Page 138 of The Initial Insult

Girls who have private therapists do not.

Hours later my scalp is pink and tingling, and Mom is putting fresh sheets on my bed. They’re brand-new, with the little lines from being folded in the package still pressed firmly into them, even when she snaps them in the air above my mattress. A year ago I would’ve been under them, yelping as Mom tucked in the corners, made fake cries about the weird lump in the center, and tried to push it back down while I giggled, pressing back.

Now I’m squashed into a corner of the room, holding tight to a brand-new stuffed animal that had taken the place of all my burned ones, and trying to put together the perfect sentence to call my mom a liar.

“Mom . . . I think Gretchen was the one with lice. And I think you know it, too.”

She doesn’t stop moving, only gives the pillow she’s sliding into its new case an unnecessarily hard thumping. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? You all ended up with it.”

“It matters when you’re blaming Tress,” I say.

“I’m not blaming Tress,” Mom says tightly, stretching out over the bed to smooth the corners. “Jill Astor is.”

“But you didn’t tell her she was wrong!” I yell, my fingers digging deep into the teddy bear. “You didn’t tell her it was Gretchen! And you didn’t defend Tress!”

A little voice in my head adds something much worse: Neither did you.

“Honey . . . ,” Mom sighs, resting her head on my pillow. She looks at me, my back flattened into the corner, a death grip on my teddy bear.

“C’mere,” she says, wiggling her fingers at me.

I go, sliding under the fresh new sheets and letting Mom’s arms come around me in a hug, nice and loose, comforting. It’s not like the hug I gave Tress; not a hug that you’re worried someone is going to break free of.

“I know things are really difficult for Tress right now,” Mom says, her breath in my ear. “But arguing with Jill Astor isn’t going to make anything better for her. It would only cause hard feelings and arguments and more problems than we’ve already got. Do you understand?”

I nod. I do understand. But I wasn’t talking about our problems. I was talking about Tress’s. Mom presses her face into my hair, her voice warm and soft in my ear.

“I’ve only got one little girl in the whole world. You’re the most important thing to me, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Nothing happened to me, Mom,” I say, shrinking a little. “I didn’t get hurt.”

“There are different ways of getting hurt,” Mom says. “You’re still here in your bed, warm and safe. But . . .”

She doesn’t finish, at least not immediately. I know she’s being careful with me, trying to find a nice way to tell me I’m not the same girl who ran to Tress Montor’s house that night. She’s right. I’m here, all in one piece. But only on the outside.

On the inside, all my pieces are a jumble. A puzzle that’s been dropped.

“I know, Mom,” I say, rolling over to face her, snuggling my head under her chin. “I know I’m not . . . okay.”

Her grip tightens. Too much.

“You are fine,” she says, her voice rising. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

Mentally, I take notes: There is nothing wrong with Felicity Turnado. Gretchen Astor did not bring lice to a birthday party.

“If there’s nothing wrong with me, why do I have to see Dr. Gabriella?”

Mom pushes some of my hair out of my eyes. “Things changed that night, Felicity. For Tress, definitely, but for you, too. You can’t remember what it was, but something horrible happened, and you were there. That’s a hard thing for a kid to deal with. It’s a hard thing for anyone to deal with. There’s nothing wrong with going to therapy, and there’s nothing wrong with you,” she says again, emphatically. “But something happened to you. It’s like . . .” She scans my room, thinking hard.

“It’s like your porcelain doll,” she says, pointing to the dresser. “If she had a tiny crack would you say she was broken?”

“No,” I say.

“And she wouldn’t be.” Mom nods. “But a crack makes her just a little bit weaker, and the next time she falls . . .”

“She’ll break,” I say.

“Right. But you’re not made of porcelain, are you? You can heal. And we’re taking you to see Dr. Gabriella so that the little crack you’ve got can close up, nice and tight.”