At school, Micahâs been claimed.
He no longer walks the halls alone. Heâs been interviewed and accepted by a clanâthe Artists. The girls wear shorts and black pantyhose and an obscene amount of black eyeliner. The guys have wannabe dreads and share Micahâs air of indifference about the names that Damon and his ilk shout at them in the parking lot. A few of them even wear socks like Micahâs.
When I pass him at school, we smile, but we orbit in different circles. At night, though, when my house is dark and Iâm willing myself to sleep, we meet in the 100-acre-wood.
In the ethereal space of the internet, we talk every night. He asks about LogoLilyâs Word of the Day. I tell him that I make up words to make sense of the world.
He talks about the drawings heâs working on, and how his dad was an artist before he passed away. He talks about how drawing helps him feel like his dadâs not really gone. He tells me he has toâ
toâdraw to keep everything from festering on the inside. Art saves him, keeps him in the here and now.
In the quiet of my room, with nothing but the sound of Alice breathing from seven feet and a lifetime away, I tell him things, too. That Iâm trying to qualify for state in the 400 meter. How my mom died when I was six because her heart only had enough strength left to bring baby Margot into the world before it gave out. How itâs UC Berkeley or bust.
Some things, though, I donât tell him. Like about the episodes that send my brain into overdrive and my fingertips searching for skin to pick. Or about the night I found Alice. Or how I have to bring her (and me) back to save this family.
I know Micah has secrets, too. Like what happened at his old school. The way Damon shoves him in the hallway or the posts about him on the Underground. The semicolon tattoo on his wrist.
I donât ask about the words he keeps, and I donât tell him mine.
Some things are just better left unsaid.
â
Each night, I find myself waiting for that little And despite my best efforts, I find myself wondering about him. Itâs stupid, really, how much I think about him. About which rumors are true. About how this boy with his bright socks and big ideas doesnât seem at all like a Boy on the Verge. About how his art is dark but his smile is light.
Like I told Sam, my brain has no room for boys. Itâs just nice to have someone to talk to in the darkness. Itâs also a nice distraction from the Alice of it all.
Since the Night of the Missed Curfew, sheâs stopped going to her weekly therapy and started sneaking out in the middle of the night. I pretend to be asleep while she stealths out of the house. I lie in the dark, my mind spinning, fingers picking, until she comes back. Most of the time I donât even know Iâve started scratching at my skin. All I know is, it helps me focus on the pain instead of the panic of where sheâs gone, what sheâs doing.
This is what Micah doesnât understand. Alice does not want to talk with me about Mostly, we all try to stay out of her way. I bury myself in homework while also trying to come up with whatever it is Iâm supposed to do for my next muse-discovery meeting with Micah. Margotâs lost in Harry Potter, and Dadâs still trying to convince everyone that things are back to normal, except heâs taken on extra evening classes just to escape. And Staci? Sheâs appointed herself the captain of the Alice Pep Squad, constantly trying to yank Alice out of her post-Fairview funk.
So far, sheâs helped Alice sign up for online classes and convinced her to join her daily yoga sessions, which is more progress than Iâve made on my help-Alice-be-Alice-again plan. Every online search I do ends up with the same answer:
So I give her space. So much space I can barely see her anymore.
And the only progress Iâve made on my own brain is that Iâve clipped my fingernails so short that I canât scratch holes into my stomach.
In the evenings, we sit down to vegan/organic spreads created by Staci because is one of the top Fairview tips.
So, we sit, doing our darnedest to obey the rules, around a dining table with inedible food, so hard I fear one of us might burst into flames. I watch from outside my body, like weâre on a sitcom. Tonightâs episode: âFamily Pretends Everything Is Fine!â
Camera pans out, revealing a perfectly normal family, eating some sort of Elmerâs-glue-looking tofu.
DAD How was school today?
Lily, who is not really Lily because real Lily is doing backflips on the ceiling, inspects jiggly substance on her fork. Puts it back onto her plate.
DAD (Tapping hand like itâs a faulty microphone.)
Hello? Is this thing on?
MARGOT My team got into the final round of Math Olympiad!
DAD Thatâs great, honey. You gonna win?
Definitely! I made a whole set of flash cards!
DAD Thatâs my girl.
Margot beams.
More scratching of forks. The Sister Formerly Known as Alice pushes food around on her plate, making eye contact with no one. Lily-not-Lily wonders if everyone else is doing backflips on the ceiling, too. Under the table, she picks at her skin. Turns out short fingernails are no match for monsters.
STACI This is so nice, having everyone around the table.
Dad lays hand on top of Staciâs.
DAD I feel like weâre finally putting this whole thing behind us.
THE SISTER FORMERLY KNOWN AS ALICE And by âthis thing,â you mean me?
No. Oh, honey, no. That came out wrong. I just meantâ
THE SISTER FORMERLY KNOWN AS ALICE Yeah, thanks. I know exactly what you meant.
Shoves her chair back abruptly and stands, plate in hand.
THE SISTER FORMERLY KNOWN AS ALICE Can I be excused?
Dad nods. Alice exits. The entire room exhales. Dad pushes back from the table slightly, runs his hands through his hair, and stares at his barely touched tofu.
STACI (Squeezing Dadâs hand.)
Itâs an adjustment period. For all of us.
DAD (Putting on his everythingâs-fine face.)
Lil. Howâs that poetry contest coming?
Perfect.
Under the table, Lily bleeds where no one can see.
END SCENE