was doing better, sober for five months, but then the wave happened.”
“Fuck.” Nate’s frown deepens. “And Micah—how do you know he’s cheating on her?”
I tell him.
When I’m done, Nate takes a breath. Undoes the little pearl buttons on his blouse. Rolls up his sleeves.
“Okay. I need coffee. And some graph paper.”
“Graph paper?”
Nate shrugs. “We have a problem. Problems require graph paper.”
He stands, takes a step toward the counter, then turns to me.
“I’d like the record to note that you said he was perfect.”
“What?”
“Ben. You said he was perfect.” He leans forward and chucks me under the chin. “You know, Buzz, for someone willing to strap herself to a bomb and blow her body into outer space, you’re kind of a wimp.”
Maybe he’s right. But I’m looking at the math on this one. If a girl is left by everyone she loves, what is the probability that the next person she loves will leave her? You don’t need to be a statistician to figure that one out.
i wish angels were real.
Bench
Public Garden
Boston
19
Hannah
I reach into my purse for a pill, but the Altoids box I keep them in is empty. Panic slices into me, the same flavor as that time I thought I’d left my wallet on the D Line. I didn’t realize I’d gone through them so quickly. How could I have—
No, that’s impossible. There were six in here yesterday. I know it. I counted.
Mae.
The four corners of my bedroom—my new bedroom with its bare walls and unpacked boxes—slide in, closer and closer.
I’m off my bed and in the hallway, down the hallway, throwing open the door of her room before I even think to do any of it.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I say. Snarl. Growl. Spit.
She is not surprised to see me. My sister sets the huge book on her lap aside and clasps her hands together over her knees. Just like Dad.
“I’m sorry,” Mae says. “I had to.”
I let it go that first time. Tried to be sneakier. Didn’t want to get into it with her. But now: We’re fucking getting into it.
“No, you didn’t. You have no right to go through my things—”
“Where did you get them?”
“It’s none of your goddamn business,” I say. “Give them back.”
She looks at me, the smooth surface of a dark lake.
“I flushed them down the toilet.”
Someone—not me—reaches for the nearest thing and throws it at her. As it flies toward her, I see what it is and I stop breathing.
Mae reaches out to catch it, not to block herself but to catch it, but the model falls on the hardwood floor and shatters.
Mae stares.
Hundreds of shards—wood and plastic and bits of metal—are scattered at our feet. I see them now as they were all those years ago, when Mae and Dad took over the dining room table to build the International Space Station and a shuttle docked against it. It took several weekends. Their fingers, painting and fitting and gluing. Dad, building her dream right alongside her. His hands, shaping her world.
“Mae.”
My sister doesn’t make a sound as she slides off the bed and onto her hands and knees. Crawls.
“Mae, I’m—”
“Get out.”
This. Right here. This is why my parents wanted another baby. They must have known, even then, what a mistake they’d been stuck with when they had me.
I don’t remember to grab a coat when I leave. I didn’t ever wear one in LA. Sweaters. That’s all I ever wore. I hear Aunt Nora call my name, but I hurry away before she can grab me. Run to the T.
I call Drew before it goes underground. He picks up on the first ring.
“Drew’s Pharmaceuticals, how may I direct your call?”
“I could use some more of your pretty little pills, Drew. Can we meet somewhere?”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Drew?”
“You’re out of them already?”
I sigh. “Oh, Jesus, not you, too.”
“Not me, too?”
“Look, sell to me or don’t. I can find someone else who will—”
“Where do you want me to meet you?”
I am so grateful. It’s sad how grateful I am that I don’t have to spend the night looking for someone who feels as desperate and sad as me, someone who might know where I can find more.
“You remember that angel statue in the Garden?” I ask. “On the corner of Beacon and Arlington, but kind of hidden?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Okay.”
This evening my angel looks especially fierce. Dark storm clouds are gathering behind her, and leathery leaves the color of my mother’s spiced pumpkin soup swirl