by Melody Dodds
am inside
under bright lights,
working
alone on sets.
With a
utility knife.
Smaller
than the one
I screwed up with.
This one
is thin
and orange …
How much
damage
could it do?
JULY
(SMALL UTILITY KNIFE)
I make a quick,
light cut.
It’s a rush.
Like a drug.
I bet this
is how
addicts feel
when the pills
kick in.
I make
another one
and another
until my side fills
with slices
and my sadness
is eclipsed
by real,
raw,
physical
pain.
DITCH CLASS
My phone
buzzes.
It’s Josie!
“Ditch class
and meet me.”
It’s not class,
it’s camp.
I asked
to be here,
and it
cost money …
but wouldn’t it
show Liv
a thing or two?
SWIM
We ride rented bikes
to Lakewood Pond.
Since it’s midweek
and before noon,
there is almost
no one
here.
Josie strips off her
leggings,
tank dress,
long-sleeved camisole.
Underneath all that
is a one-piece
swimsuit.
I don’t notice
much about
the swimsuit.
I am
stunned,
dazed,
amazed
by her skin.
SKIN
Josie’s scars
are like
a city map.
One that includes
the subway
below the roads.
They are thick
and in layers,
like a pile
of sticks
before
the bonfire.
Like a pile
of bones.
I am
I am
horrified
relieved
fascinated
nauseated
mesmerized
disgusted
terrified
soothed
Is this
what I look like
to
Trey
Paige
Liv
?
AFTERSWIMMING
“I swam
in junior high,” Josie says.
“Now, it’s all about theater.
I’m a triple threat!”
She can
sing
“All that
dance
and a bag
act
of chips!”
She is
trying out for
America’s Got Idols
in the fall.
“If I don’t
get discovered,
then it’s college.
Chicago
or New York.
Then I’ll light out
for Cali
and chase down
my fame.
What
about
you?”
WHAT ABOUT ME?
“This theater camp
is the closest
thing
I’m going to find
to a comedy class
in Hanworth, Maine.”
Which makes
me wonder:
why Maine
for Josie?
Why not
summer theater
in New York
or Boston?
I look
at Josie’s skin
again,
and think
I know
the why.
But I ask her
anyway.
And the story she tells me
is ugly.
THEATER IN MAINE
was Josie’s
punishment.
“My parents
made me come
up here
for the summer
with my dad,
who’s working
on a house.
I was supposed to be
in Boston
with my brother
who will be coming home
from his final year
at West Point
for the first half
of summer.
But I got caught
cutting
at school.
My parents
didn’t take it
well.
My school
pulled me out
of art class
for counseling.
They made me
eat lunch
in the principal’s office.
My friends
all pretended
they hadn’t
known.
Everyone
made me feel
like
a freak.
Like a
time bomb.
Like I was
dangerous.
When
what I needed
was
kindness.
I’m telling you:
Don’t talk
to adults
about cutting.
It won’t
end well.”
JOSIE=SOPHIE=LPRB
I’ve heard this story.
A longer version.
From a veiled face.
“…was
kindness
To feel
loved.
To feel
heard.
And also
just to feel.
Any kind
of way.
About
anything.
Because feeling
so bad
for so long
made me numb.
That’s why
I started cutting
in the first place.”
BACK AT CAMP
Liv is here
She came at lunch.
“I told you
I was coming!
Where were you?”
Josie tells her,
“We did
some one-on-one work
on Heather’s script.”
Then she drifts off
to find the other actors.
“So what, is she
your girlfriend now?
I don’t care
if you like girls,
but not that girl.”
“Why not
that girl?”
“Because that girl is bossy
and full of herself!”
Then she storms off
to find the other techies.
Trey says,
“I think
that Josie
is all an act.”
ONEDAY
Josie and I spend
every free moment together.
I’m the only person who
gets her.
She’s the only person who
gets me.
Then one day,
Josie asks,
“Can you hang?
Like, spend the night?
Or I
could come home to you!”
No way
can she come
to my place!
My parents
embarrass me<
br />
sometimes even
to Liv.
No way
can a stranger
see how I live.
I tell her,
“Maybe
tomorrow.”
TOMORROW
Josie asks again,
about me staying
overnight.
But I have
no way
to get there.
“We’ll get you a car.”
I don’t know
what that means.
“An Uber.
Like a taxi,
but less smelly.
Usually.”
“Is your dad
okay
with this?”
“My dad
went back
to Boston.”
ALONE
Josie says,
“I’m alone
in this house
my dad ‘finished.’
He works
for a company
that builds these
monster houses
for really, REALLY
rich people.
They build
in places
they aren’t
supposed to.
My dad
is their lawyer.
He makes
all of that
okay.
He also ‘finishes’:
He hires decorators
and landscapers
and people
to stock the pantry.
It’s a job
he loves.
But then,
in my family,
love is
a maid, a cook,
a canopy bed,
private schools,
down comforters,
my own bathroom.
