We shared mumbled good-byes, and that was it. I scurried into the house alone. Closed and locked the door. Rushed to my room. Sat on my bed, got my gear, bared my leg. Drew the razor north to south down my calf, close to my knee pit. Burn, burn, burn. My heart stopped. Considered. Started up again, slower. Slower. Slowing . . . Better. I cleaned the blade and put it back into its case, which went back into my pocket. I dabbed the slice with tissue from the travel-size pack I kept in my bag. Never toilet paper, never a napkin. It’s got to be my own personal stash. Couldn’t say why. Maybe I was afraid of germs. Once the blood stopped draining, I plastered it with a bandage three fingers wide, rolled my pant leg back down, checked myself in the bathroom mirror, and, finally, tried to do math problems until Mom and Jeffrey would be home. It’s a lot of work being me anymore.
