Page 33 of Mad Girl

“Don’t let that man fool you. He’s very sentimental. He used to leave pink origami hearts for me everywhere—in my lunch, in new books, in birthday cards. There’s a jar on my bookcase full of them. I saved every one.”

I turned to face the TV, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught you smiling.

The following Monday, when I got home from school, you were back to waiting for me on the stairs.

LETTER SEVEN

91 WEEKS LEFT

We’ve run out of things to say.

There’s only so much I’m willing to tell you about the horrors of life in here, and there’s only so much you’re allowed to tell me about life out there without mentioning the others.

Today, you said, “Why don’t you ask me about them?”

I shook my head. “I don’t deserve to know how they’re doing.”

“But they ask after you all the time,” you said softly. “Tinsley’s hurt when you don’t answer her letters.”

“Please don’t talk about them,” I begged.

What I didn’t say was: Not knowing is part of my punishment.

Your gaze fluttered over me like a caress, from my eyes down to my hands, where my fingernails pressed into my palms. And that’s all it took for the tightness in my chest to loosen.

In here, your gaze is the only touch I’m allowed, and I cling to it. So much harder than I should.

“How’s Garland?” I asked instead, assuming it would be easier to talk about the nonliving.

You smiled. “Still creepy as ever.”

“I miss him,” I said. “I miss sitting in that room. Sometimes I sit on my bed in here and pretend I’m there.”

Your face blurred then, hot tears burning at my eyes, threatening to fall. This is another reason I can’t talk about them. Even talking about Garland—some creepy dead ancestor in a painting—hurts too much.

You reached across the table for my hand. But the guard barked, “No touching!” before your fingers could grasp mine, and we both jumped.

You know what I miss most about the Garland Room?

How cozy it is at Christmas.

The warm glow of the Fraser fir in the corner, its white lights twinkling, their reflection caught in the picture frames on the bookcase. The thick magnolia-and-pinecone garland draped across the fireplace mantle. The paperwhites blooming on the windowsill, tied together with blue velvet ribbon. The green poinsettias potted in the large blue-and-white bowl on the coffee table.

I can’t think of the Christmases I’ll miss in here without crying. My tears are splashing on the page right now.

Your first Christmas with us, you often sat with me and Garland while I did my homework, keeping me company, just like Nic said you would. I even tried your tea once—black with a splash of milk, no sugar. You smiled as I wrinkled my nose and handed the tea back.

“I’ll add a bit of sugar next time,” you said, “and we’ll have biscuits. You’ll love it.”

“I don’t see that happening,” I said.

But the next day, you called me into the kitchen, where a freshly poured cup of tea sat waiting for me on the island. You added a splash of cream to it, then a spoonful of sugar.

“Try it now,” you said, pinching at your bottom lip.

Seeing you like that—eagerly waiting, hoping I’d like it—how could I not?

So I did, and the tea wasn’t half bad—the sugar cut down on the bitterness, but not quite enough. I grabbed the spoon from the sugar bowl and added a bit more (approximately half a spoonful), and somehow that made all the difference.