Page 13 of Mad Girl

“Why?”

“Well, because I looked like that. Then the whole disappearing-mother and rich, powerful, single-dad thing. We lived here,” I said, sweeping my hand across the room, “in this dark house with the giant eye in the ceiling. Also—Eleanor. You’ve met her. She’s kind of scary, too. I guess my life looked like something out of a horror movie, and I actually frightened people. Tinsley told me so once, when the kids in our class stopped inviting me to their parties.”

A deep crease formed between your eyebrows. “That’s maybe the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said, your gaze softly dancing over my face. “It was rotten of your schoolmates not to invite you to things. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They had reason to be frightened of me, and even if they weren’t, their parents were.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of what I did at my eighth birthday party.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“Have you ever noticed the scar on Michael’s neck right here?” I asked, pointing to a spot right below the jugular on my own neck.

“I have, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, I stabbed him there—with my fork.”

You blinked at me. “You did not.”

“Yes, I did. I stabbed him.”

“With a fork,” you said.

“With a fork,” I repeated.

“You’re fucking with me again.”

“I wasn’t fucking with you the first time, but this is true. Ask anyone. People love telling this story about me. I’m the girl who stabbed a boy at her birthday party.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Why would you do that?”

“Because he swiped the frosting on my chocolate ganache cake before the candles were lit.” I moved down the wall, located a specific picture, and brought it over to you. “Here we are. Me and Michael—Bree, too. Right before it happened.”

You took the picture and studied it closely. Bree, wearing a soft pink dress, the only one smiling. Michael, in a pale blue button-down and chinos, standing beside me, looking bored. With my blue floral smocked dress and expertly styled French braid, I didn’t look like a child capable of violence, but I didn’t look especially happy, either, despite it being my birthday. My eyes held the hard glimmer of a child who wasn’t having a good time, but still being made to pose for a picture.

“In this one,” you said, “you are a bit scary. Tell me, why did you really stab him?”

“I already did.”

You shook your head. “That can’t be your motive. No way you stabbed him over a bit of frosting. I’d like to hear the real reason.”

You were doing it again, Casey. Trying to tug the truth loose when I only wanted to give you the lie.

But I’d promised Michael I’d give you a chance, so I did.

“Jealousy,” I admitted. “Michael had been going through some rebellious phase with his mom. Libby would ask him to do something and he’d roll his eyes at her, or she’d tell him he couldn’t go somewhere and he’d give her hell about it. They were always fighting—because he was always fighting her, trying to get her to leave him alone. The day of my party, he didn’t even want to be there. He was only ten, but he already thought he was too cool for a little kid’s party—for my party. I saw Libby in the entry hall, trying to talk to him, and even though he was being a total dick to her, she still lovingly brushed his hair back into place with her fingers. He swatted her hand away and told her to stop, said she was embarrassing him. I saw that, and I thought, ‘How dare you?’ He was lucky enough to have this complete family with a mom and a dad and a sister. He had this wonderful mom who obviously loved him, and he did nothing but give her shit. He had something I wanted more than anything in the world, and he didn’t even appreciate it. Why did he get to have a mom, and I couldn’t have one at all? It wasn’t fair. He never swiped the frosting on my cake. That’s the lie I tell people, because it’s easier than telling the truth. He was standing by the cake, looking all pissed while he watched Libby light my candles, so I broke free of my dad, grabbed a fork off the table, and stabbed him with it.”

“Jesus,” you said, shock clouding your face. “Please tell me you regretted it.”

“Of course I did,” I whispered, blinking back tears. “He went down, and I immediately regretted it. Immediately. I thought I’d killed him. I wanted to take it back.”

“What happened after that?”

“Honestly? Pandemonium. All the kids started screaming and crying, their parents scrambled to cover their eyes, to get them out of there, and I started crying, too. I turned to face my dad and he had this horrified look on his face, like he’d just watched me turn into a monster. He snatched me up, carried me to his office, and locked me in there, all alone, while he went to help with Michael. They called an ambulance and rushed him to the emergency room, but I’d stabbed him below the jugular, so they were able to pull the fork out, and he was fine. My dad took me to see a psychiatrist two days later.”

I didn’t tell you about the stack of papers I’d found in my dad’s office after that. Papers filled with a bunch of big words I’d never seen before and certainly didn’t understand. Words like psychopathy, callous, narcissistic, unemotional, and screening.