My mother jumps up, but my father waves her off. “I’ll clean it up,” he says, then drags the broom and dustpan out of the closet. While he sweeps up the shards, his anger melts into something like exhaustion.
“It’s more than Doyle and that boy. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but we arrested three people this afternoon. One was on top of a house on the next street over from Hylan. He had a bow and arrows. We took him to the precinct, and he told us that it was his duty as a Christian to kill the monsters. The second man was a Desert Storm vet with his own personalized M-16 who came to “fight the invasion.” The third sauntered down Surf Avenue with a machete and told us the Alpha kids had diseases and needed to be purified. That’s on top of those Niner lunatics, whose membership doubled this week. They set two cop cars on fire this morning and broke an old woman’s kneecap for daring to hold a sign that said ‘We Are All God’s Creatures.’ They’re even attacking the soldiers down at the beach. That’s what I have to deal with all day, then I get to come home and see that our daughter has put a target on our backs. So, yeah, I wish I could calm down, but I’m not allowed.”
I run into my room before the tears come, and slam the door behind me. I press my back against it and slide down to the floor, pushing hard, like some rogue wave might knock it down from the other side. And then I cry, because what else is there to do when nothing is fair? Screw them, the wild thing whispers. They don’t understand. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The wild thing, despite my effort to bury her, is alive and well, telling me to fight back against all that’s happening around me, and sadly, I listen. You shouldn’t have to change. Being yourself is more important than safety, it says, and I’ve been all too eager to agree. Am I really that self-destructive? I mull the answer over and over, wishing it wasn’t yes. The truth is sour in my mouth, but my father is right. I have put us all in danger because I don’t want to accept reality. It’s time to grow up and stop half-assing this life. Getting good grades isn’t enough. Dressing like a hobo isn’t enough. I have to do what my parents want, without question. Today is all the evidence I need to see what happens when I don’t.
I’ll start by repacking my stuff. If my father’s fears come true and they do come for us, I need to be ready. I leap up and grab my pack. Mom and Dad are always on me to keep it up to date, and like everything else, I have blown it off—just more of my passive-aggressive fight against who I am. I open it up and peer inside. It’s a mess, just as I suspected, full of things long forgotten: pens, hair clips, shoes I’ve outgrown, and then stupid things I don’t need, like art projects and a journal I haven’t opened in two years.
I pull everything out and toss it aside until the pack is almost empty. But I can’t bring myself to touch the thing at the bottom. It sits there like a freshly hatched baby cobra, ready to strike. My father taught me to aim and fire, but every time I see it, I break into a cold sweat. I can’t imagine having to use it, having to point it at another person and squeeze. Okay, I see you. You’re where you are supposed to be. You stay put.
I snatch a couple of pairs of jeans out of a drawer, one for me and one for Bex, since she’s coming with me—that’s one thing I won’t keep my head down about. Next are some T-shirts, and a hoodie and a jacket. I shove in sneakers, socks, bras, and underwear. The bag is filling up fast, and I realize I need other things too: my toothbrush, toothpaste, tampons, soap, my phone, my charger, my contact solution, my glasses. Where is all of this supposed to go? I keep squeezing more and more inside and watching it all spill out. I can’t possibly stuff my whole life into one stupid backpack, and still there is more I should pack.
I stand up and open my closet, looking in at everything I own—every dress, blouse, and strappy shoe. I can’t have any of it. There just isn’t any room, and so much of it would just draw attention to me. I open one of the hat boxes and take out a floppy straw hat with a baby-blue bow wrapped around its brim. I set it on my head and stare at myself in the mirror. I would have been so pretty in this. I could have worn it on a date, maybe with Gabriel.
Damn it! I want my hats! I’m crying again, and before I know it I’m tearing it apart with my bare hands. When it’s ruined, I throw it on the floor and drag more things off hangers to destroy. A silk shirt screams as I shred it. Hangers bend and sweaters are stretched. Loose buttons bounce off my hardwood floor. Jackets, jeans, shifts—all of it has to be destroyed. I want to pour gasoline on it and set it ablaze, throw open my window, and let the ashes of what will never be trail out into the sky.
My phone buzzes a text.
LOOK OUTSIDE.