Wintergirls: Chapters 001.00–014.00

“He had a tenure meeting.”

As I pull it free, the blade slices the air, dividing the kitchen into slivers.

I reach for a plate, scrubbed free of blood and gristle.

She should still be sleeping, but my father’s wife drives her to school early four mornings a week for violin lessons and conversational French. Third grade is not too young for enrichment, you know.

The fabric of her skirt is pulled so tight over her thighs, the pockets gape open.

“Say goodbye to your sister, Emma,” Jennifer prompts.

I won’t pollute my insides with Bluberridazzlepops or muffins or scritchscratchy shards of toast, either.

She read through it and explained the disaster to my father and then they fought, a mudslide of an argument that spewed across the antiseptic sheets and out into the hall.

I was stressed/overscheduled/manic/no–depressed/no–in need of attention/no–in need of discipline/in need of rest/in need/your fault/your fault/fault/fault.

The bus exhaust freezes, trapping all the noise in a gritty cloud.

Jennifer said they’re doing an autopsy.

Med school. Internship, residency, God. She’d brush my hair and braid it with long words, weaving the Latin roots and Greek branches into my head so memorizing anatomy would come easy.

Med school. Internship, residency, God. She’d brush my hair and braid it with long words, weaving the Latin roots and Greek branches into my head so memorizing anatomy would come easy.

The nurse ruffles her feathers when I slink in.

She is a crafty witch in nurse’s clothing.

Preliminary indications suggest Miss Parrish may have died of natural causes, but police have not yet ruled out foul play or drug use.

"We’ll have a report about the time and cause of death when the coroner finishes the autopsy.”

The air at the gas station is heavy with diesel and the smell of rancid deep-fryer fat from the McDonald’s next door.

One was a vegan; she ate three helpings of yams and most of the pumpkin bread that she brought.

The guy was from Los Angeles. He said he was fasting because Thanksgiving honors the genocide of America’s native peoples.

This girl shivers and crawls under the covers with all her clothes on and falls into an overdue library book, a faerie story with rats and marrow and burning curses.

Her room was the same size and shape as mine, but filled with different stuff: a canopy bed fringed with lace curtains, the dolls’ house marked with black crayon scribbles, a tall, skinny mirror that stood by itself in the corner, and a bookcase that didn’t look big enough to hold all those boxes of books.

The boys tried out their dirty words and crude comments on her for weeks.

The rest of us spent the afternoon writing essays about tolerance and kindness.

They made braided bracelets for me with embroidery thread and beads, but I wouldn’t take them unless they made some for Cassie, too.

They swarm, spinning a silk veil, one hundred thousand spider thoughts woven together until they wrap me up in a cosy shroud.

Thorn-covered vines creep across the floor, crackling like a bonfire. Black roses bloom in the moonlight, born dead and brittle.

“Don’t yell; Mommy has a migraine. I tried to wake you up nice, but you didn’t move.”

I turn on the tap, lean over the sink, and guzzle until my belly is a big water balloon. I sail on the tide towards the kitchen, heavy-loaded with ballast, waves splashing.

She nods once, winces, and puts a mug of water into the microwave.

My little not-sister shoves a shoebox diorama across the table at me.

Emma is plump. Plump, not husky, not heavy, not fat. She is big-boned—like her dad, she says—and her plump is perfect.

Steam billows. I want to strip and boil myself, but if she sees me naked, she’ll freak, and if I get in the shower wearing my robe, she’ll freak harder.

I bet she wishes she had written an escape clause into the prenup.

Total lie, brilliant diversion.

If my docs knew, they’d bodyslam me back into treatment. There would be consequences and repercussions because (once again) I broke the rules about the perfect-sized Lia.

I am supposed to repeat my affirmations like incantations to drive the nasty voices out of my head.

I am supposed to repeat my affirmations like incantations to drive the nasty voices out of my head.

I am supposed to commit to recovery like a nun pledging body and soul in a convent.

This body has a different metabolism.