The Stone Girl by Alyssa B. Sheinmel

then she rubs soap into it so that it hurts. It begins at her hip bone and snakes onto her belly. It’s beginning to scar.
The cut would not have left a scar, Sethie thinks, if she’d only let it alone. It wasn’t such a deep cut, though
    163 she did press the knife deeper as she moved down toward her belly, down to the fatter place. But as it began to heal, Sethie couldn’t stop picking at it, pressing on it. There’s a name for it, she thinks: to worry a wound. That’s what she did. She didn’t let it heal; she made it bleed again instead. But she likes knowing that she will have a scar, like how some people get tattoos to remember the important moments in their lives.
    She doesn’t bother blow-drying her hair; she doesn’t put on makeup. She chooses sweatpants, and she pulls the drawstring waist tight so that it rubs against her scabs, opening them again as she walks, sits down, stands up. Her mother suggests a nice restaurant about eight blocks from their house, and Sethie wonders how many calories she can burn off in the walk to and from the restaurant. She wonders why her mother is choosing such a nice place when Sethie’s dressed the way she is. She winds a scarf tightly around her neck and shoves a hat over her wet hair. She doesn’t mind that she’ll be cold on the walk to the restaurant, though; shivering burns calories, too.
    Her mother’s coat is black and fitted. Sethie feels like a little girl next to her; her coat is baggy, and she knows that without makeup, she probably looks even younger than she is. The doormen on Park Avenue tip their hats at Rebecca; a man in a tie doesn’t even pretend not to stare at her as he walks past. Rebecca takes it all in stride. Sethie looks at her feet as they walk. None of them are looking at her, not the way she looks now. But she can remember, a only a year or two ago, when the men began looking at her more than they
    164 did her mother. She can remember feeling both triumphant and guilty.
    When they sit down, the waiter places a large basket of bread in front of them. Her mother reaches for a piece of baguette and rubs butter all over it. Sethie reaches for the cinnamon raisin bread with walnuts. It used to be her favorite; she used to ask her mother to take her to this restaurant just for this bread. Maybe that’s why her mother suggested this place; maybe she remembered that it used to be Sethie’s favorite. She can’t possibly know that now Sethie would never choose a place with bread like this.
    But she can’t seem to stop her fingers from placing the bread on her plate, from ripping it into smaller pieces, from wrapping around the butter knife, and spreading the butter across the bread. She can’t stop her hands from bringing the bread into her mouth, her jaw from chewing it, her throat from swallowing it, her stomach from accepting it.
    It’s okay, she thinks, I can throw it up later. She looks down at her hands, and her stomach, and says silently, “Eat all you want, kids.”
    “Are you excited to go back to school?” Sethie’s mother asks.
“Huh?” Sethie had almost forgotten her mother was there, forgotten anyone was there, other than the bread.
“Are you excited to go back to school?” Rebecca repeats.
“Oh, sure. I don’t know. My grades don’t really matter anymore.” Sethie butters another piece of bread, puts it in her mouth, reaches into the bread basket for more.
    165 “Everything’s already gone off to colleges,” she explains. “Right.” Rebecca chews her own piece of bread. “Well,
    I’m sure you’ll be happy to have your friends back in town.” Sethie shrugs. I must have told Rebecca, she thinks,
that my friends were all out of town, so that she wouldn’t
think it was odd when I barely left the house for two straight
weeks. Sethie doesn’t remember, but that sounds right. When she waiter takes their orders, Sethie orders an
omelet with cheese. She doesn’t even bother specifying egg
whites only; it doesn’t