Read Online The Girl in the Well Is Me by Karen Rivers - Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Rivers
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week. I had meatloaf and macaroni because Mom used to make that stuff and even if I hated it then, I missed it now. That dinner came out both ends for days. It wasnât even good going in, so you can imagine what that week was like. Afterward, I felt like my legs were made of elastic bands.
Up until Dad did what he did, I donât remember ever feeling like my legs were going to let me down. Theyâd always done everything Iâd ever asked of them, pushing me off the ice and twirling me around on it and all of that. I guess that my strength is just one more thing Dad took, along with all that money.
The school is partway out of town on the highway and we have to walk to it, whether or not our legs are too weak for the job. Itâs not like the town was really planned; the warehouses were just built there because the land was cheap, and the town came up next to them so the workers would have a place to live. Iâd ride my bike to school, but we donât have bikes anymore, and weâre too close for the bus, and besides, I hate school buses with the heat of a thousand Texas suns. Everything bad that goes on at school goes on with a thousand times more intensity on a school bus. Trust me.
Mom had to sell the car when we got here so we could pay rent on our new house, which isnât even a house, itâs a trailer. I try to pretend that weâre camping, like itâs practically a camper, and everyone knows that campers are fun. We went camping the summer before Dad got caught. We rented a motor home that had a bunk above the driverâs seat. That was fun. It was the best. Iâm good at pretending, but not that good. No one would
camp
in this ugly trailer park. Itâs too gross. Thereâs nowhere to go swimming or anything fun to do. Everyone smokes and has dogs and shouts a lot inside their trailer walls. At night, I lie awake and listen to glass breaking and too-Âloud laughter and trying-Âto-Âbe-Âquiet crying. In the morning, Iâm always surprised that the ground isnât covered with shards of glass, ankle deep, surrounding us like a dangerous flood that has risen overnight, slicing perfect letter Jâs into our bare toes.
Robby and I have to share a room now. Not much could be worse than that. Heâll maybe be happy when I die in this well and he gets that ugly orange room all to himself. The place came furnished and even the curtains are orange. The carpet, the bedspreads that smell like some other kidsâ farts, the paint on the walls. I donât know for sure, but Iâm pretty certain that orange is the official color of despair.
And carrots.
The Girls have been gone for a long time. Iâm trying not to think the worst, which makes me think the worst. Mr. Thacker and I talked a lot about how trying not to think of a thing makes you think of a thing. Well, I am definitely not trying to think about how I AM GOING TO DIE HERE ALONE AND THEY ARENâT COMING BACK.
I start to cry again. In case you thought I was crying that whole time, I should say that I stopped for a while and now Iâve started up again. No one can hear me, but I donât care, I canât really help it. Crying because youâre sad is unstoppable; it just happens, even if you close your eyes, it leaks out of you. Sadness makes you holey, like a sieve, and nothing can be held in. Iâm sad that Iâm going to die. Iâm mourning myself.
I wonder what I would have been when I grew up if Iâd lived. I bet I would have had a smart job, like a scientist or someone who reads the news on TV. I bet I could have been in the Olympics after all, skating or horseback riding or even both. Iâd definitely have won a few Oscars for being a movie star, or at least an MTV award. I might have even been President. I mean, why not? Itâs about time there was a girl in that job. Women are just as good as men. Everyone knows
that
, itâs just that some men are
Up until Dad did what he did, I donât remember ever feeling like my legs were going to let me down. Theyâd always done everything Iâd ever asked of them, pushing me off the ice and twirling me around on it and all of that. I guess that my strength is just one more thing Dad took, along with all that money.
The school is partway out of town on the highway and we have to walk to it, whether or not our legs are too weak for the job. Itâs not like the town was really planned; the warehouses were just built there because the land was cheap, and the town came up next to them so the workers would have a place to live. Iâd ride my bike to school, but we donât have bikes anymore, and weâre too close for the bus, and besides, I hate school buses with the heat of a thousand Texas suns. Everything bad that goes on at school goes on with a thousand times more intensity on a school bus. Trust me.
Mom had to sell the car when we got here so we could pay rent on our new house, which isnât even a house, itâs a trailer. I try to pretend that weâre camping, like itâs practically a camper, and everyone knows that campers are fun. We went camping the summer before Dad got caught. We rented a motor home that had a bunk above the driverâs seat. That was fun. It was the best. Iâm good at pretending, but not that good. No one would
camp
in this ugly trailer park. Itâs too gross. Thereâs nowhere to go swimming or anything fun to do. Everyone smokes and has dogs and shouts a lot inside their trailer walls. At night, I lie awake and listen to glass breaking and too-Âloud laughter and trying-Âto-Âbe-Âquiet crying. In the morning, Iâm always surprised that the ground isnât covered with shards of glass, ankle deep, surrounding us like a dangerous flood that has risen overnight, slicing perfect letter Jâs into our bare toes.
Robby and I have to share a room now. Not much could be worse than that. Heâll maybe be happy when I die in this well and he gets that ugly orange room all to himself. The place came furnished and even the curtains are orange. The carpet, the bedspreads that smell like some other kidsâ farts, the paint on the walls. I donât know for sure, but Iâm pretty certain that orange is the official color of despair.
And carrots.
The Girls have been gone for a long time. Iâm trying not to think the worst, which makes me think the worst. Mr. Thacker and I talked a lot about how trying not to think of a thing makes you think of a thing. Well, I am definitely not trying to think about how I AM GOING TO DIE HERE ALONE AND THEY ARENâT COMING BACK.
I start to cry again. In case you thought I was crying that whole time, I should say that I stopped for a while and now Iâve started up again. No one can hear me, but I donât care, I canât really help it. Crying because youâre sad is unstoppable; it just happens, even if you close your eyes, it leaks out of you. Sadness makes you holey, like a sieve, and nothing can be held in. Iâm sad that Iâm going to die. Iâm mourning myself.
I wonder what I would have been when I grew up if Iâd lived. I bet I would have had a smart job, like a scientist or someone who reads the news on TV. I bet I could have been in the Olympics after all, skating or horseback riding or even both. Iâd definitely have won a few Oscars for being a movie star, or at least an MTV award. I might have even been President. I mean, why not? Itâs about time there was a girl in that job. Women are just as good as men. Everyone knows
that
, itâs just that some men are
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