by Elly Swartz
DEAD SILENCE FILLS THE room.
Ms. P. claps and scurries onstage, unsure of what just happened.
The eyes across the auditorium stick to me, then slowly I see Bridgett and Hannah stand and clap. I refuse to look at the back of the room. I can’t handle the shock on Dad’s face. The numbers scatter. Can’t remember which one I’m on.
I run off and find a spot behind the thick velvet curtain where no one can see me. I grab the paper out of my pocket, pick a number, and count and count and count. 132, 136. Finally, I’m alone with my numbers.
Breathe.
Ms. P. finds me. The heat in my body rises. I don’t want her here. The sweat swims to the crook of my neck. Sticky. Hot. I speed up. 140, 144, 148, 152, 156, 160, 164, 168.
I know if I look up at her she’ll be staring at me, eyebrows raised, forehead shiny, head tilted, eyes intensely fixed on mine. But I can’t tell her. I can’t tell anyone. Maybe Mom, but she’s not here, not coming. 172, 176.
“Molly.” She bends down toward me. I feel her staring into the top of my head as my counting song crescendos.
180, 184, 188, 192.
A gentle hand rests on my shoulder. I flinch.
“It’s all right. I promise you. Just look at me.”
“I can’t.” 196, 200. Drip. Drip. The salty wet trickles down my back.
They’ll hate me.
I hate me. 204, 208.
“Molly, please talk to me.”
Silence.
“Molly.”
Silence.
Ms. P.’s hot breath blows toward me.
I nod and shift and bite my top lip. My eyes fall back on my paper. 212, 216.
She reaches down and takes my paper.
Please don’t take my numbers. DON’T TAKE AWAY MY NUMBERS!
Uneasiness marches up my calf. It’s braver now. It knows I’ve lost my armor.
I find the dots in the tile and begin to count them.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
4, 8, 12, 16.
I wonder if there is the same number of dots in each tile. 20, 24. Tiles one, two, and three all have sixty-eight.
“Molly, it’s okay. You can talk to me.”
I hear the stomp of the school emptying into the corridor. I stay hidden behind the curtain, but I hear Arianna’s voice in the hallway. “So what’s the deal with Molly? She’s totally flipping out today.” Her voice is like a slap across my face.
Ignore. Can’t remember how many dots were in tile one.
“She doesn’t feel well. It’s no big deal,” Hannah says.
“No big deal? She looks like the homeless lady who sleeps on the corner of Fourth and Ludlow downtown, and she, like, totally freaked out onstage,” Arianna says.
Just count. What number was I on? 108, 112. I can’t remember.
“Shut up!” Hannah defends. “She’s fine. She’s just sick. A flu or something. That’s it.”
116, 120. I wish I had paper. This doesn’t feel right.
“Well, of course you’re going to say that. She’s your best friend. But heads up, your friend has lost it. You’ll see, this is just the beginning.”
“Arianna, don’t be such an idiot. Molly’s fine. I was with her all weekend. She has the flu,” Bridgett says.
The flock goes quiet.
Thank you, B.
124, 128.
“Molly, please look at me,” Ms. P. says, jarring me back to my spot behind the curtain.
I can’t. If I look at you, you’ll know my secret. 132, 136.
“I care about you, Molly, and I want to help.”
“You can’t,” I whisper.
My concentration’s slipping. 140, 144. I feel a soft hand under my chin as she lifts my face and looks into my bloodshot eyes. The tears roll down my cheeks. “No one can help me. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late to get help.”
148, 152, 156, 160.
“If I stop, bad things will happen.”
“Stop what?” she asks, her voice like a soft blanket meant to keep me safe and warm.
“Counting,” I whisper. Then I say the numbers aloud, “164, 168, 172, 176.” My wounds are open now.
“Oh, Molly.” She reaches out and hugs me.
38
there’s a spot on the floor
THE HALL’S QUIET AND empty except for Ms. P., my counting, and me.
4, 8, 12, 16. As we walk to Principal James’s office, I reach into my pocket for my sea glass. But then I remember that it’s gone. Like Mom.
