Sweet Dandelion

“A boy?”

“Well, I know that, but I don’t know what I want him to be.” His brows rise farther up his forehead. “Not like that,” I protest, blushing. “I just…” I look out the window, allowing myself a moment to take a deep breath and regroup. Mr. Taylor waits patiently, not trying to force any words from me. “I don’t know if I want … friends.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why wouldn’t you want friends, Dani?”

I close my eyes.

I hear the laughter cut off by shouts, then screaming, then the horror of the minutes that followed.

I open my eyes, staring into the cool blue-green ocean of his. “Because it hurts too much.”

Chapter Nine

The shower water cascades over my arm, but the black numbers don’t smear. I rub vigorously at them with a washcloth. They fade, but don’t disappear. My arm starts to turn red and I let the cloth drop onto the shower floor with a plop.

Tilting my head up, I let the water pelt my face.

It pings against my skin and I shove my fingers through my wet hair.

Opening my mouth, I scream.

I scream because I have to do something. I have to let out the emotions inside me in some way. If I don’t they’re going to suffocate me, snuff out my life from the inside out.

I don’t want to be broken, but I don’t know how to be whole. How can I embrace new people into my life when I’m a shattered vase with shards threatening to stab anyone who tries to get close?

Climbing out of the shower I dry my body, clip my hair up, and dress in a pair of cotton pajama bottoms with bananas and one of Sage’s old college shi

rts I swiped years ago. The number on my arm is now a muddy gray color. I stare at it unblinking.

After I told Mr. Taylor I didn’t want friends because it hurts too much, he said to me, “Sometimes we have to hurt to be reminded that the best things in life bring us joy and pain.”

I don’t really understand what that means, but maybe it’ll make sense one day.

I swipe my phone from the counter and put Ansel’s number into it before I change my mind.

Just because I saved his number doesn’t mean I have to text him.

I’m sitting at the kitchen counter painting my nails Chop Sticking To My Story orange when Sage finally gets home. My eyes flick to the clock on the microwave, flashing in blue the fact he’s late.

He drops his work bag by the door, unbuttons the collar of his shirt, and swipes a beer from the fridge.

Turning around, he rests his elbows on the lower counter, taking a swig of the amber liquid. He runs the fingers of his left hand roughly through his hair, mussing it, before exhaling a weighted sigh.

“Please tell me your day at school was better than mine.”

I press my lips together.

“Fuck,” he groans, gulping down more.

“It wasn’t too bad.” I have to give my brother some hope. If there’s anything in this world we all deserve it’s hope.

He lets out a gruff, disbelieving grunt.

“Why don’t you quit?”

“We have to have money, D.” Turning around, he opens the fridge and begins to rummage through the meager contents.

The stool squeaks on the tile floor as I scoot forward. “You have money from the house, the life insurance—”