Page 74 of This Darkness Mine

I am —her-e

My answer, written so that she will understand.

U had y/our/ time (minetime). Over [no]w. I need a F(u)t(ur)e.

To Brooke

Thanks a lot.

???

You told Heath about Isaac

Yep But I told you about Heath & Lilly

Found a great subreddit with gifs of blisters bursting

Staying mad at Brooke is impossible. I want to throw my phone, but instead I end up texting her back about Heath coming to give me the official shove-off and asking her to send pics of some sheet music I know she has stashed away. She says she will in exchange for shots of Brandy’s stump if she’s cool with that.

I’m doing a silent walk-through of some Brahms I think would work well for our next meditation when Layla and Brandy burst into my room.

“Who’s the douche?” Brandy demands, taking the spinning chair while Layla takes the couch.

“The douche?”

“The guy who walks like he stores the family Christmas tree in his ass,” Brandy elaborates, spinning first one direction, then another.

“Oh, Heath.” I snap apart my clarinet and take my time doing it. I don’t know what to say about him. He’s a chapter in a book I’ve already read, but one I’d keep on my bookshelf for a rainy day if I were desperately bored.

“Uh, yeah, Heath,” Layla says, mocking me. “What’s the story there?”

“He’s the guy I fit with,” I say as I snap my case shut.

“Like fit, fit?” Brandy asks, making a fist with one hand and jamming her index finger in it.

“Ew, no,” I say automatically.

“Then you don’t fit,” Layla says. “I don’t care if your clothes match or what. If the thought of bumping uglies with him makes you barf a little, it’s a no-go.”

“Can we talk about something other than my ugly?” I ask.

“How about a crane falling across three lanes of traffic on the eastbound?” Brandy offers. “Probably a few possibilities there.”

I shake my head. “Doubt it. Any life-threatening injuries probably involve crushing, ribs puncturing organs, and so on.”

“Bummer,” Layla says, and picks up my nail file.

“Although I guess there could be amputee situations, possible bleed-outs . . .” I tap my fingers on the bed railing, my eyes drifting to Brandy’s prosthetic.

She stops spinning in the chair. “Look, I’m kind of over it. So if you want to ask me stuff about my foot, go ahead.”

Layla tosses aside the file and moves over to the bed to join me. “Is it weird?”

“At first, yeah,” Brandy says. “But you just get used to it. Like, you wear glasses, right?” She points at Layla, who nods. “So when you get up first thing in the morning, what do you do?”

“I put my glasses on so I can see,” Layla says. “Otherwise I’m blind.”

“Right, so same thing. I get up and put on my foot so I can walk.”