I’m not
complaining…
But to my parents, love is not
time,
attention,
talking,
laughing,
sharing meals,
playing games.
I thought,
since I’m alone,
maybe
we could hang.
Like sisters!”
THE CAR
Josie got us
pulls up
outside
my house.
Josie is inside the car
with a weird look
on her face.
Turns out,
her dad’s
giant mansion
with the trees
that were cut down
illegally
is in
my
development.
We drive
down the hill,
down another,
toward the water.
Trees line the road.
You’d never know
there was a house here.
But there is a gap with an eight-foot gate,
where Josie
enters a code.
THE HOUSE
is all stone and white plank,
all peaks and dormers.
Black shutters decorate
tall, arched windows.
It stretches
in either direction
from a main door (painted red).
Inside
are spiral double staircases,
marble fireplaces,
ceilings as high as the sky.
It’s beautiful.
Inside
are 10 bedrooms,
12 bathrooms,
a servant’s kitchen.
The true front of the house
is all windows and more windows.
They all face
the ocean.
Of course
they do.
Between the house and the ocean
is a lawn.
A LAWN.
Where there used to be
HOW MANY SQUARE FEET
of pine forest?
Clear cut
down to
nothing.
There are not even
any stumps.
It’s horrible.
I CAN’T STAY
I tell Josie this.
I try
to explain
that this house
is everything
I hate.
I show her my arm.
“Half of this,”
I point to the lawn,
“is because
of things
like that.”
“Really?
Half?
It’s not because
of your parents?
Or kids
at school?
Or your
best friend
who’s
abandoned
you?”
I MEAN…
“Let’s just
go stay
at my house.”
“I can’t deal
with adults
right now!”
“My dad’s
going to bed
in an hour.
And my mom
probably has
work to do.
They’ll leave us alone.”
“No, they won’t!
They’ll want
to know:
Who’s your
little friend?
And why’s her hair
that color?
And why’s she
dressed like that
in the middle
of summer?”
“YOU CAN’T LEAVE!”
“I wear
long sleeves
all the time
and they never
ask me
anything.”
“I’m not going.
I can’t deal
with grown-ups!
I’m having
a really hard time
right now
and I just
need you
to stay.”
I am in
over my head.
Josie needs help
that I don’t know how
to give her.
How can you
help a girl
whose father
is 300 miles away,
and left her alone
in a 5,000-
square-foot house?
Suddenly,
I am desperate
for my parents.
I don’t care
how much
they yell.
“Let me
just call
my mom real
quick and let
her know
we’re coming.”
“I swear
if you don’t
put down
that phone
I will kill
myself
right here
in front
of you.”
WHAT CAN I SAY?
“I’ll stay.”
4: 00 A.M.
I know because
I always wake up
when my dad leaves.
But it’s not him
waking me today.
It’s Josie.
I hear a car outside
and her voice.
But by the time
I get to the main entrance,
she is in the car,
and the car
is at the gate.
I check my messages.
Just before she left,
she texted me:
“I’m going
home.”
JOSIE IS GONE
I stare
at my phone.
There’s no way
Josie would do this.
This is nonsense!
Leaving me here
in this giant house
all alone.
If only I hadn’t
Or we’d gone
to my house.
I’m going
home.
I will probably never
see Josie
again.
What if
she’s dead?
She was the only
person I had!
I need
to tell somebody!
Who to tell?
I don’t know
who needs
to know.
Desperate,
I text Josie,
“Are you
coming back?
What
about the plays?”
If she doesn’t answer,
I’ll tell Paige.
I start packing my things.
I feel hollow,
like when my pet rat died
in seventh grade.
I realize
I am grieving.
But I’m not sure
exactly what
(or who?)
for.
THE POLICE
find Josie
in the locked bathroom
of a Bar Harbor cafe.
She had cut herself
from wrist
to elbow.
from knees
to groin.
Her blood
seeped
under the door.
I FIND OUT
when they come
to my house.
No disco lights.
No siren.
Just two men
in uniform.
All apologies.
“…her last text.”
“…Intensive Care…”
“ …ambulance…”
“…just in time…”
“…father was notified.”
When the officers
are gone,
my parents:
“What haven’t you told us?”
“What do you know?”
WHAT DO I KNOW?
I
admit
that Josie and I
were at the house
alone.
“DON’T
worry
about getting
in trouble,” Mom tells me.
“Yes,” says Dad.
“Just please
tell us
everything you
KNOW.”
I tell them
about Josie
being left
by her dad.
But I don’t say
ANYTHING
about the cutting.
Josie’s
or
mine.
AT THEATER CAMP
Mom said I could skip, but I wanted to come.
A counselor (Ms. Turner)
is here. A psychologist.
To talk to us
one-on-one
about Josie.
I’d rather talk
to Josie,
so when it’s my turn
I decide
to ask
if I can see her.
The counselor is older,