Free Glimmer by Phoebe Kitanidis Page B

before she closes the book I can see a tuft of paper sticking out from the spine. Extra pages have been torn out from the end. No wonder the book didn’t have a satisfying ending. Why didn’t anyone else notice?
    The door opens outward and a young mother slides past me with her toddler son in tow. “Thanks for the story, Carla!” the little boy calls behind him.
    Before I can duck out of the doorway, the tall reader turns and waves good-bye to the kid, and her eyes lock on mine. “Leese!” she squeals.
    I freeze, caught in the headlights of her searching gaze, then realize I have to go over to her. Obviously this girl and I know each other well. Very well. If I had to guess, I’d say this was my best friend.
    Was.
    I can’t think of one thing to say to her.
    “I’ve been texting you all day.” She points to her purse. “Where were you, slacker? Miss school again?”
    “Yeah.” I shrug. Again? So I miss class a lot? A bell goes off in my head, but it’s not a lost memory returning. It’s the memory of Kerry at the clinic this morning, asking what I’d done to myself this time. Why am I always at the clinic?
    Carla grins at me and whispers under her breath, “You were totally hungover from the party, weren’t you?”
    “Hungover?” I say stupidly, not wanting to commit myself to an answer, but it comes out sounding like, “Yes.”
    “I knew it. You were pretty sloshed at Dan’s. Of course, he was too . . .”
    Sloshed , what a gross word. So sloppy and wet, so out of control. I look at Carla’s perfectly flat hair and decide she’s never been sloshed in her perfect life. Much as it pains me, I need to stay close to her at least for now. She knows so much about me that every sentence out of her mouth gives me new info to process. Like, I went to a party last night. Hosted by some lush named Dan.
    Then again, I’m also a lush. Who misses school a lot, possibly from being drunk-sick. Lovely. I’m afraid to learn more about myself. But I’m even more afraid of staying a blank. Of never being whole again, ending up in the asylum.
    “I can’t believe you’re here.” She giggles. “In the library. ”
    Jesus. Am I that well-known for being illiterate? “I got bored, okay?” I say, hoping after the fact that my defensive tone sounds like the old Elyse.
    “If you’re bored with partying, maybe you should try some volunteering.” Carla smiles, a little bit smugly, in my opinion. “Reading to kids is such great practice.”
    “For what?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
    Carla throws me a hesitant look, like she thinks I might be making fun of her. “For when we have kids, hello? Ticktock. Graduation’s in two weeks, gonna be adults soon.”
    “I guess.” I’m thinking Carla must be one of those obsessive planning types who think ten to twenty years ahead. But as I glance down at the now squirming semicircle of kids on the carpet, the moms and dads kneeling to zip up sweaters and tie shoelaces don’t look much older than we are. They look about the same age as Candace, the college student staying at Preston House. So why haven’t any of these people gone off to college themselves? Come to think of it, Liz, my own mother, can’t be older than her early thirties. Which means when she had me —
    Before I can complete that scary thought, Carla’s purse rings with a tinny R & B riff. She pulls out a sleek silver phone. “Oh, it’s Pete!” I can tell from the sudden purr in her tone that Pete is her boyfriend. She thumbs a quick response and flips the keyboard shut. “I was just telling them that I found you,” she says earnestly, swinging her purse over her shoulder. Who’s them? I can’t ask. I’m clearly supposed to know. “And that you weren’t answering texts before because you were still hungover. But I only said that part because it seemed like they were getting worried.”
    “It’s okay,” I say, thinking that as soon as I get back home I need to find that phone and see