Olivia’s mom is a worrier who had a pretty messed-up childhood, and she always wears a rubber band around one wrist so that when she feels a burst of worry or a bad memory coming on, she can snap it against her skin and remind herself that she’s here. I put the rubber band on and give it a good yank. It stings—a lot—but I don’t feel better. I already know I’m here. I already know what’s on my mind. Anger. I’m starting to get scared at how angry I am, though. At how, when I try to find a way out, even for a second, I can’t. I snap the rubber band again as Olivia opens her locker. Still nothing. I do it again, and again, and then the band breaks, falls off my wrist and to the floor. I stare at it. Someone steps right on it, and then it’s gone, trampled off down the hall. I look at my wrist. There’s a red welt on it. My mother has marks on her skin from the tubes and needles.
