Fix by J. Mann (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📕

wall to catch my breath while I search the crowded hall outside the front office. But then I remember Thomas and head to the nurse’s office.

“Hey, missy,” says Ms. Kisner. “Day two not starting out well?” She’s sitting at her desk stapling papers.

“The ride in was rough,” I tell her, like I’d ridden to school on a boat or something.

The homeroom warning bell rings.

“I’ve got some admin errands to run. Take a load off for a bit.” She picks up her papers and heads out the door. “I’ll check in on you in thirty.”

I fill a paper cone with water and go into the bathroom. Again, the goddamn bathroom. I shut the door, put down the toilet seat, sit, and then reach for my Roxy.

Oh… my backpack. Where’s my backpack?

Shit. Shit Shit.

My head swivels… searching the floor, my arms, my brace. Standing up, I turn and, holding on to the sink, look all around me, my heart pounding. It’s not here. It’s not in here.

Swinging open the bathroom door, I check the cot, the floor, the chair. Empty. Empty. Empty. They’re all empty.

My panic growing, I reach out and violently swish back the curtain between the cot and Ms. Kisner’s desk, knowing full well that my backpack is not out there, but I’m filled with the swirling energy of despair and have to do something.

I know where my backpack is. I know exactly where it is. I fucking left it in the van.

Jamming my hands into my coat pockets, just in case I somehow stuck one in there… wishing I had. Just one. Why didn’t I think to stick one in here? I’d do anything to feel a plastic baggie. Anything. But the emptiness is so complete my fingers ram one another inside the pockets by the zipper.

Again, I search the chair, the cot, yanking the crinkling paper from it because it has given me nothing. Nothing. There is no Roxy here.

None.

I move toward the door. Should I go out to the van? Where is the van? What class has Thomas got first?

I feel his lips on mine but can’t relive it without seeing her. Seeing the anger. The hate.

The late homeroom bell rings.

My head feels light. I lean heavily on the cot for a second, exhausted, but then my energy returns, and again, it hurts to stay still.

I walk out into the quiet hall and then back in again. The pacing isn’t helping, so I roll onto the cot and lie blinking up at the white-and-gray drop ceiling. My lips feel dry. I lick them. Two seconds later I need to lick them again. Oh my god, I don’t even have my ChapStick—but even thinking about ChapStick I’m picturing Roxy. I take a couple of breaths. Try to calm down.

Why did I have to leave that bag in his van?

The first-period bell rings, pouring everyone back into the hallway.

Shit. Thomas.

I roll off the cot and stand up.

I cup my hands together like I’m holding my Roxy. It doesn’t help. I need my bottle. And what’s wrong with that? My spine hurts, and I’ve had a major surgery.

I wrap my arms around my brace. I’m cold. I just want my bottle. Why did I leave it in the van? I took a half this morning, didn’t I? I’m sure I did. It’s in there. I’m sure it’s in there. But my fear—it’s eating it right out of my bloodstream, sucking the beautiful drug from my body. I close my eyes and tilt my face to the ceiling like it’s the sun and try to breathe, try to slow down my heart from cranking out the Roxy into my blood where it can be slowly drained away. It’s no use. I can’t remember how to breathe. I can’t slow my heart. And my nose is running.

The first-period late bell rings.

Thomas!

I just want my Roxy. I don’t care about anything else. I just want it. I have to find the van.

I turn to leave and walk right into Lidia.

The Real One

You were glowing.

Your eyes,

your lips, even your

hair shone so brightly that

it nearly crackled with electricity.

When it was your turn

to use the bathroom,

you waved me ahead—

a drop of familiarity,

and I lapped it up.

Everything was going so well.

So well.

Why, then, did I feel

such a rush of relief

when I closed the stall door?

Peeing in a public restroom has

always been a process for me,

which you knew.

I hurried as fast as I could.

I didn’t want to keep Jayden and Nick waiting.

I didn’t want to keep you waiting.

When I came out

to wash my hands, you were

fixing your hair.

“Hey,” I said,

trying to look as upbeat

as you so obviously felt.

“Let’s go,” you said,

talking to me but

looking at yourself.

How many minutes

were we in there?

Four?

Six?

Enough to change

everything.

We stepped

from the bathroom to find

two cardboard aliens,

one of them wearing

a black fedora.

Shame

Shame is

like being caught

naked

under fluorescent

lighting. Nothing

hidden. Not a pimple,

a goose bump,

a hair follicle.

Her eyes sparkled,

her jaw slack,

her mouth hung open though

no air moved in or out.

And then the shame,

rolling in like a tidal wave,

shoving itself against

her forehead,

her cheeks,

those sparkling eyes, until

her face and neck

bulged with it.

In the very moment when she’d

opened up her smile, her arms,

her heart, her beautiful self,

she’d been slapped down, and I

watched her

under those fluorescent lights,

rearranging before my eyes.

She loathed me

for seeing it.

Loathed me

for knowing

that she loathed herself even more

for feeling it.

“You took for-

fucking-ever, Eve.”

“Lid?”

“You sat your twisted

ass in that stall

all fucking day

because you couldn’t

stand to see it work out for me.

You just

couldn’t

fucking

stand it.”

I watched her

struggling under the weight of

every single moment in her life

when she’d felt

different and

awkward and

ugly and

deformed and

wrong,

just fucking wrong.

Yet I couldn’t stop

myself.

Twisted.

I couldn’t.

Twisted.

… And I didn’t.

“The hand came

yesterday.”

She froze as my words

made their way

through her body,

searching—I guess—for

some spot where they made sense. But

none of this made sense, so she turned and

walked away.

“Lidia!” I called.

She didn’t

answer. Then, or

ever.

Lidia Banks Never Needed Two Hands

SHE HAS MY BACKPACK.

“Your