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so many other things that I couldn’t understand. “There was a time when I thought the same thing.”
    â€œHave . . . have you?” I asked, the words jumping out before I realized what I was saying.
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œI’m . . . I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I shouldn’t have asked . . . it’s none of my business.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” she said. She sat there in silence, staring at the wall. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “you do what you have to do . . .”
    THE HOT WATER streamed down my face and body. I’d almost used up the little bar of soap scrubbing my body, trying to remove the dirt and sweat and smells that had accumulated since I’d last showered—hard to believe that was over three weeks ago. I would have felt bad about using up so much soap, but there was a second bar, sitting on the sink, that Ashley and Brent could use.
    I unscrewed the top on the little container of shampoo and conditioner and smelled it; it was some sort of peachy fragrance. Not my favourite, but beggarscan’t be choosers, and I guess I was a real beggar now, after all. It wasn’t like at home where there were a dozen different types of shampoo for different types of hair, as well as conditioners and special shower gels. Sometimes I thought my friends and I spent more time worrying about what was on our heads than what was in our heads. I wondered what Sarah and Samantha were doing right now. Probably watching TV or talking on the phone to each other or on MSN or . . . what was the point in thinking about any of that? I wondered if they thought about me the way I still thought about them. Would they have any idea at all about what was happening to me now?
    I tipped the shampoo into my hand, careful to use only one-third of the bottle. I put it down and then, with both hands, worked up a lather of suds in my hair. The smell got stronger as the suds built up. I ducked my head under the stream of water and started to rinse out the soapy lather. I worked it around and around; the water pulsated through my hair against my scalp. It felt so good: the hot water massaging my head, the feel of my hair—squeaky and clean—the steam rising up, the sweet, peachy smell. I could have stayed in the shower for hours . . . that’s what my mother used to say I did. She’d yell up the stairs for me to hurry or I’d be late for school. She’d even send my little sister up to pound on the door. Boy, it used to irritate me when she did that. All I wanted was to be left alone in the shower,behind the locked door, the noise of the shower blocking out all the other sounds, blocking out everything.
    That was all I wanted to do now, but I couldn’t. Ashley needed to take her shower, and Brent might already be back with the food. I wondered how long it would be before I got a chance to have another shower. Just then, I wouldn’t even have minded my sister pounding on the door. I missed her a lot. I knew she would be confused by what I’d done—worried, upset. I wished I could have explained things to her, about why I had to leave, but I didn’t, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell anybody.
    The suds cascaded down my neck and back and front and along my arms. I watched as the water and suds formed ripples as they passed over the little scars that covered my arms. I touched them with my fingers, tracing the lines. They were fading but they were still visible. Some of the marks, the deeper ones, would never fade away.
    Tears came. The warm tears flowed down my cheeks and got lost in the water flowing out of the showerhead. I started to sob. My whole body got shaky and my legs felt all rubbery and weak. I slumped down to the tiled floor of the shower. I thought about my sister, and my mother, and my friends, and my school, and my room, and about how I missed every one of