The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,56

She looks at me, my back flattened into the corner, a death grip on my teddy bear.

“C’mere,” she says, wiggling her fingers at me.

I go, sliding under the fresh new sheets and letting Mom’s arms come around me in a hug, nice and loose, comforting. It’s not like the hug I gave Tress; not a hug that you’re worried someone is going to break free of.

“I know things are really difficult for Tress right now,” Mom says, her breath in my ear. “But arguing with Jill Astor isn’t going to make anything better for her. It would only cause hard feelings and arguments and more problems than we’ve already got. Do you understand?”

I nod. I do understand. But I wasn’t talking about our problems. I was talking about Tress’s. Mom presses her face into my hair, her voice warm and soft in my ear.

“I’ve only got one little girl in the whole world. You’re the most important thing to me, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Nothing happened to me, Mom,” I say, shrinking a little. “I didn’t get hurt.”

“There are different ways of getting hurt,” Mom says. “You’re still here in your bed, warm and safe. But . . .”

She doesn’t finish, at least not immediately. I know she’s being careful with me, trying to find a nice way to tell me I’m not the same girl who ran to Tress Montor’s house that night. She’s right. I’m here, all in one piece. But only on the outside.

On the inside, all my pieces are a jumble. A puzzle that’s been dropped.

“I know, Mom,” I say, rolling over to face her, snuggling my head under her chin. “I know I’m not . . . okay.”

Her grip tightens. Too much.

“You are fine,” she says, her voice rising. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

Mentally, I take notes: There is nothing wrong with Felicity Turnado. Gretchen Astor did not bring lice to a birthday party.

“If there’s nothing wrong with me, why do I have to see Dr. Gabriella?”

Mom pushes some of my hair out of my eyes. “Things changed that night, Felicity. For Tress, definitely, but for you, too. You can’t remember what it was, but something horrible happened, and you were there. That’s a hard thing for a kid to deal with. It’s a hard thing for anyone to deal with. There’s nothing wrong with going to therapy, and there’s nothing wrong with you,” she says again, emphatically. “But something happened to you. It’s like . . .” She scans my room, thinking hard.

“It’s like your porcelain doll,” she says, pointing to the dresser. “If she had a tiny crack would you say she was broken?”

“No,” I say.

“And she wouldn’t be.” Mom nods. “But a crack makes her just a little bit weaker, and the next time she falls . . .”

“She’ll break,” I say.

“Right. But you’re not made of porcelain, are you? You can heal. And we’re taking you to see Dr. Gabriella so that the little crack you’ve got can close up, nice and tight.”

“So I’m ready for the next time I fall,” I add.

“Well . . .” Mom stares at the ceiling now, her voice floating up to my rotating fan, her eyes following the shadows there. “I guess so, yeah. But I’m a mommy, and mommies don’t like to think their little girls are ever going to fall, and we do everything we can to stop it.”

“So who stops Tress from falling now?” I ask. “What about her cracks? Is she seeing a doctor to make her better, too?”

“I kind of doubt it, honey,” Mom says, rolling over to face me. “But she’s not my little girl—you are. You’re the one I’ve got to think about, worry about, and protect.”

Suddenly, I understand.

“You think being around Tress is going to make me crack more.”

She nods. “I think it might.”

I fall back on the one argument I’ve got, the one that should be the strongest, knock down anything else. “But she’s my friend.”

Mom’s mouth goes tight, words she’s not saying pulling her lips down.

“What?” I ask.

“Jill said that Tress hurt Gretchen the other night,” Mom says, eyes boring into mine. “Is that true?”

I feel heat in my stomach, the need to defend Tress hot and strong. “Gretchen was being nasty.”

“But did Tress hurt her?” Mom asks again. I think about the marks on Gretchen’s wrist, red and bright, matching her lips. I shrug.

“Felicity, I know that you and Tress were close—”

“We were best friends,” I say, then