“Cham,” he says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “This year was really great, but we’re about to go to college. Did you really think—”

If one more person says the C-word, I swear I’m going to drop out. Become a monk. Start an ant farm. “Never mind, Gene,” I say, turning my back on him. “Just never mind. That’s all the closure I need.”

I walk away, getting faster and faster. I want to run, but the blisters on my feet are raw and oozing still. I want to move until I feel something besides this angry ball of energy shooting around my body like I’m a pinball machine. But no matter how quickly I hobble, it’s not fast enough. I look down at my combat boots and realize I am in a flesh prison. That’s all skin is: entrapment.

And then it dawns on me that this is just a small version of what my dad might feel like. Oh my god, how is he not screaming every minute of every day?

The angry ball of energy gets more and more frenzied. I pass the last stragglers hurrying to catch the bus, then duck into the nearest bathroom.

I think I might actually explode, but there I am in one piece in front of the mirror. I want to punch it. I want to feel glass shatter in my hands because that’s part of what I liked about punching the bus window a little too close to Ava’s face. It hurt me. It seemed better to hurt in my hand than in my heart, or whatever it is that breaks when I look at my dad and he’s looking at the neighbor in the tree. How do you do this? I close my eyes. My forehead rests on the dirty mirror, with its smudges and streaks, as if every time someone looked in it, a little piece of them stayed. I wind my hand back and then make eye contact with myself.

“Please, Universe,” I say aloud, my fist still by my ear as I clench and unclench it.

“Not that. I do not want to dip into the dark shit of hurting myself. Please. Not. That. However my dad does it, help me do it too.” I pause. It’s a little creepy whispering to myself in the girls’ bathroom. My hand twitches and I keep going because I don’t really have energy to be self-conscious right now. “I know these are just stupid blisters and he’s been stuck in a body that’s been getting worse and worse, and I know it sucks to be one of those people who only relate to something when they personally experience it, but as you know I kind of suck, so please help me.” I sigh. I keep clenching and unclenching. “I’m truly sorry for interrupting you with my presence when I’m sure you’re very busy with other, more worldly affairs, but show me how he does it so I can do it too. Help me do it and help him do it and help all of us do it.”