Walking on Glass Read online

  Walking on Glass

  Alma Fullerton

  For Jessica,

  Chantale,

  and Claude

  for always being there

  when I need them. Love you.

  Contents

  A Personal Journal

  Just to Let You Know

  Journals

  This is Stupid

  Besides

  Jack

  Me and Jack

  My Shrink

  The Way She Was

  This Is How It Is

  Please Understand

  Honestly

  Roses

  All Good Things Gone

  If the Shoe Fits

  In the Car

  At Home

  Another Kid’s Shoes

  Downtown

  Visiting Mom

  Just Do It

  Maybe

  A Party

  The New Girl

  Am I?

  Just Because

  Anxiety Attacks

  Alissa’s Song

  What’s Wrong With Me?

  After School

  Jack and Me

  Nurses

  Walking on Broken Glass

  Alissa

  Homework

  Money

  The Conversation

  Talking

  If I Could Go Back

  The House

  The Date

  After My Date

  I’m Sorry

  Mothers

  Thinking Back

  Normal Days

  Spirit Scents

  My Arm

  Hard Core

  Sleepless

  Alissa Meets Mom

  Stolen Souls

  That Kid

  Wrinkles

  Identity

  Seventeen

  Relief

  God, Forgive Me

  Is She There?

  In Science

  Jack’s Mother

  Mom’s Room

  Questions

  Avoiding Alissa

  Breaking Away

  Hidden From View

  Dad

  Alissa Asks

  Conversations With Dad

  In the Hallway

  Forgiveness

  On the Way to School

  Mirrors

  I Should Have

  Waiting for Death

  The Penalty

  Opinion

  Murder

  Thinking

  I Wish I May

  Closing Doors

  First Signs of Life

  Maybe He Knows

  Dad’s Feelings

  Flashbacks

  Depression

  Gangs

  Could Have Been

  Surely It’s Different

  Mom’s Roses

  My Dream

  What Happened

  Remembering Mom

  Covering Mom’s Roses

  This Is Not a Life

  This Has to be Right

  Mom’s Birthday

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A PERSONAL JOURNAL

  Date of journal—

  between the start and finish

  JUST TO LET YOU KNOW

  I begin this

  under protest.

  The further you read,

  the more you invade my mind.

  Take something from me

  I don’t want to give.

  My thoughts.

  You will enter a place

  I don’t want to be.

  My conscience.

  JOURNALS

  Writing a journal

  for some shrink

  won’t make me

  feel better.

  It won’t change

  what happened.

  It’ll just make me think,

  and I don’t want to think.

  Mom thought too much.

  Look where it got her.

  THIS IS STUPID

  Shit happens.

  We have to

  deal with it.

  We can’t

  change it.

  Why pick it apart

  like a detective

  dissects a suicide note.

  BESIDES

  Only girls

  and wusses

  write journals.

  If Jack finds out

  I’m writing one,

  he’ll hassle me so much

  I’ll have to beat the crap out of him

  just to prove

  I’m no wuss.

  JACK

  I know Mom hates him.

  He hangs around

  with the King’s Crypt

  and shows up

  at our house

  wasted.

  But I don’t care.

  Jack has always been

  my best friend.

  He knows how

  to have a good time.

  ME AND JACK

  Jack pulls up in a kick-ass

  Mustang convertible.

  He whoops as he gets out

  and grins. “Not bad, hey?”

  “Damn right,” I say,

  wishing I had the cash

  to buy a car

  like that.

  “Come on,” he says.

  I jump in and we head downtown.

  We pass some girls we’ve seen

  at some parties,

  so he turns around

  and pulls up beside them.

  “Want a ride?” he asks.

  They jump in.

  We speed through the streets,

  blasting the music

  and flipping off people who glare.

  And for a while

  I forget all about Mom.

  MY SHRINK

  I slouch in a chair

  across from Dr. Mac.

  He takes my journal

  and flips through it

  without reading,

  like he promised.

  “I’m glad you’re writing.”

  He hands it back.

  “How’s your mother?”

  I spin my chair, lean back,

  and put my feet up on his desk.

  “Same.”

  He nods, waiting for me to say more.

  I don’t, making him ask,

  “How are you?”

  I shrug. “Same.”

  THE WAY SHE WAS

  I took the photograph

  from the mirror in my mother’s room.

  Her at the age of eight,

  perched high in a tree,

  arms stretched out like

  an untamed eagle,

  prepared to take on

  the world.

  I keep the picture

  in my pocket

  so I’ll always

  remember

  the way she was

  before she was caged

  by a baby

  she never wanted.

  THIS IS HOW IT IS

  Dad says,

  “Come and see Mom.”

  So I do.

  Mom,

  tucked tight in the bed,

  empty minded.

  No longer herself,

  or anyone else.

  Wires force life into a body

  left hanging

  like a marionette

  with no one to pull

  the strings.

  Dad leans close to her

  and whispers,

  “You’ll come home soon, dear.

  Everything will be better.”

  I know he really

  wants that

  to be true,

  but the thought of her

  comi
ng back

  into our lives

  makes my insides

  flip.

