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well ... Bethy, it's been two years."
    I wanted to scream into the phone, One year and eight
months, you idiot!
    When my mother spoke, her voice sounded like gravel. "What is it that you want me to do, exactly?"
    "I don't know," said my aunt. "I don't know, honey. I'm
sorry. I just ... I hate seeing you so ..."
    "I'm fine. Really. We're all fine." In case you haven't
noticed, fine is my mother's favorite word. I'm fine, we're
fine, everything's fine.
    "I know," Weezy said. "I know that."
    "Okay'"
    My aunt sighed. "Okay," she said. But you could tell
she didn't mean it. She just had enough sense not to
keep going.
    I waited awhile before going downstairs. When I got there
Mom was still lying on the kitchen floor, eyes closed, skirt
hunched up. She and the potatoes hadn't moved in an hour.

    I stood in the doorway watching her. I tried to imagine my mother on a date, sitting in a dark movie theater
somewhere, wearing one of Aunt Weezy's Ann Taylor outfits. A purple sweater set maybe, with pearls. Next to her,
some older guy in a blazer, gray hair gelled back into a helmet, one arm circling her shoulders. Next to him, on the
other side, was me. Punching him in the face.
    I cleared my throat, loud. "What's for dinner?"
    Mom opened her eyes, which were red. "Oh, honey.
Hi. I didn't see you there." She got up to walk the potato pan over to the counter. Her skirt was tucked into
her underwear, and it looked so ridiculous I wanted to
scream.
    "If you think I'm eating your crotch potatoes," I said,
"you're crazy."
    Mom turned around. "Excuse me?"
    "If you're going to make mashed potatoes sitting on
the kitchen floor with the pan between your legs, I'm not
going to eat them. Crotch potatoes."
    "Cute, Isabelle," my mother said. "Very cute. Anyway,
I'm making us a healthy meal. There's baked chicken.
Skinless. Salad. Corn on the cob."
    "I can't have corn on the cob," I said.
    "Why not?"
    "Hello?" I pointed to my mouth. "Braces?" Sometimes
I wonder if my mother knows anything about me.
    "Right," she said. "Well, you can cut it off the cob if
you want, with a knife. It's easy."
    "Whatever."
    "I also got fresh strawberries for dessert. Okay? Everything healthy."

    "Whatever."
    "Isabelle. Enough with the whateters, okay.'"
    "Fine," I said, picking up a few more grapes and walking toward the stairs. "And anyway, all I want for dinner is
a salad."
    Even though I knew that later, after Mom was in bed
pretending to he asleep, I would get up and sneak downstairs and open the refrigerator door. I would take out the
howl of leftover mashed potatoes and eat every last hit of
them with my hands. Standing up. Cold hard lumps of
potato greasy with butter, washed down with half a quart
of milk straight out of the carton.
    And in the morning, no one would say a word about it.

     

THE NEXT DAY WAS GROUP. As soon as we sat
down Trish handed out Pens, the really nice felt-tip kind,
With our names taped on the side. Even Rachel couldn't
complain.
    Trish asked us to take out our blank books.
    "Journaling is a great exercise," she said. "It's a way to
release some of that emotion building up inside you. You
know how if you fill a balloon up With too much air ..."
Trish held both hands out in front of her and moved them
farther and farther apart, making a whooshing sound out of the side of her mouth. Then, she clapped so loud we all
jumped. Pot) !

    "Well," Trish continued, "emotions work the same
way. If you don't find a way to let those emotions out,
whatever they are-anger, fear, sadness-you can start to
feel like you're going to explode. Writing is a way to let
some of the air out of your balloon, before you pop, so to
speak."
    If Mr. Minx were there, he would be nodding up and
down like crazy at Trish and her feeling-balloon. A+ for
use of figurative language.
    I was sitting on the same couch as last time, Mathilde
on my right. I was glad that Dawn sat on my left, instead
of Lila. Ashley came in late. Her cheeks