Page 18 of Mad Girl

You do know me, Casey. You know me well. How quickly you arrived at that conclusion proves it.

You waited for me to answer.

But of course I didn’t.

“Silence is one thing,” you said, “but I won’t tolerate this kind of shit. I won’t have you hurting yourself to get back at me.” Your gaze burned through those bruises on my face. “Did you do this on purpose?”

Again, you waited for me to answer. And again, I didn’t.

“You answer me right now,” you said, voice trembling around the words. “Or I walk out of here, and I don’t ever come back.”

I’d expected anger—but not a threat. As you shoved back the chair and pushed yourself up to a standing position, my resolve slipped. You weren’t bluffing, Casey. You stared down at me with tears in your eyes, dead serious, hope draining like quicksand from your face.

You were about to give up on me.

And I thought I wanted that. In the beginning, when I got here, I did. You were a reminder of everything I’d lost. What I deserved to lose.

It wasn’t until you shook your head sadly and turned to leave that I realized: I can’t give you up. I can’t lose that precious hour with you on Tuesdays. It’s the only thing I have left.

“They hate me here,” I said, and you stopped instantly, body sagging with relief.

“Keep talking,” you whispered, dropping back down to your chair, eyes still shimmering with tears. Like you’d missed the sound of my voice. Like maybe you’d missed that part of me.

“My cellmate hates me,” I said. “I got mad at you last week and ripped up her book, so she attacked me. Yesterday, I tossed her coffee down the drain, so she attacked me again. They hate me here. They hate me because of who I am and what I did. They hate what I come from, and they hate who my family is.”

You didn’t care whether it was the truth or not. You wanted my voice back so badly you accepted whatever I gave you, just content to hear me speak. You asked a lot of questions: “Are you eating? Are you getting enough sleep? What are you reading?”

The more I talked, the more you relaxed, my voice soothing something deep inside of you.

You think you’re so good at seeing the truth in me, Casey. But sometimes I see the truth in you, too.

The relief you showed today reminds me of the relief you showed that day you found me hiding out in the Garden after school. I snuck off to the park after our personal driver, Hal, dropped me at the house. You would’ve been expecting me inside, and I wanted you to worry when I never showed up.

The temperature had dropped to freezing that week, the sun hidden behind a thick haze of clouds. I’d hunkered down on a bench, hands stuffed inside my coat pockets, determined to stay as long as possible, even though my fingers were growing painfully numb through the wool of my gloves. A squirrel appeared near the base of a tree across the path, his little nose twitching as he caught my scent.

According to my research, squirrels had the ability to recognize human faces—to remember the ones who fed them, to learn their routines—so I liked to think the squirrels in that park knew me. That maybe they saw me as a friendly presence, someone they could always rely on for snacks.

While most girls my age had dozens of friends, I had three—and a park full of squirrels. And you probably think that’s sad, Casey, but honestly? The squirrels were enough for me. Friends asked questions, but those bushy-tailed creatures never asked for more than I could give them.

I pulled a pouch of pumpkin seeds from my backpack, poured a few into my palm, and held out my hand.

The squirrel froze, then sniffed at the air, training his beady black eyes on my face.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “It’s just me.”

He inched forward in short, jittery bursts—stop-start, stop-start—until he reached my boot, rose up on his hind legs, and sniffed my glove.

“Don’t worry. I won’t cry today. You can eat in peace,” I said to him. Experience had taught me that crying made squirrels skittish—just like people.

Fearless, the little guy placed one tiny paw on my wrist and reached out with the other, snatching a pumpkin seed from my hand. He held it between his tiny paws like something precious, then devoured it, chewing in quick, fussy bites.

I didn’t move—barely even breathed—because the secret to keeping a squirrel close is to remain perfectly still.

“You’re so brave,” I murmured as he snatched another seed from my palm. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

He nibbled beside my foot in silence. Like we were old friends.

A woman in a puffer coat walked past with her hood pulled up, her mouth pinched tight as she shot me a look. “We aren’t supposed to feed them.”