I’m worried about Ian. If Dad is here, who is with Ian? What if he stops breathing and no one’s there to notice? What if he needs to go to the hospital and no one can drive him? 20, 24, 28, 32. Yesterday, there was a story in the Boston Globe about a seven-year-old boy whose dad thought he had the flu. He tucked the boy in at bedtime and in the morning, the boy was dead. Some undiagnosed something.
If Ms. P. stops interrupting me, then I can keep him safe. 36, 40, 44, 48. She doesn’t get it. 52, 56, 60, 64. If I stop, I know bad things, awful things, will happen. That’s what happened with Papa Lou when I didn’t find the right spot on my shelf for Huey the raccoon. I can’t let it happen again. Not with Ian. 68, 72, 76, 80.
I see Ms. P.’s mouth moving. I think she’s trying to say something, but I don’t hear her. I don’t hear anything anymore. It’s me, my numbers, and my fear. 84, 88, 92, 96. She looks like she’s in an old-time movie with no sound. Her hands are gently brushing the air in rhythm with her mouth as her eyes gaze at me like I am a battered lamb. She doesn’t get it. I’m only beaten when I have to stop. I don’t have to stop. 100, 104, 108, 112. I never have to stop.
116, 120, 124, 128.
We turn the corner into the principal’s office. The hands of the clock finally creep toward 3:00 p.m. The bell sounds, and I wonder who’s with the class since Ms. P. is with me.
I’ve never been to Principal James’s office. 132, 136, 140, 144. There are two metal chairs across from his ginormous desk. All of this year’s class pictures hang on the walls, and next to his computer is a photograph of him with his wife and two children. A perfect four. I have five in my family. It’s not four and it’s an odd number. 148, 152.
The office shares a waiting space with the health center, and as I look up, I can see Nurse Ramos bending down to wipe off Jessie Anne’s bloody knee. If only my crazy could be wiped off. 156, 160. Then I see Hannah trying to get my attention from the hall. She waves. I don’t. 164, 168.
Ms. P. motions for me to sit down and Principal James smiles at me. 172, 176. I can’t let him distract me. The worry is beginning to retreat. A calm’s coming. Ian will be okay. The principal’s lips move. I drop my head down and focus on the numbers. 180, 184, 188, 192. I notice a spot on the office floor. My insides turn. Leave it. It’s not your mess to clean. 196, 200, 204, 208. I close my eyes. I don’t see the spot anymore. 212, 216.
My silence comes to a crashing halt when the door to the office flies open.
It’s Dad.
39
the death of spider-man
THE NUMBERS TUMBLE AND fall. They can’t shield me from the worry in my dad’s eyes. I’m not sick. Just crazy. And lost. Like my numbers.
“Molly, it’s okay. I’m here,” Dad says. His eyes are kind and filled with concern.
And confusion.
“I’ve been looking for you. I was, um, worried after your poem.”
“Who’s with Ian? Is he okay?” My mind races to the worst place. Dad has really come to tell me Ian’s dead at home in his little bed in his Spider-Man pajamas. I scramble to remember my numbers. I need them. I grab the ones that find my brain first. 240, 244.
He reaches for my hand. “Ian’s fine. Aunt Lucy is with him. In fact, she’s in the kitchen right now making him some of her famous pea soup.” He says it to make me laugh because Aunt Lucy’s a terrible cook.
But I don’t laugh. I count. 248, 252.
He leans over and whispers, “Mol, tell me what�
��s going on.”
I say nothing.
Dad looks over at Principal James and Ms. P. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”
256, 260. Just keep counting. Ignore them. Don’t stop. 264, 268, 272, 276.
“Mol, what happened up there?”
I sit silently and count. 280, 284.
“While I’m not a doctor, it’s my belief your daughter may be suffering from anxiety or severe stress,” says Ms. P.
288, 292, 296, 300.
Dad drops his head into his big hands and is quiet for a very long minute. “A while back, my wife left to live in Toronto for a year. I work a lot. It’s been hard on Molly.” When he looks over at me this time, tears roll down his cheeks. He reaches over and brushes my hair away from my eyes.
304, 308.
“I think this is the fallout from all of that. I know she’s upset, but I think she’s all right.” He turns to me, “Mol, what do you think?”
First, nothing. Then, slowly and so quietly that Principal James has to lean over his desk to hear me, I say, “Yep, I’m fine.”
