Free Empty by K. M. Walton

with my bare hands, maybe even hum a tune while doing so. Then I’d dance on top.
    As Meggie plays in the sandbox, I text Cara. I’ve sent her four messages, but so far, no response. The brief bit of peace I felt from Meggie’s smell and letting softball go is long gone. I am in full-on panic mode. I’m worrying that our friendship is over, that she has replaced me with the jumping girls. Or that she somehow found out about what happened with Brandon. I rummage through Meggie’s diaper bag and grab every snack I can find: a teething cookie, toddler fruit snacks, a squished oatmeal bar. I swallow the last tasteless bite of oatmeal bar, reach for the bag, and in an effort to find more food,haphazardly pile the contents next to me. I’ve eaten everything. But I find an old pair of sunglasses and put them on. I can feel the tear factory gearing up.
    Of course I’ve lost Cara to the jumping girls. I don’t fit in and she does. Shit, who am I kidding? I don’t fit in anywhere or in any thing . Maybe if I go on a diet and lose weight, she’ll act like my best friend again. But the problem is, imagining Cara and I skipping off into the sunset, chanting “Best Friends Forever!” is not only stupid, it’s unrealistic.
    But mostly, it’s stupid.

The Ugly, Ugly Walk
     
    I’M IN BED WHEN I TEXT CARA ONE MORE TIME:
     
You okay? I’m worried.
    No response.
    I can’t fall asleep, so I try watching some magic videos. They’re not helping, and I turn off my phone. My eyes are heavy, but my thoughts won’t let me sleep. I toss and turn for what feels like hours, trying to get comfortable, trying to quiet my head.
    I give up and stare. Sometime after four in the morningI conclude that sleep won’t help me, it won’t stop my pain. I should just stay awake and feel the hurt. I let it weigh on me. Holding me down. It’s a bottomless, heavy ache, so deep I swear it’s in my bones.
    I turn my phone on before dragging myself out of bed, and I see that Cara finally texted me back. I read her text ten thousand times:
     
Phone died. I am sorry, Dell.
    Her phone never dies.
    I fixate on the “I am sorry, Dell.” It’s so final. There’s nothing to respond to. No opening or invitation to text her back, so I don’t. And she was sorry about what exactly? Her phone dying? Was she apologizing for something else? I devise every possible scenario, each of which crumbles to dust, leaving only one option: She ditched me for Sydney and her friends.
    My mother calls from the kitchen, “Adele, get in the shower!
    I zombie-walk to the bathroom to get ready for school.
    With my towel wrapped around me, I stare into my closet. It’s full of clothes, but I’ve never worn most of them. I reach up, ruffle the tags, and shake my head. I grab my usual jeans and T-shirt. My bed squeaks underneath my weight as I sprawl across it. This routine of sucking my gut in so my zipper goesup starts my days with heaping servings of self-loathing. Every morning begins with a: “Good morning, Adele, you beast.”
    I check my phone for new texts from Cara. Nothing. I do a few twists and turns in the mirror and cringe.
    Meggie’s voice makes me jump. “Dehwy? Get out?”
    I smile. I really don’t want to smile, but I can’t help it. She is too cute. I walk over to my sister’s crib. “Good morning, Meggie-bideggie.” Her curly brown hair is adorable. It’s bouncy and shiny and compliments her big brown eyes.
    Meggie throws her arms out, and I pick her up. My little sister and her blanket come out of the crib as one unit, as usual.
    “You love your blankie, don’t you, Megs?” She nods. “Okay, I gotta go, girl. Come on.” Meggie nuzzles her warm head into my neck. She wraps her little arms and legs around me. I rub my lips on her baby-soft hair and breathe her in as I carry her into the kitchen. When I go to put her into her high chair, she clings tighter. I hug her back and whisper, “Love you too.”
    “Again, Adele?” my mother barks,