I can die.
99.
once
When I was twelve or thirteen, I made my mom mad. I can’t remember what I said, only that it was terrible and personal, and I knew it. I knew I had gone beyond the pale, pushed the limits too hard. I ran to my room and shut the door behind me and, because I knew she could pick the lock with an unbent hanger to get it open, I braced myself with my back against the mirror hung on the back of my door. I put my feet against the desk.
She picked the lock. And then she couldn’t push it open.
Look at that,I thought.Look at that, I’m stronger than her.
Then she started kicking the door. She kicked it over and over, sharp kicks, yelling something at me. My back thudded with the impact, but I braced my legs harder. I did not give way.
Another kick, harder than the others. Another, harder than that.
The mirror shattered all around me.
I screamed.
My mom stopped.
“Oh no,” she said. “July? July? What happened?”
“The mirror broke,” I said.
“Oh no,” my mom said again. “Are you cut?”
“No,” I said. I wasn’t, but I didn’t know what would happen if I moved.
“Stay right there,” she said. “Hold still.”
A few moments later my mother appeared at my window, her face tear-streaked, a garbage bag in her hand. She pushed the screen in and climbed inside.
“July,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
She cried the whole time, picking up the pieces and dropping them into the garbage bag with her bare hands. “Hold on,” she said. “Don’t move. I don’t want you to get cut.”
I held so still.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
I could tell she was.
“I’ve never done anything like that before,” she said.
She was right. She hadn’t.
“I won’t again,” she said.
I believed her.
There was glass in my hair.
I glittered.
100.
now
