It was at the last cross-country meet, ight around the
four-mile mark. Everybody had passed me, just like the
week before and the week before that. Everybody –
except a girl from the other team. We were the only ones
left in the last stretch of the course, the part that winds
through the woods and comes out behind the school.
Our shadows passed along the ground slantwise; slowly
they merged, then her shadow passed mine.
The soles of her sneakers swam up and down in
front of me, first one, then the other, a grid of ridges that
spelled out the upside-down name of the shoe
company. My steps fell in time with hers. My feet went
where her feet had just been. She leaned in around a
corner, I leaned in around a corner. She breathed, I
breathed. The she was gone.

I couldn ’t even picture her any more. But what scared
me, really scared me,was that I couldn ’t remember the
moment when I ’d stopped seeing her. And I knew then
that if I couldn ’t see her, no one could see me.
Sounds from the track meet floated by. A whistle
trilling. Muffled applause, the weak sputtering of gloved
hands clapping. I was still running, but now I was off the
path, heading away from the finish line, past the cars in
the parking lot, the flagpole, and the HOME OF THE LIONS
sign. Past fast-food places and car repair shops and
video stores. Past the new houses and the park. Until,
somehow, I was at the entrance to our development.
It was starting to get dark now, and I slowed down,
walking past houses with windows of square yellow
light where mothers were inside making dinner, past
houses with windows of square blue light where kids
were inside watching TV, to our house, where the
driveway was empty and the lights were off.
I let myself in and flipped the light switch. There was
an explosion of light. The kitchen slid sideways, then
righted itself.

I leaned against the door. "I ’m home, "I said to no
one.
The room tilted left, then right, then straightened out.
I grabbed hold of the edge of the dinner table and tried
to remember if we stopped eating there because it was
piled with junk or if it was piled with junk because we
stopped eating there.

On the table there was a roll of wadding, a glue gun, a
doily, a 1997 Krafty Kitchens catalogue. Next to the
catalogue was a special craft knife with the word EXACTO on
the handle. It was sleek, like a fountain pen, with a thin
triangular blade at the tip. I picked it up and laid the blade
against the doily. The little knots came undone, just like
that. I touched the blade to a piece of ribbon draped across
the table and pressed, ever so slightly. The ribbon unfurled
into two pieces and slipped to the floor without a sound.
Then I placed the blade next to the skin on my palm.
A tingle arced across my scalp. The floor tipped up
at me and my body spiralled away. Then I was on the
ceiling looking down, waiting to see what would happen
next. What happened next was that a perfect, straight
line of blood bloomed from under the edge of the blade.
The line grew into a long, fat bubble, a lush crimson
bubble that got bigger and bigger. I watched from above,
waiting to see how big it would get before it burst. When
it did, I felt awesome. Satisfied, finally. Then exhausted.
I don ’t tell you any of this, though. I don ’t say anything. I
just hug my elbows to my sides. My mind is a video on
fast-forward. A video with no soundtrack.
And finally you sigh and stand up and say,"That ’s all
we have time for today."