Free Kiss of Broken Glass by Madeleine Kuderick

them
    Jag’s already back in the beanbag chair
    and Roger is walking in the door and
    it almost seems like nothing happened.
    Except for the blush on Jag’s cheeks
    and this feeling inside me
    that something is different.

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It’s So Empty
    With Skylar and Donya gone,
    and Jag in Roger’s office
    “exploring his alternatives.”
    I’m all alone
    with my daydreams,
    and my unfinished drawing,
    and Donya’s good-bye present in my pocket.
    I try to concentrate on pencil shading.
    But the problem with drawing hands is that
    they have just as much expression as a face.
    They’re emotional.
    Personal.
    Revealing.
    You could paint the freaking Mona Lisa ,
    but if you gave her Skylar’s happy hands
    or Donya’s fighting fists, the whole picture
    would go to crap, because that’s not who
    Mona Lisa is.
    I think about Skylar’s question.
    Is that you?
    Two days ago I told her no.
    But today, I think—
    yeah, maybe it is.
    And then I feel myself being pulled into the zone
    where I’m not really thinking about what I’m drawing
    but stuff is streaming out stroke after stroke and I’m so
    wrapped up in the art there could be a jackhammer
    blaring right next to me and I wouldn’t even hear it.
    I’m surprised when I put the pencil down.
    They’re the best hands I’ve ever drawn.
    And they’re not hiding inside sleeves, either,
    with just the fingertips poking out,
    holding the fabric tight so the cotton won’t roll up.
    They’re out in the light. Palms open.
    With soft, slender fingers and just enough
    lines and creases to make them look real.
    They’re the kind of hands an art teacher might
    hold up in front of the class and while the other kids
    roll their eyes or crumple up their own papers,
    the teacher keeps gushing away.
    I mean look at these hands, she might say.
    So full of hope .

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One Hour Before
    Roger likes my drawing.
    It’s much better than the crayon crap
    hanging in his office where we meet
    an hour before the family meeting.
    He explains how he has to make sure
    he’s releasing me to a stable situation
    and that I’ll have a strong support network
    on the outside.
    I think he’s gonna lecture me about not cutting
    or how to use the 937 Things to Do Instead.
    But he doesn’t.
    He talks about relapse.
    How it’s just a part of recovery.
    That I shouldn’t beat myself up if it happens to me.
    I know he thinks he’s helping
    with his fancy Walmart diploma and all.
    But I almost wish he would just shut up
    because it feels like he’s giving me permission.
    Like he knows it’s inevitable.
    I’m bound to screw up.

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    HarperCollins Publishers
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Five Minutes Before
    Mom—
    Shifting in her seat.
    Checking the clock.
    Clutching that ugly Vera Bradley
    that cost her $118 but looks like
    it’s made out of pot holders.
    Avery—
    Texting away.
    Twirling her hair.
    Pretending she’s not even here.
    Dad—
    Counting the floor tiles.
    Raising his head.
    Forcing a smile that looks like it hurts.
    Me—
    Closing my eyes.
    Forgetting to breathe.
    Thinking of what’s in my pocket.

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    HarperCollins Publishers
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The Family Meeting
    So don’t be disappointed,
    but there isn’t a big blow-out
    with screaming and finger pointing
    and a gallon of guilty tears.
    And there isn’t some kind
    of miraculous healing either.
    Mom doesn’t admit how she favors
    Avery because Avery has the same
    ghost-blue eyes as her dead first husband.
    Avery doesn’t come clean about all
    the nasty things she says to me
    behind closed doors.
    Dad doesn’t jump into a phone