Dad exhales, stands, and heads toward the door.
“Molly, what did you say after the word fine? I couldn’t hear you,” Ms. P. says. “It’s okay, Molly, you can tell us.” Her gentle voice is like a life jacket in a storm.
“312, 316, 320, 324, 328, 332.”
Dad turns back.
“336, 340, 344, 348.”
“Mr. Nathans, we believe that your daughter may need to talk to someone. We have a school counselor on hand if you’d like to speak with her. Otherwise, you can certainly pursue this on your own.”
352, 356, 360, 364, 368, 372.
“I appreciate your concern, but I honestly think Molly’s just upset about her mom relocating. Even though it’s just for a year,” my dad explains to Principal James and Ms. P. “I think it’s best if I take her home and she and I have a chance to talk about things.” He starts toward the door again.
This time I follow him out of the principal’s office.
376, 380, 384, 388.
I glance back at Ms. P. She looks at me the way I used to look at Hannah when the kids in third grade teased her that her gym uniform was too tight. I want to stay with Ms. P. She doesn’t care that I count. She doesn’t care that I’m crazy.
I stare at the floor as I shuffle one foot in front of the other behind the Pied Piper. 392, 396. I make sure to keep the numbers tucked in my head. No sharing.
When I move into the front seat of the car, I feel like I’m going to suffocate. I crack the window and pray. My scab itches. I scratch it. The blood trickles onto my sock. Socks. I hate them. I cross my ankles. Hidden sores. The heat moves up my legs into my body. I count faster. 400, 404, 408, 412.
We don’t speak the entire ride home. The numbers fill my head. When we pull into our driveway, I’ve made it to 600. A beautiful number. Dad turns off the car. The silence is loud. “Mol, we need to talk.” He looks at me. “What’s wrong?”
I’m crazy.
“Please answer me,” he begs in a hushed tone.
“I don’t know.” 604, 608.
“I know it’s been hard without Mom here. I’m sorry.” He looks out the window.
612, 616, 620, 624.
The tears make it hard to concentrate.
He hates me.
“We’ll spend more time together. I’ll take Fridays off.”
I look at him. I have to ask. “Did Mom know?”
“Know what?”
“About the final round. Being invited. Did she know?”
Dad looks away.
“Tell me.”
“Honey, she couldn’t come. It was short notice and she had some presentation at the Juice Convention.”
The air in my lungs shrinks.
“I’m sorry, Mol. I love you.”
Before he can begin again, I open the car door, bolt into the house, run up the stairs, slam my door, and dive onto my bed.
628, 632, 636, 640.
Just me, my numbers, and B. B. King. Until I look over at my glass animal collection.
“Ian!” I scream.
40
the power of the band-aid
THE NUMBERS SCATTER IN my brain like pick-up sticks.
“Ian!” I yell again. Anger and worry compete for my attention. 644, 648, 652, 656. My glass figurines are crooked, cock-eyed, knocked over. Everything is out of order.
B. B. King’s beat interrupts my thoughts to remind me there were supposed to be twenty-five days until Mom’s first visit. I throw my phone across the room. My plan would have never worked. She was never coming home. Kate was right.
The tears pour down my face. I think of the slam. Now everyone knows I’m crazy. Everyone hates me. I hate me. Breathing is hard and choppy and just hard. I think about Mom. I hate her. She didn’t come. She was never coming. Even if I won the whole stupid thing, she was never coming to my banquet. She was never coming back to Ian, to Kate, to me. I thought I could fix things. But I can’t.
I pick up Huey the raccoon. 660, 664. I hate these stupid figurines. 668, 672. Going to something is exactly the same as leaving. It’s tiring to think and count and breathe. Before I can stop myself, I take Huey and stomp him with the heel of my boot. Then again. And again. And again. Small brown bits of glass shatter under my foot. 676, 680. I grab Harry the horse, the cow, the piglet, the eagle. I swipe my arm across my dresser and knock the rest of my figurines onto the floor. None are safe from the bottom of my boot.
Stomp and stomp and stomp and stomp.
Mom isn’t coming home. I can’t find perfect anymore. 684, 688. It’s lost. Like me.
