“I realize now I’ve been saying

the wrong things.

I’ve always been better at writing

than talking.

I guess that’s why

I like being a writer.

With writing, I can take the time

to find the right words

and not blurt out something

I might not even mean.

I’ve never been great at talking.”

“No argument there.”

Mom laughs.

“You’re good with words.

Just be careful

to use them as tools,

not weapons.”

I jump up.

“Great point, Mom!”

I look her in the eyes.

“You need to remember it, too.

Do you know what it feels like to

be called

a big ol’ fat thing?”

I lean in.

“Thing!”

I say it softer.

Slower.

I pull away,

starfish,

make myself as big as I can.

“Take a good look, Mom.”

I turn in a circle.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“Am I just a thing to you?

Behold the

thiiiiiiiiing!”

Mom buries her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry.

So very sorry.

Thing is a horrible word.

It should never be used

to describe any person.

I wish I could take back

ever saying that.

I honestly never meant to hurt you.

Ever.”

I flop down on the bed,

exhausted.

I want to believe her,

but I can’t trust her.

She tries to hug me,

but I jerk away.

The hurt’s still too deep.

After Mom shuts the door behind her,

Gigi curls up against my neck,

and we both fall into a deep sleep.

PROUD OF ME

At my next session with Doc,

I tell her about Gigi and

standing up to Marissa and Kortnee.

“You defended yourself

without attacking them.

You did great!”

“And that’s not all.”

I give Doc

the play-by-play,

tell her how I confronted Mom.

When I get to the part about

“behold the thing,”

Doc stops taking notes,

slides one hand up

under her reading glasses,

and presses on her tear ducts.

“Just like that,

Mom wanted to hug me,

as if—”

“As if everything’s fine now?”

Doc finishes my sentence.

I nod.

“I feel better, but not okay.

I think there’s more

I want to say.”

“We’ll work on it.”

Doc hands me a notebook

and tells me what to do.

“And, Ellie, I’m so proud of you.”

If only Mom could say that.

I’M READY

“Enough’s enough.”

Catalina stops strumming her guitar,

clunks it down on a patio chair,

jumps into the pool, and

puts her hand out like a stop sign.

I stop swimming laps.

“Spill it,” she says

as we tread water.

I play stupid. “Spill what?”

“Don’t even.

I know you.

Something’s wrong.

You’ve hardly said a word in days.

Even though I have some

seriously mad conversation skills,

and can talk enough for the both of us,

I’m getting tired of hearing myself.

Speak.”

For several minutes,

the only sound between us

is Gigi snoring, snuggled up