My legs have that same bendy-straw feeling they had the day after my mom left, and there’s a greenish-blackish stink wrapped around my shoulders that snaps and growls to let people know they should keep their distance. If my own mother can’t be near me, why should anyone else? I think about skipping this Petting Pool thing at lunch. My mood could be damaging to my social life. But once I get caught in the flow of bodies pushing toward the stairwell, it seems to be easier to lose myself in the current than dream up the right hiding place where I can eat my lunch. Besides, I really don’t have much to lose right now. In the few times I’ve passed by the second-floor landing between classes, I’ve never witnessed anything unusual. Then again, the landings in this stairway are enormous, more like long observation areas or sunrooms, and all four landings are identical. Huge leaded glass windows on three sides, a seriously ancient tufted-leather sofa, and a small forest of tropical plants in tarnished brass urns.
