Sometimes I feel like Pinocchio.
I want to feel real; be like other kids my age. Of course I'm not made of wood, but it my parents treat me as if I'm made of glass. They make me feel fragile, damaged.
And they are determined to fix me.
I dream of eggs laced with cheese, thick slabs of bacon, and toast smothered with butter and strawberry preserves. If I've ever tasted these, I have no memory of them. They are spoken of by other students at school, or seen on commercials during the infrequent times my parents permit me access to the damaging affects of television.
I abandon my dreams of a sumptuous breakfast to the reality ahead of me. There will be no scrambled eggs with cheese--no toast with preserves.
I wash with the prescribed organic face wash, and brush my teeth with the baking soda paste my mother makes twice a day. I think of other commercials. Toothpaste of fresh mint or cinnamon.
I've never tasted these either.
Entering the kitchen, I smell familiar spices. They are intended not so much as to flavor the tofu slab, but to heal my broken mind.
I don't feel broken.
My mother insists organic food, less television, and more reading (books of a suitable nature--many of which I detest) will heal me of my "malady". This world, she believes, is at the core of my problem.
My problem is something I call slippage. For no reason known to doctors, who my parents don't trust anyway, I lose time. I think of it as something that slips through my awareness much like one Momma's homemade "jello squares" slipped through my fingers when I squeezed it to show it was nothing like a crunchy cookie or chewy brownie. After that comment T.V. was forbidden for a month. When, once again, they permitted me to watch a program, they turned it off during the commercials. The result was I missed a quarter of The Little House on the Prairie.
As I said, I call it slippage. Sometimes I lose only seconds. It's possible to hide these episodes; I simply look for clues as to what I might have missed. I've become quite the detective. Other times it's minutes or hours. These can't be disguised. Mother writes them down in a book and tracks them like she's counting calories, and then spends hours on the Internet trying to uncover some deep meaning or evasive cure to these episodes.
I sit down at the table and she serves me the same breakfast I have every morning.
She smiles at me.
I smile back.
"Did you sleep well?" she asks.
There is concern in her voice and in her gentle touch as she places her hands on my shoulders.
"Yes." I answer, as I do every morning. Then I add, "Breakfast smells delicious."
After I finish, I gather my books and put them in my backpack. Even though I know it's warm outside, I slip on my jacket. If I don't she'll insist I wear it and I don't want to leave with an argument between us.
"Bye Momma," I say, reaching to hug her. I break away before she can offer to drive me to school.
I walk too slowly to catch the bus at my stop, and then have to backtrack and cross Walters Road to wait at a street four stops away. I wiggle out of my jacket and stuff it in my backpack. The bus should already be here. Leaving my backpack, I walk fifty yards to the end of the road to see if it's coming. It is, so I walk back to where it will stop.
White light surrounds me, blinding me with its brilliance. I close my eyes, and my head begins to spin. My arms fling out to my sides as I fall to the ground. I wait until my dizziness and a bout of nausea to pass, and open my eyes.
At first I believe the light still surrounds me, but the seat of my pants are drenched through and my hands are cold.
The landscape is white. My breath releases in a puff of steam.
I stand and brush the snow from the seat of my pants. My fingertips are numb, my body chilled. My back, chest and arms are warm, thanks to a strange leather jacket I've never seen before.
I glance to where the end of the street should be, but there is no street—no houses lining it. There's nothing but the endless white. Only my footprints mark the snow.
The bus won't be coming here. I'm not where I should be. It has no place here. I have no place here.
I begin to walk in the direction of school though I know it won't be there either.
I'm lost.
I'm alone.
I don't ever remember where I go during my slippage, and so doubt I will this time. I think of me waiting for the bus and wonder if I got on.
I wonder if I'll be at school when this ends.
I walk for what feels like hours; I'm that cold. It may only be seconds or minutes. I won't know until I return.
Ahead of me, I see someone coming, and hide behind the thick trunk of a tree.
"Malia?"
I don't know if he's friend or foe, so I hold my breath, and hope that he'll go away.
"Why are you hiding?" he asks as he approaches.
I search for something to defend myself, but all I see are branches covered with snow. Without thought, I reach for the belt at my waist and pull out a knife. I hold the hilt in both hands, as the boy rounds the tree.
"Don't come any closer," I warn, but the tremor in my voice makes the threat sound ridiculous.
He glances at the knife and smiles.
"It's a battle you want? So be it?"
In a flash, a knife appears in his hand. He holds it one-handed, falls into a slight crouch and begins circling me. The blade catches the light of the sun and reflects in my eyes.
I don't even see him coming. One moment he's before me, the next, he's behind me with his arm around my neck. His breath is warm on my neck.
"Admit defeat, Malia."
I try to wiggle free, but his hold is too strong. I imagine the knife sliding across my neck, leaving a crimson necklace in its path.
I can't catch my breath and my body is alive with adrenaline. I feel the pounding of blood racing through my veins, my heart.
I drop my knife.
He releases me.
My gaze travels to my weapon. It gleams silver against the white of the snow. If I could only bend down...
"Don't even think about it. I won and you know it."
I turn to see him slipping his knife into his waistband, a smile of triumph curling his lips.
"Come on, I've never known you to not acknowledge a win. Then again, you're not used to losing."
"What are you talking about?"
He retrieves the knife from the snow. "Let's see. That makes it the first time I bested you in what, six weeks? Looks like you'll be doing the skinning tonight.
He pulled a thick rope from behind the tree. Hanging from hooks, are four limp rabbits and two squirrels. Blood congealed on their fur.
I put my hand over my mouth and fight the bile rising in my throat. The world began to spin again, picking up speed with each revelation. The boy stepped closer, arms out as if to embrace me, but for some reason reluctant to do so.
I look into his eyes to steady myself, but the world continues its spin around us. The adrenaline has passed, leaving me exhausted. My legs seem to be made of rubber. He catches me before I can fall to the ground.
I feel safe in his arms, my face nuzzled against his neck.
"Help me," I whisper.
I feel the press of his lips on my forehead right before the brilliant light takes me away.