  PLEASE UNDERSTAND

  Mom’s mood swings

  always coincided

  with whatever

  Dad and I did.

  Up and down.

  Up and down.

  Pulling our strings,

  like big yo-yos.

  And even now,

  when she can’t move

  or talk,

  she’s still pulling

  those strings.

  HONESTLY

  I don’t want her to die.

  I just want

  it all to

  stop.

  Does that make me

  so terrible?

  ROSES

  Mom loved

  her roses.

  They grew into

  prizewinners,

  nurtured by her long hours

  and tender hands.

  They brought her

  a sense of fulfillment.

  I just let her

  down.

  ALL GOOD THINGS GONE

  I wait outside

  on the step for Jack.

  Vines tangle

  around Mom’s roses

  like bad times.

  I yank at the weeds

  and chuck them far

  from the garden,

  yelling, “Get Out!”

  The nosy neighbor,

  Mrs. Wingert,

  peeks around her curtains.

  She glares at me,

  like she thinks

  I’ve gone over the edge.

  Maybe

  I have.

  I throw a handful of dirt

  in her direction and scream,

  “Mind your own damn business.”

  She drops her curtain closed,

  but I can still feel her eyes

  on the back of my head.

  By the time Jack arrives,

  weeds are scattered over the yard,

  my hands are caked with mud,

  and I have a headache

  from clenching my teeth together

  so tight.

  IF THE SHOE FITS

  Jack pulls into a

  parking space near the lake.

  He taps my chest and points to

  a scrawny kid sprawled

  across a bench reading.

  “Want to have some fun?” he

  whispers.

  “Oh yeah,” I go.

  He struts over to the kid

  and kicks his foot.

  “Nice shoes.

  Your mom buy them for you?”

  The kid jumps to his feet

  and glances around,

  but the rest of the park

  is deserted.

  “I asked, did your

  mom pay for them?”

  Jack barks.

  “I—I guess so.”

  The kid clutches his book

  to his chest.

  Jack shoves him down.

  “I want them shoes.”

  “I d-don’t have another pair.”

  “You hear that?” Jack says.

  “He d-don’t have another pair.”

  My laughter mixes with Jack’s,

  and he plows the kid in the face.

  The kid covers his nose

  as his blood gushes

  through his fingers.

  Jack turns to leave,

  but that kid is staring at me

  over his bloody fingers,

  and I stand frozen.

  I wish that kid would

  stop.

  But he doesn’t.

  He stares

  like he knows

  what my mother did.

  He stares

  like he knows

  why she did it.

  He stares,

  like he’s expecting me to be nice.

  He just keeps staring.

  I shift my feet

  and look away.

  But I can feel him

  staring

  with eyes the color of

  Mom’s.

  Staring.

  “Stop gawking,

  you freak!” I say.

  But he doesn’t.

  “Stop looking at me!”

  I shove him hard against the bench.

  The kid’s head snaps back,

  like someone pulled an elastic

  attached to it.

  Jack turns around.

  He pounds the kid

  across the chin.

  The kid falls onto the grass,

  bawling

  and gripping the sides of his face.

  Things slow down in my head.

  A movie,

  paused,

  scene by scene,

  as Jack stands over him,

  kicking at his ribs,

  without giving in.

  All because I didn’t like the kid

  staring.

  The look in Jack’s eyes

  scares me

  because I know

  the kid has had enough,

  and no matter what I do,

  Jack won’t stop.

  “Loser!” Jack rips off the kid’s shoes.

  He leaves him lying on the ground

  bleeding.

  He trots to his car,

  carrying the shoes

  over his head like a trophy.

  I see the kid stagger to his

  sock feet.

  He wipes the blood

  from under his nose.

  That kid has to go home

  and tell his mother

  two guys beat him up

  and stole his shoes.

  And I want to puke.

  IN THE CAR

  Jack says, “What a riot.”

  I stare out the window,

  not answering.

  “You want the shoes?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “You should take them.

  Your shoes suck.

  They keep falling off,” he says.

  “Mom bought me these shoes.”

  I look straight at him,

  daring him to say something.

  But he doesn’t.

  He just shrugs

  and throws the shoes

  on the backseat.

  AT HOME

  I curl up on my bed,

  clutching my pillow.

  Trickles of sweat

  drip down the sides of my face.

  I shiver.

  My chest is locked

  like an iron cage.

  I gasp for air,

  but the cage just

  tightens.

  Every time

  I close my eyes,

  I see blood

  gushing from that kid’s nose,

  spilling onto his shoes,

  and me laughing,

  like some kind of an animal.

  I grip the pillow tighter.

  The cage grips me

  hard enough to make

  my heart pop.

  I sob,

  wishing my mother

  was home

  to open

  the iron bars.

  But she chose

  not to be.

  ANOTHER KID’S SHOES

  That kid’s shoes

  are still in the back of Jack’s car

  untouched.

  DOWNTOWN

  There’s a mural

  painted on the side of

  Mulier’s Grocery.

  An eagle.

  Flying free.

  Jack and I shake cans of paint

  and spray lines through the eagle.

  I step back, and it looks like a cage.

  At home,

  I stare at the ceiling,

  thinking about Mom’s photo.

  The word caged