Free The Bargaining by Carly Anne West Page A

the pink wallpaper from the twin rooms. The tops and bottoms run up short or too long over the molding against the floor. It looks like it was hung in a matter of minutes.
    I move a few scattered drawers belonging to the empty dressers and clear a path to the wall before pulling the loose end where the yellow and green meets the pink. Loose wallpaper is kind of like a hangnail. You can’t not pull it.
    I tear until a triangle the size of my hand has curled away, exposing blue paint beneath the floral design. I pull the paper into my fist and yank as hard as I can, relishing the destruction I’m responsible for—an old, familiar feeling. A feeling thatprecedes April and my dad’s disinterest and my mom’s abandonment. A feeling that precedes that night in the desert. And now I remember what it’s like to feel in control of something, and I have to choke back a sob it feels so good.
    After setting Linda in one of the abandoned drawers, I push stacks of damp papers and end tables and heavy quilts from the wall, clearing a space for the chaos I’m suddenly desperate to unleash.
    I dig at a new corner of the wallpaper, but I can’t get a hold of the end. I scratch until my fingers start to burn, but the paper won’t budge. I frantically search the room for something to aid me and spot a stick lying by the window. It must have blown in from one of the branches outside.
    I chisel at the corner of the wallpaper until it comes up, and I tear a new sheet from the wall, this one almost a foot long. More blue wall exposes itself. I tear again. Another two feet fall to the floor in tendrils of discarded design. I dig and tear at the paper until I’m kicking through shreds like a hamster in its cage and sweating from the effort. But it’s better than what I was feeling before.
    I look at the wall I’ve marred. Swipes of newly exposed plaster peek through the shreds like shy creatures. And upon closer examination, it appears as though that’s not too far from the truth.
    Faint against the blue are fine strokes of lighter colors. Thin lines, drawn with a frenzied hand depicting a forest. I spot the tops of evergreen trees and paths painted into a mural of some kind, with tiny flowers and squirrels and birds dotting the scene.
    I scrape another corner of the paper from the wall and tear carefully so as not to leave any of it behind. The ­wallpaper separates from the plaster with a sigh and lifts away to reveal a head of hair so red, it’s purple. I pull a little more, and there, staring at me from six inches away is a set of bright green eyes painted into a young face of permanent contemplation.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    I spin to find April in the doorway, her worry searching for a place to land in the frenzy of the room and her unstable stepdaughter.
    â€œHome improvements,” I say, gulping for the air I hadn’t realized I was missing.
    After her search of my face, she finally notices the wall I’ve begun to strip.
    â€œSome kind of mural?” she asks, as if I might have the answer.
    â€œThe wallpaper’s hideous. Basically everything’s hideous. Oh, and the house has fire damage,” I share, leaving no bitof bad news out. I wasn’t quite done unloading my immense emotional baggage in here, and frankly, her interruption bothers me a lot.
    April takes a breath that puffs her small chest and lets it out in three, two, one. She looks down at the floor and back up at me.
    â€œI won’t do this, Penny. This sniping every other minute. I swear to God it’s like being married to my ex all over again. I’ve been trying. For three months, every day, I’ve been trying. And I know I shouldn’t say this, and I’m probably going to regret it, but I’m not really in the mood to filter myself right now. I’m the only one who’s really been trying. So you can keep doing what you’re doing and make the next two months