripping onto a counter.
I’m sure Jazz noticed from behind whenever I tripped over a root or rock, though she never said anything. Hobbs, who led the way, didn’t speak, either, unless I spoke first, like the time I realized I couldn’t see Jazz behind us when I stopped to look.
“Don’t go too fast, or we’ll lose Jazz,” I said.
“Right.” He shifted his backpack. “We wouldn’t want to lose Jazz.”
I should’ve been happy, because we were on our way; we’d get to the glades. But it was hard to be happy when the day smelled like a big pot of I-hate-your-guts.
When I was five, there was a storm cloud over Tramp that hadthe eye and tail of a monster, and brought the loudest thunder I can remember, filling my head with black icicles along with the regular burst of mustard-gold fog. Some in town swore that it brought a tornado, because it ripped limbs off trees and knocked the power out for a week. Whatever it was, it became a source of childhood nightmares for me. I’d wake after being chased by black icicles, and Mama would bring in a damp washcloth to soothe my skin and wipe away my tears. Oftentimes she’d fall asleep on the covers with me still attached to her like a barnacle, and I’d drape the washcloth over her nose and eyes to try to wake her. But not much bothered Mama when she was sleeping.
If Jazz were a storm, she’d be a storm like that. I could feel the pressure of her sometimes in the small spaces behind my cheeks—a promise of hard rain and wind and darkness, a willingness to rip limbs from branches. Whenever I’d felt that pressure from her at home, I’d left the house. Gone for a walk or a swim in the stream that ran through town, or headed across the road to see if Mrs. Magee’s cat had more babies. Something about Pippin’s purr always put my head back in the right place, the deep sounds spindling from ear to spine, relaxing my muscles as I pet her and admired her wee ones. I couldn’t do anything like that now. I couldn’t leave. I needed my companions, was dependent on them both.
I tried to remember that there were two ways to see even this situation. I would be stuck with a pair of mad and quiet people for three days. But being stuck would give me time to practice using my peripheral vision. Maybe I’d get better at everything. Maybe I’d prove that I didn’t need those glasses after all. It was the last thought I had before I tripped and fell on my forearms again.
In retrospect, I’d say the fall was a good and fortunate thing, but in that moment it seemed like anything but. Jazz helped me up with a tug of hands, and called Hobbs back to us with a sharp word. He pulled out his bottle of Vladimir to help clean what Jazz called a mess of dirt and blood , and again offered me a sip as a mentalanalgesic. That’s when Jazz said something along the lines of “Booze? Olivia needs to reduce her inhibitions like I need another excuse to punch you in the face.”
It didn’t matter that I would’ve said no.
They started in on each other again, name-calling worse than ever, until the pressure building inside me threatened to rip the skin clear off my body.
“Go away!” I cried, covering my ears with my hands. “Both of you, just get away from me!”
I never yelled—not ever—but I guess I was pretty good at it when I put my mind to it, because they shut up.
“I mean it,” I told them with a neon voice that warned, I am seriously on the edge, don’t push it or I will explode all over you . “Take a
Similar Books
