For You, For Me

Chapter 1

It hurt.

Not the way your finger does when you slice it on a knife. Or when you ram your hip into a corner. Or even when you snap a bone.

It hurt in a way that made you fold in on yourself, trying to crumple your body up so small that maybe you couldn't feel anything anymore, that no one could see you, and maybe if they forgot about you, you would forget, too.

* * * * * 

I wake up wishing I was still asleep. I don't know what woke me up in the first place.

The clock on my bedside table reads seven-thirty, which means I have over an hour before I have to get up.

I sigh and roll over, curling up tightly and pulling my blanket over my head. I want this day to be over. Even better, I don't want it to start. In fact, I just want to rewind time like a video, watch life move backwards, and play it starting five days ago, clearing the tape and writing over everything that's happened from then till now.

Outside my door, the floor creaks quietly. Dad's back. Another creak, heavier than the first. So's Bo. They're usually much louder when they come back from their morning surf, but, like everyone else, they've been tip-toeing around me since it happened.

From down the hall, I hear Bo go into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

A shower--that sounds nice. But I already showered last night. And two more times earlier that day. I've spent so much time in the shower the past few days, I think I could not shower for a month and still smell like my Sparkling Mango shampoo and Crisp Coconut body wash.

I pull the covers off my face and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. There's one sliver of sunlight streaming through the small gap the blanket I'd clipped up over my thin, gauzy, curtains failed to cover. I'd used the blanket as a makeshift blackout curtain the other day because I found that I hate light.

Between the sound of the ocean seeping in through the window and the shower running in the bathroom, I should be calm, serene, happy. Instead, I want to shut it all out, everything, and just float in nothingness--in deep, dark oblivion. I close my eyes, hold my breath, and try to pretend nothing exists. It almost works, but then I have to breathe again.

* * * * * 

When I get fed up with the sound of the ocean (something I had never, ever experienced up until five days ago), I swaddle myself in a robe and shuffle out to the kitchen. Dad is making a multi-course breakfast, pancakes, eggs, coffee, and all.

I grab a mug from the cabinet and help myself to the coffee pot. Dad looks up from flipping a pancake and gives me a sad smile. The only kind I've been getting lately.

"Good morning, nugget."

"Morning," I respond. I put the pot back and blow on my coffee.

"Want some cream?" Dad asks.

"No, I want to suffer." I take a sip to prove it.

Bo walks in, hair still damp from the shower, only wearing shorts. "Did you leave any for me?" he asks.

"No, I drank the entire pot."

"Knew it." He takes his favorite lifeguard mug from the cabinet, fills it with coffee, then tops it off with half-and-half from the fridge.

"Can you please put a shirt on?" I ask. "There's no one here to impress."

"Just trying to impress you, baby sister." He grins the charming grin that gets him out of trouble and into any girl's pants.

I roll my eyes and mutter, "Little shit."

Bo is my older brother, but only by eleven months. We're Irish twins. Unfortunately, he was born in October and I in September, which puts us in the same grade. He looks like what you'd expect a surfer to look like, with his tan skin, bleached hair, and toned muscles. He is also a staggering six-foot-five. You can spot Bo in any given crowd, considering he sticks out like a cornstalk in a potato field. I guess that's to be expected, though, when you were spawned from two parents over six feet tall.

I was born small and grew up small, which inspired my nickname "nugget," which I've hated for as long as I can remember. I got my delayed growth spurt in ninth grade and hit the five-eleven mark, but by then, the name had already stuck like a squid tentacle and there was no shaking it off. My dad is the only one who can call me that now, and that's only because he gets a sparkle in his eye every time he says it, like he's remembering old times, before things went bad. I'm not ready to take that away from him.

"Are you feeling all right, nug?" Dad asks, setting the plate of pancakes on the table, along with the eggs and toast and large bowl of berries. "Ready for today?"

"I'm fine," I say.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eyes. I stare right back, challenging him.

"If you need anything, or to talk to someone--"

"I need some whipped cream for these pancakes," I say, walking over and grabbing the can from the fridge. I sit myself back down at the table and start loading up my plate.

Dad looks at Bo with a concerned expression. Bo just shrugs.

No one knows what to do with me.