The Words We Keep
: Chapter 49

Someone rips open my cocoon and lets the light in.

It’s blinding.

“Why aren’t you answering your texts?” Micah asks. He dials a number on his phone and roots around for the ringing coming from the other side of my room, swallowed up behind Alice’s bed. He tosses me my phone, which has had an alarm going off over and over again for hours.

“Go away,” I say, pulling the covers back over me, partly to block the light, partly to block Micah from seeing what I’ve done to myself. “My dad will make you leave anyway.”

“Your dad and Staci are at the hospital. Margot let me in,” he says. “She’s worried about you.”

Scared of you.

“Time to get up.” Micah yanks off my covers. “I have a group today, and you’re coming.”

“What, like therapy? Hard pass. You, of all people, should understand that sometimes you just need to be unconscious.”

He tug-of-wars me for the comforter when I try to return to my embryonic state. Micah’s voice is calm but firm.

“Yes, but sometimes you need to wake up.”

He pulls my shoulders back and flops me over. He can’t hide the shock on his face when he sees my skin.

“Shit.”

His eyes trail down to my legs sticking out from my long nightshirt. Little, round wounds scream from my body, bright and red and angry.

The memory of what I’ve done to myself roars to life. Why did I think I could become someone new? That I could scrape off this Lily-ness and reveal someone better, someone who didn’t have monsters in her head and an insatiable itch in her fingers?

I hide myself again, half hating him and half humiliated that he’s seeing me like this. Face scratched open, wounds still raw.

“Why are you even here? Have you forgotten I got you expelled? What I did to Alice?” I say through the covers. “No one’s giving out brownie points for biggest martyr today.”

Micah lifts the covers, softly, and studies my face, looking into me like he’s done since we first met—back when I was the perfect one. What does he see in me now?

“There’s a reason why flight attendants tell you to put on your own oxygen mask first,” Micah says.

I roll my eyes, extra dramatic. “I’m not crashing, Micah. I’m tired.”

The alarm on my phone goes off again, and when I reach to silence it, a reminder pops up: state qualifier. 10 a.m.

The race. I blanked the track meet. Dad needs me to win.

Everybody needs me to win.

I need me to win. It’s the only thing I haven’t irrevocably screwed up.

I force myself to sit.

“Good.” Micah says, helping me to my feet. “The group’s really not half-bad once you—” He stops when I start rifling through my track bag and pull out my shorts. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“Going to my race.”

Micah tries to wrestle my bag from me. The room tilts as a wave of dizziness almost knocks me off my feet. I stagger back, and Micah catches me. My head feels like a helium-filled balloon, like it could float away any second. It doesn’t help that the house is rocking like it’s on the ocean. My pulse pounds in my skull, and vomit burns the back of my throat.

“Lily. You don’t look good.”

“Rude.”

“You know what I mean. You need to sleep, not run.” He puts the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re burning up. And sweating.”

“I’m fine,” I say reflexively. Fine. Fine. Fine. Everything is fine. Besides, how can I be sweating when I’m so cold?

“You’re not fine, Lily. Forget group. I’m taking you to a doctor.”

I try to jam my leg into my shorts but miss the hole. The room’s tilted again.

“You want to help me? Help me get to this track meet. That’s what I need right now.” I wave the shorts at him in frustration. “You’re always telling me to speak up. To ask for help. This is me, asking. Help me get to my race.”

He groans from the back of his throat, pointing a finger at me. “And then you’ll see a doctor? You’ll take it easy? Let me feed you chicken soup and Gatorade?”

“Yes, yes. Whatever you say.” I hug him tight. I agree to his terms. I’ll rest. I’ll stop. After I prove that I’m still Lily Larkin, straight As and team records, despite the words on everyone’s lips and phones and posts.

I’m still a winner.

Micah shakes his head but helps balance me while I pull on my uniform. I look down at the picked-open spots on my legs. The jersey reveals the damage on my arms, too. I rip both off, and Micah helps me put on a long-sleeve cross-country jersey and leggings instead.

