the floor. “Is anything on your mind you want to talk about? Is there stuff going on at home?”
“At home? No,” Echo says.
Silence.
I can’t bear the quiet. I have an urge to fill it.“There is always stuff going on at home,” I add.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“What about the group home? Sheila told me they called a few days ago to set up your last intake appointment with your mom. She left a message at your house.”
I raise a brow and look at her. My mom has never mentioned anything to me. “Really?” I had forgotten about the group home. I can’t believe I actually was considering it. I shrug my shoulders. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to go anymore.”
Ms. Dally sighs. “That’s too bad, Melissa. I think it would have given you and your mom a break. Allowed you some breathing space to get things on track. Okay … Well. They say you’re a good candidate and you can reapply any time. In the meantime, do you have someone to talk to about what’s happening in your life?”
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
“My friends. My uncle.”
“Good. Well, if you need to talk, I’m here. And in the meantime, if you need to journal or to take a break from school work and sketch, then tell me.”
“Okay.”
Her intentions are good, but I’ve met countless optimistic, fresh-faced adults who think they can help me. Like they’re going to be the one who makes me cry or remember or confess or release or forgive. But there comes a point when you’ve just talked enough and you realize that talking can’t ever help you. You talk to counsellors and uncles and friends and boyfriends, and all that conversation—all those suggestions and interpretations—doesn’t change a thing. When their mouths finally shut, you still have the same family. The same life. The same sadness. The same fog in your head that dulls everything.
I ask to go to the washroom, where I look at my face in the mirror. I do look terrible. I have zits all around my mouth and forehead. My hair is greasy and tangled. My roots are black. My eyes are puffy. My eyeliner is running.
I put on some shiny pink lip gloss and try to puff up my hair. Then I move in closer toward my reflection and consider the person who is looking back at me. Maybe my eyes do look sad, but I don’t think I look like I’m going to break. One thing about feeling shitty inside is that you think you’re doing a good job of covering it up. So that no one will ask. So that no one will speculate.
You look like you’re going to crack. Ms. Dally’s words echo in my head. I pull back and give myself the finger and simultaneously stick my tongue out. “Fuck you,” I say to my reflection, and then I put my baseball cap on and pull it down to hide the hairline cracks that are spreading across my face.
Forty-Eight
I feel so empty. Everything inside is dry and brittle, and I just don’t care what happens to me or anyone else. I almost forgot this emptiness when I was with Michael. But it’s back now, more hollow than before. When you’re living in this void, the only thing to do is party and get high. So that Nathan’s hand slipping into my underwear can turn me on even though I wouldn’t look twice at him if I were sober. Even though it’s the K that’s making me so horny I want to screw his brains out. On K, it’s like all I want to do is have sex. And the more I have sex, the more stuff Nathan will give me to stay high.
So we go into the bedroom while Ally and Jasmyn and the other guys are partying in the living room. And Nathan and I do it. And I don’t care that my boobs are uneven and that my nipples aren’t the right size and that my stomach bulges a little. And I don’t care about the noises coming out of my mouth. I don’t even care that Anthony has opened the door and is standing there, watching. And I don’t care that Nathan has an ugly, pockmarked face and a scrawny body and crooked teeth. Because now, him fucking me … it’s as if he’s filling me back up with some kind of love.
I don’t go home for three nights. I figure this out only when I