When I’m done, I sit and cry. 692, 696.
Ian walks in mid-knock. He says, “I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t allowed to…,” but stops talking when he sees me sobbing in a pile of smashed glass.
“Nothing’s where it’s supposed to be. Where it needs to be,” I say. The numbers are lost. I begin again. 4, 8, 12, 16.
“Molly, I tried to put everything back the way it was, but I couldn’t remember where the elephant went. Then I, um, I, um, accidentally broke the dolphin.” He picks at the skin around his thumbnail. “I’m really, really sorry.”
My body screams on the inside, but I’m quiet. 20, 24.
“Molly,” his little voice says, “you’re bleeding.” Ian points to my ankle.
“I’m bleeding because I was worried you were lying dead on the couch.” 28, 32.
He scrunches up his nose and takes a step back.
“I was worried you were dead because I lost my lucky sea glass and you messed up my stuff and I broke it all into tiny pieces because I couldn’t stand any of it anymore!” My face feels like it’s on fire.
Ian ignores my rant. “What did you think I died from?” He innocently looks around my room for any sign of impending doom.
I bite the inside of my cheek and apologize to Ian a thousand times in my head. 36, 40.
“I’ll get you a Band-Aid.” He flies out of my room.
“I don’t want a Band-Aid. Just leave me alone,” I say to the empty air. 60. Is that right? What number am I on? Think. Count. Think. What number? I don’t remember. Ugh! I have to start again. 4, 8.
“Here you go,” he says, sweeping back into my room, his feet faster than his body. He holds out a small tan Band-Aid as if that can fix me.
“I don’t need that stupid thing. It’s not going to do anything!”
12, 16, 20, 24.
“Yes, it will. It’ll take away the blood so it doesn’t get on your floor.”
He’s so sweet and little and deserves a better sister than me. “I don’t care about my stupid carpet.” As I say the words, I know they’re not true. The blood spots on the floor will haunt my perfect world even as it crumbles around me.
28, 32, 36, 40.
“I know you like things neat. Real neat. That’s why you wash your hands all the time.” He reaches deep into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of Band
-Aids. “Here, take them all. They’ll make you better.”
“Better! Are you kidding? A Band-Aid can’t fix me!” I pause for a moment. Am I ready to say it out loud? 44, 48, 52, 56.
“I’m crazy, Ian. Not hurt, just nuts.”
My whole body stiffens. There, it’s out. I said it. I stare at Ian and feel his sad eyes seeing straight into the part of me that can’t hide, the part that hurts, the part that’s really me. 60, 64.
I wait for him to say something.
But he doesn’t.
He looks at me with his big ocean eyes and gives me an all-his-might hug. Then he opens his tiny hand and sitting in his palm is my sea glass.
“I borrowed it. We had to climb across the monkey bars in gym class and I didn’t know if I could do it. You always say your sea glass is lucky, so I, um, took it. But only for today.”
Then he drops the sea glass, the taped-together dolphin, the Band-Aids, and runs out of my room.
I pick up my special sea glass, spin it in my hands, and then throw it against the wall. Tiny turquoise pieces rain down on my orange carpet.
41
shattered glass
THE DOORBELL RINGS. I haven’t left my room since my confession to Ian. I told someone. I said it. Out loud. I’m crazy. Really. My fingers tingle. My breath feels small, too small. The glass hurts my knees, but I don’t move. The numbers are like a word scramble. Counting’s impossible. I look down and see the Band-Aid on my ankle and the droplets of blood on my carpet. I don’t recognize the person looking back at me in the mirror. Where have I gone?
I hear Ian yell from downstairs. “Molly, Hannah and Bridgett are here!”
Hannah and Bridgett. Together?
I take a deep breath. The numbers begin again. 4, 8, 12, 16.
Knock. Knock.
The door is ajar.
“Mol, it’s us. Me and Bridgett. Can we come in?” Hannah asks in a soft voice.
Nothing.
“Mol, we just want to drop off your backpack.” She gently pushes the door open even more. First, I see Hannah’s reflection in the mirror. It takes her a minute to realize the person looking back at her is me. I don’t look like me. Not really.
She wedges herself through the door, followed closely by Bridgett.