In the bathroom mirror, more disappointment.

No baby bird today, folks.

Just me. Ugly, scabby, and—

disgusting.

The pink skin around one of my wounds has turned red, spreading in a wide circle, hot and tender and clearly infected. I’ll deal with that later, I tell myself as I tuck my shirt in tight.

I spend fifteen minutes blobbing on foundation and concealer and bronzer.

“You look great,” Micah says when I come out and put on my race-day shoes.

“Your BS is no good here.”

Downstairs, Margot is slurping Lucky Charms at the kitchen island. Her usual book and cape are missing. She keeps her eyes trained on her bowl instead of me when I talk to her.

“I’m—”

sorry

ashamed

humiliated

“—going to my track meet. Dad and Staci are at the hospital?”

Margot nods.

“Do you—”

hate me?

judge me?

wish I was dead?

“—want to come with us?”

She shakes her head, still not looking at me.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Fine.”

—

I chug an energy drink on the way. The pill cocktail I’ve been taking knocked me out good, and it’s hard to surface. My brain is a saturated sponge, heavy and soft. The beaches and cliffs flash by so nauseatingly fast that I close my eyes, roll down the window, and suck in fresh air like my life depends on it. Micah reaches over and holds my wrist.

“Your pulse is racing.”

“I’m just nervous. Only the top five runners go on to state.”

The caffeine hits my bloodstream just in time, punching into my chest and zapping my foggy brain to life. I ignore the fluttery feelings behind my rib cage and hop out of the car in front of the high school across town where we run the state qualifiers every spring. The team is already stretching out, warming up in a small huddle next to a banner for Ridgeline High. Micah heads to the bleachers as Sam beelines for me. She takes in my mottled skin—makeup can only cover so much—and her face falls.

“Lil. I—” Her voice catches.

I want to tell her to cut it out. That I don’t need her sympathetic head tilt or her pity or whatever it is oozing from her right now. But my words get caught in my throat, which is tightening as my teammates turn to look at me, their thoughts written across their faces.

Did she do that herself?

She really is crazy.

Crazy and scabby and desperate.

I close my eyes and try to ignore the way my stomach is lurching and my head is spinning. I center myself, envision bolting down the track. Crossing the finish line.

“What is this?” Coach says, looking at my cross-country clothes.

“I couldn’t replace my regular uniform.”

Coach tucks his clipboard under his arm, his eyes closed like he’s summoning strength from the god of adults who have to deal with teenagers.

“You missed our last scrimmage, Lily. You’ve been MIA from practice all week.”

“I know, but—”

“Do you think being part of a team means doing whatever you want? Not putting in the time and effort that all your teammates do?” He waits for me to defend myself. Explain my absence. Justify my existence. I got nothing. “You’re not running today.”

“But—”

“No. Enough excuses. You’ll have another shot next year.”

The caffeine has reached my heart. It does the cha-cha in my chest so fast, I could jump out of my skin. Next year? Next year is too late.

Panic starts its forward march from my core, radiating out to my fingertips.

You’ve lost Berkeley.

Now this.

And Alice is worse than ever

and so are you.

Is there anything you haven’t screwed up?

Coach yells at everyone to huddle. I’m outside the circle. I walk until I’m off the field, outside the fence, running toward the porta-potties by the parking lot.

I don’t make it.

I vomit on the blacktop, sink against the tire of a random car, hugging my knees. An elephant sits on my chest. An invisible hand grips my heart, my lungs.

I can’t move.

Stars shoot into my peripheral vision, slow and beautiful, and I slide toward the ground, one thought repeating on loop:

I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.

Micah replaces me there, muttering. He steps over my vomit and pulls me back up to sitting.

“Hey, hey, Lil, look at me. You can’t what?”

The invisible hand squeezes tighter, shutting off my lungs. Paralyzing my heart. Little shooting stars everywhere.

“Win,” I whisper, before the world goes black.