excerpts from Tidepools
Meredith's apartment smells like disinfectant, and the floor is littered with Thomas the Tank Engine toys.
"This is my son, Nicolas."
His sticky mouth is ringed with crumbs, and he clutches a half-eaten Nilla Wafer. His silky hair is such a light red that it's almost blond (he definitely did not get that from my sister).
I touch the arm of the sofa, a dull scratchy blend of floral stripes. "Is this where I'm sleeping?"
"You can take the bed, if you want," Meredith says unconvincingly.
I shake my head. "The sofa's fine."
I hear Meredith getting ready for bed through the nowhere-near-soundproof bathroom wall. I press my forehead to my knees and hope she can't hear me cry.
"Amy, I - " He stops. "What the hell?"
I close my hand around the blade, turning away too late. "The door was shut for a reason!"
Jason grabs my wrist. "Nice. What happened this time? Hug a barbed-wire fence? Tangle with the world's biggest cat?"
"Piss off, Jason." I pull my sleeve down, scowling.
"Why do you keep doing this?" He pulls the chair from my desk and sits, facing me. "It won't help."
My fist tightens, the blade prodding my palm. "How do you know what will help me? You don't even know what's wrong with me."
"Not having enough scars is not what's wrong with you."
I stare at my feet, unwilling to end the stalemate. Jason sighs. "Please give it to me?"
"You can't protect me from every sharp object I find."
"No." Jason lifts my fist and uncurls my fingers gently, taking the blade. "But I can protect you from this one."
He turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway. "Put some Neosporin on that, Ame."
I face the mirror. Silhouetted against the dimming light of the window, my reflection is just an outline - a faceless person who could be beautiful, funny, radiant, captivating.
But it's just me.
I sigh, open my dresser, and take out another blade.
Becky's Diner is a stereotype, complete with little red booths, swiveling bar stools, and a whiteboard menu with a crude drawing of a slice of pie. The only thing it's missing is a checkered floor.
"I'm - "
"The new waitress? Please say yes."
"Yes, I'm - "
"Hannah, right? I'm Becky. I'll be showing you the ropes."
I'm about to correct her when I realize what she said. "Becky? There's an actual Becky?"
"I am a Becky," she says mysteriously.
"How are you doing?"
"Doing," Nicolas echoes, clapping his shoes together.
"Fine. Work was fruitful." I spread my tips on the counter. "You can tell I'm a waitress because all my cash is in ones."
"Or a stripper," Meredith says, nodding.
I twirl my coat over my head. "I would have to be one heck of a lousy stripper to be making thirteen bucks a night."