Kiss of Broken Glass Read Online Free Page A

me if I quit.
    I hope I can stop wearing concealer on my arms.
    I hope Bio-Oil really works.
    I hope I won’t miss my scars (too much).
    But then I remember those ten mind-blowing minutes,
    and I think about how it feels the next day,
    when everyone crowds around me at lunch,
    looking at my cuts, rubbing my shoulders,
    dabbing me with I-feel-so-bad-for-you ointment.
    And I remember the spotlight of Rennie’s grin
    and the way her approval makes me feel special,
    and I gotta say, that’s a pretty ginormous feeling.
    Like an over-the-top, Sears Tower kinda high.
    And just thinking about that
    makes my little wad of hope
    fell like a spitball
    slipping through my fingers
    103 stories down
    to the bottom
    of
    my
    pocket.

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Wednesday 3:22 p.m.
    It’s been 24 hours since I got to Attaboys.
    Donya says they have to give me
    my official psych evaluation
    in the first 24 hours,
    or they’ll have to let me go.
    That’s part of the Baker Act.
    I guess that’s why Roger’s waving me over now.
    He introduces me to this pinched-up
    Pomeranian face with a clipboard.
    Dr. Annoyed-To-Meet-Me
    doesn’t even look up.
    She just drones off
    the same pointless questions
    they asked in the ER.
                    1. Do you know why you’re here?
                    2. Do you think you need to be here?
                    3. What would you do if we let you out?
    Hmmm. Let me see.
    I’m here because Tara-the-Two-Face
    is a big drama queen who peddles gossip
    like Girl Scout cookies, and opening
    that bathroom door was like selling
    a thousand boxes of Thin Mints.
    Do I think I need to be here?
    Are you kidding me?
    NO. I don’t need to be here.
    But this works perfect for Tara,
    because she’d do anything
    to have Rennie all to herself.
    And what will I do when I get out?
    First off, I’m gonna strangle Tara
    with a fat wad of dental floss,
    now that I know how dangerous
    waxed string can be. Then I’ll friend Jag
    on Facebook and reblog a few GIFs
    for my vast audience of Tumblr followers.
    All three of them.
    After that, I’ll ride my bike to Rennie’s
    and we’ll raid her mother’s bathroom,
    paint our nails Lincoln Park after Dark,
    and drink Monster until we get a caffeine buzz.
    I want to tell the Pomeranian
    that’s what I’m really thinking
    just to see the look on her face.
    But Donya warned me,
    it isn’t worth it.
    So I give her one of those
    fake, elastic smiles
    and deliver my best lines of BS.
    “I’m here because I made an impulsive mistake.
    But I’m feeling much better now.
    And it will never happen again.”
    Then I do a little curtsy-bob with my head
    and the Pomeranian bubbles in her stupid
    Scantron sheet and trots away.

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Donya Catches Me in the Hallway
    “Not bad,” she says. “Might even get you out.
    Unless . . .”
    “Unless what?” I ask.
    Donya snaps her gum
    and loops the pink strand
    around her finger slow as taffy.
    “Unless you got good insurance,” she says.
    “Then you’re screwed.”
    I follow Donya down the hall.
    “What’d’ya mean I’m screwed?”
    “Cha-ching,” she sings.
    I stare at her, my face blank,
    like she just spoke Egyptian.
    “Oh, come on, Kenna,” she says.
    “Don’t you get it?
    If you got good insurance,
    they’re gonna milk it.
    Take their time with you.
    Find your inner child
    and all that crap.
    But with no insurance—
    Voila!
    You’re miraculously cured.
    Sometimes the same day.”
    I don’t want to believe her.
    But Donya knows this place like the inside of her pocket.
    And if Donya says I’m screwed, then I probably am.

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