I feel Mom’s hand on the back of my head, gently stroking my hair. The unruly red hair I inherited from her. “I know, honey,” she murmurs. “I know. We love you, too.”
day thirty-two
When I was five years old, my parents took me to Disney World. I rode the teacups a million times, got Mickey Mouse’s autograph, saw the fireworks show at the palace, and it was the best week of my life. I came home sunburned and tired and happier than I’d ever been, and bounced into my room with armfuls of new stuffed animals I’d refused to pack in the suitcase, wanting to check on my hamster, Freddy, and show him my souvenirs.
Except when I peeked into his cage, Freddy was balled up in a corner. Not moving. Dead.
I still remember how fast my five-year-old self went from feeling at the top of the world to crushed in two seconds flat. I guess that’s the thing about riding on cloud nine—it can’t last forever. And that particular fall was hard and fast.
Much like the one I’m experiencing now, in the art room.
I’m the first to discover it. Our art piece, ripped to shreds. Sad scraps of Lucy and Charlie Brown and Snoopy scattered carelessly over the floor. I’d come in especially early, just to take a final, admiring look, only to find this. All of that work, gone. Torn apart like it was nothing. Like it was there just to be destroyed.
No one else is in the room yet; I can hear the echo of clanging lockers and voices talking over each other in the halls. I don’t know how much time passes before Ms. Kinsey walks in and finds me there. When she lays eyes on the paper massacre, she audibly gasps. “Oh, Chelsea—”
She goes to put a hand on my shoulder, but I move away. My throat aches with the effort it’s taking not to cry. This shouldn’t matter so much. It’s just a stupid project. Just a stupid grade.
No. It’s more than that.
“I was only gone for a minute,” she says, distraught. “I was making a phone call… I didn’t see anyone… Maybe—maybe it was an accident?”