The Nowhere Girls(90)

Mami grabs the front of Rosina’s shirt and pulls it tight, catching Rosina’s breath in her grip. “Don’t you dare,” she growls. “Don’t you dare talk about God. Don’t you even utter His name.”

Rosina can’t speak. She can’t breathe.

“One more call from the principal and you’re gone,” Mami says, almost calmly, which is so much worse than her rage. “I’ve had enough. This family has had enough. I am done being your mother.”

When Mami lets go, Rosina stumbles against the crate and falls to the ground. Now that the noose around her neck has loosened, everything is bubbling up, all the tears she hasn’t cried, and Rosina is sobbing, she is a heap on the floor, she is reaching for her mother’s feet, crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” but all Mami does is look at her like she’s a mangy street dog, too sick and dirty to love.

“Clean yourself up and get ready for work,” Mami says.

Rosina looks up at her, face red and blotchy and drenched with tears. “Mami,” Rosina says, forcing herself to meet her mother’s eyes. “Please. I’m sorry. I love you.”

For a split second, Rosina thinks she sees her mother soften, but just as quickly, it is gone.

“You make me sick,” Mami spits, and walks away, and Rosina couldn’t agree more.





ERIN.


The blanket on Erin is heavy, like those X-ray bibs dentists use. It is a special kind of blanket for people on the spectrum, like a hug for people who don’t like to be hugged. She has spent most of the weekend under it, either reading in bed or dragging it downstairs to watch randomly generated episodes of TNG. She skips the ones with Wesley Crusher.

Erin has been nonverbal for two days. Mom has been trying to reach her all weekend. She’s asked her repeatedly if something happened at school. She called Slatterly’s office, but the principal never called back. She’s made calls to Erin’s doctor and therapist and specialists, even her old OT in Seattle. They have all told her to wait, to let Erin decide when she’s ready to talk. But patience is not Mom’s strong suit. Giving Erin space is not Mom’s idea of fixing a problem.

Erin sat through dinner tonight, listening to Mom’s desperate, tear-filled attempts to fill the silence. “Was it the bullies, honey? Did they say something? I thought they were leaving you alone this year. You haven’t done this in so long. You’ve been doing so well. Is this a regression?”

Erin did not say answers to these questions out loud, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have them. She was having a full dialogue with her mom in her head. This is not about regression, she thought. I am not linear. I just hurt. I just want the world to be quiet.

Erin thinks maybe she will start talking again tomorrow. Monday is always a good day to start over. But tonight she just wants to be in her room. She wants stillness. She wants silence. She wants to make herself solid again.

Her phone has been buzzing with calls and texts from Otis for the past half hour, so she turns it off, not reading or listening to any of his messages. She is employing her oldest and best defense—she is choosing not to care. The whales and waves of her noise machine sing to her. She is underwater, so deep the pressure would crush a normal human, but she is safe, boneless.

But just as she is drifting off to sleep, Erin hears something new, something close. Something real and here, not a recording, not an electronic buzz. A series of small taps at her second-floor window. A freak hailstorm? Kamikaze birds?

She opens the window and looks outside, hears rustling below, sees a shadowed figure in the shape of Otis Goldberg, arm raised in midthrow.

“Ow!” Erin says, rubbing her suddenly stinging forehead. “What was that?” These are the first words she’s spoken since Friday. Since Eric.

“Oh, crap,” Otis says. “Sorry. It was a rock.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Why? How’d you know where my bedroom is?”

“Lucky guess. Can you let me in?”

“No,” Erin says. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Please.”

“Good-bye.”

“Erin, stop being difficult.”

“You’re the one throwing rocks at my head.”

“Dammit, Erin!” Otis shouts. “I just got my freaking ass kicked.” He fiddles with his phone, turns the flashlight on, and shines it on his face. He is bloody. His lip is cut. His right eye is swollen half closed.

Erin forgets everything she’s thought or felt or decided about Otis since Friday afternoon. She forgets about Amber. She forgets about silence. She even forgets about Eric. She’s not thinking about her parents, if they’re still awake, if they will hear. The only thing on her mind is how fast she can get downstairs to let Otis in, how fast she can get him safe in her room, how fast she can help him stop hurting.

Spot follows Erin downstairs and stands beside her as she opens the front door. Otis is leaning against the wall of the front porch, holding on to his side. Erin stands there, frozen, looking at him.

“What do I do?” she says.

“Help me.”

Erin takes one tentative step forward. One more. Spot nudges the back of her calf with his nose. She reaches out her hand and Otis takes it. She feels his warmth, his weight, as he puts his arm around her waist and leans on her. He flinches with each step as she guides him into the house and up the stairs. She wonders why this weight is scary but that of a heavy blanket is not.