Deadgirl

room. Her arms wrapped around me, and she tugged me to my feet.

“Oh God, Lucy,” she sobbed, her voice broken. “Oh God, I thought… We all thought… Oh God.”

My arms hung at my sides, even as she pythoned me and drew me in. She smelled like a mixture of strawberries and smoke—not the smoke of the beach fires, the smoke of cigarettes. Mom hadn’t smoked in ten years, and Dad had never smoked. Her head trembled against my chest, and her body convulsed with sobs.

That’s when I knew something was wrong. Right then, I knew something inside of me had broken. I’d never seen my mom this emotional—it should have torn me apart, I realized. I could picture me, just as I was, a bright orange-terry cloth dolly weeping in her arms, overcome just like she was. Scooped up in the wave of relief beside her. And part of me felt relief, and part of me felt tearful. But nothing came. Not even numbness—the sense of pain behind a wall. There was no wall, and the pain wasn’t real. Wasn’t pain.

She looked up at me.

“I can’t believe you’re safe.”

I offered only a weak smile. I didn’t disagree.

Her tears spilled over onto her cheeks, little streaks illuminated by the crystal blue of her eyes. My mom was prettier than me—not cuter, but prettier. More delicate. I didn’t realize how delicate until now. I'd always seen her as being so strong, as knowing everything and having every answer. Learning she was human after all didn’t give me any sense of comfort or enlightenment. It made me feel…empty. Lonely.

I opened my mouth and sucked in a harsh breath. A thin, almost invisible stream of white smoke whirled out from between my mother’s pursed lips and sucked up my mouth and nostrils. A surge of electricity hit me and threw my head back. My heartbeat doubled, and I felt my muscles tense and release. Not a spasm, but sudden energy.

Like biting down on aluminum foil soaked in caffeine.

A jumble of images hit me, things I’d never experienced—the dial pad on a phone, shaking and blurry, through a curtain of tears. A hunger, like I’d forgotten to eat in the shuffle of Lucy’s disappearance. No, not “I.” She. Mom. I tried to pull myself out of the vision, to distinguish my memories from hers, but the tide was too strong. A green plastic basket full of red, the only thing I didn’t have to cook.

I snapped my mouth closed, but the taste of strawberries still burned on my tongue. Fresh strawberries, too, like I’d just eaten a whole basket. But I, me, Lucy, hadn’t eaten anything. The sensation of having just popped a strawberry into my mouth was overwhelming.

I opened my eyes and looked back down. My mom’s eyes were closed, like she was sleeping, but she still sat stock-straight, and her face was white. Her lip twitched, and tiny muscle spasms shook her shoulders in little jerks.

I grabbed her hands and tugged at her arms.

“Mom! Mom!”

I squeezed as hard as I could and jerked like I’d pull her shoulders out. She didn’t move—she didn’t open her eyes.

“Mom!”

I reeled back and slapped her.

Her eyes popped open. My hand glowed with pain.

“Luce?”

She reached up, rubbing the red mark spreading across her cheek.

“Mom, you…you drifted out,” I said. “I thought something had happened.”

“No…” she said. “I didn’t, did I?”

I nodded too fast. I was just glad to see her awake and aware.

“Yeah.” I tried to laugh. “Maybe Mommy needs a nap, too.”

Mom looked down at herself, confusion fighting shock. She shook her head and quirked a tiny smile.

“I didn’t sleep very much.”

I believed her. The dark circles under her eyes would have looked at home on a runaway heroin addict. I squeezed her shoulder, feeling a buildup of that manic energy I’d stolen from her. Stolen? Eaten? I closed my eyes and pinched those thoughts off. I hadn’t stolen anything. I was tired. She was tired. I’d spent a long dream—You. Weren’t. Dreaming—in a far off, very boring land severely lacking in color palette. And now I was hallucinating.

Considering the day I’d had, I’d be surprised if I wasn’t hallucinating.

“Dinner?” I asked.

“Dinner,” Mom echoed, and untangled herself from me. She composed herself quickly. “Get dressed like a human, Lucy.”

I smiled wide and tugged at the flat, sloping lapels of my orange fuzzy robe.

“Humans wear bathrobes.”

She flashed me a sour look and left my room. I was bopping, and I felt light, almost bouncy as I danced around my room. I could have leaped on my bed and sang into my hairbrush with that energy, but then I’d have to kick my own ass. Hey, third curse word.

I raced down the hallway, and the only thing stopping me was my violent collision with Dad’s chest.

“Hey, Dad.”

My dad wasn’t a little guy, and the sharp set of his lantern jaw would’ve normally made me curl up if I wasn’t jiving off the odd bubble of energy.

“Lucy,” Dad said. “What’s going on?”

I frowned, “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” he said, and I stood up straighter. “You’ve slept the whole day away. You’re acting strangely. Your friends spent all night out looking for you, and so have I. Have you called anyone? Have you thanked anyone? Do you even care?”

“What?”

“Are you hearing okay, Lucy? And let’s not forget that I know you helped Morgan sneak out, and that I know you conned Daphne into sneaking into your room and hiding out. What were you thinking, Lucy?”

“What was I thinking?” I repeated.

No hug, no kiss, no ‘everything is okay, baby?’ I drew myself up.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “Did my near-death experience inconvenience you?”

He drew up even taller, and his shoulders squared off. Here we go, dummy. Enjoy.

“Lucy,” he said. “This isn’t about what…happened. This is about—”

“What did happen, Dad?” I said. Shut up, stupid. Shut up. “Please tell me. Tell me what happened, and how I should feel.”

“Lucy!”

“No, I’d love to hear it,” I said. My traitor’s tongue was having a fine night. “What are you worried about, Dad? Don’t believe me? Think Daddy’s Little Girl was out for kicks? Yeah, maybe I asked a group of guys to whip out a gun and—”

“LUCY!” He shouted. His voice actually made me stumble.

“Shut your mouth and go to your room. Now.”

Something like electricity crackled along my fingers, and bright spots of white wheeled behind my eyes. Anger pressed down on my chest, but my genuine fear of my enraged father buttoned my lips up. Finally.

“Can I have dinner?”

The words snapped like dry branches. His nostrils flared, and he sucked in air in such big gulps I could only imagine he was storing oxygen for the winter.

“I’ll have your mother bring it up,” he said. “You can stay there for the rest of the night, please.”

“Can I call—?”

“You can be quiet. Go to your room.”

I made a growling-squeak sound in my throat, turned, and went in my room. The slamming of the door in his face completed the painfully cliche moment. My hand tightened into a fist, and I hammer-punched the top of my desk. My monitor and the little metal tin of pencils bounced and jangled. Not good enough.

I grabbed my desk chair and flipped it across the room. It smashed the wall with a healthy thunk.