Sleepwalking in Daylight. Elizabeth Flock

just chillax. It’s not like we’re doing anything.” I wanted to say “oh, so putting your dick in my mouth isn’t doing anything? Then get the hell out.” But I didn’t say it and he left as soon as I finished.

      This whole thing with Will makes me feel small like I want to crawl into a cave. Or onto my mom’s lap. Like I want to be a little kid again and this time do it right. I look at faces in every crowd like I’m gonna see myself staring back at me but that’s so ridiculous. Like I’m really going to see a mirror image of myself. This whole thing is ridiculous but I can’t stop looking at faces in crowds. At the mall. In line for a movie. It’s just weird knowing my real mother is out there somewhere, maybe looking for me too. I bet she’s beautiful. Graceful. Elegant. I wonder if she regrets having me. I wonder if she regrets giving me up. I picture her out there searching for me, trying to find me. Like she knows she made a terrible mistake. Pinning up Have You Seen This Girl posters on telephone poles. It was probably an impulse. Maybe it was me crying too hard. She couldn’t handle the pressure. She had postpartum depression I bet and she didn’t know where to turn so she gave me up to have some peace and quiet. I bet she changed her mind the next day but it was too late. Samantha and Bob Friedman took me away and didn’t tell her where. And she’s lived with a hole in her heart ever since. In my mind I find her and she pats her lap and even though I’m much too big for it, I crawl onto her. I want to start over with her. From the very beginning.

      My parents are freaking out about me. They think I can’t hear them through the walls but in this house you can hear everything from everywhere so it’s like they think I’m deaf or something. Maybe that’s part of it like maybe they know my birth mom was hard of hearing and so I probably am too but they don’t want to tell me. Who cares. Last night I heard them through my iPod. They’re all Cammy this and Cammy that like they aren’t screwed up enough they’ve got to use me to keep from going insane in their boring lives.

      I’m never getting married. Maybe I’ll be gay. In front of his friends Will calls me a dyke and I know it’s because I don’t have boobs yet, not like the sparkly cheerleader types that suck off the football players but I wouldn’t want boobs if that put me in their category. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to be that pretty. Those girls can pick and choose and not have to worry about grades or being ignored. They’re never ignored. The guys all treat them like they’re made of glass, they’re all gentle and nice to them like they’re Princess Diana. Or no, idiot, she’s dead. So not Princess Diana but someone alive who’s like that, looked up to. Like Missy Delaney.

      Missy Delaney’s the first one who said I don’t match my family. That’s what she said in her squeaky ferret voice: you don’t match your family. Like I’m a purse and they’re the shoes. It was like eight years ago I think and because she was around other people she made it sound like it was a compliment like I’m prettier than my family or something but she and I both knew it wasn’t meant to be nice. I think she was the first person who didn’t like me. And I really don’t know why she picked me not to like.

      Now I get it. I mean, if we met today I wouldn’t blame her. It’s like we’re from different planets. Different galaxies. When I dyed my hair black she told everyone I was a dyke in training and then when I got my nose pierced she said I passed my graduation and was now a card-carrying lesbian. Not the lipstick kind, either, she squeaked to all her little worshippers. I can’t wait to forget her after graduation.

      I’m totally used to the fake cough–blow job–fake cough thing they all do when I walk into a classroom. I’m used to everyone laughing. I’m even used to the knob of tongue pushing back and forth from the inside of Max’s cheek every time I walk by him to my desk. I mean, it used to bug me but whatever. They used to call me Marilyn Manson but then Monica said at least Marilyn Manson gets laid and they shut up after that. I hate my life.

      Monica’s the only one who gets it. She moved here in time for the start of freshman year but since no one knew her from elementary school she had like zero friends. The thing about Monica is she doesn’t care if anyone likes her. If she does she hides it pretty well. Even then, two years ago when we were fourteen, she was talking about stuff like self-expression and artistic integrity. She’d sleep over and we’d stay up late talking about the stuff I think about all the time. Like how what we look like on the outside never matches what’s inside. She goes well, at least I’m not a hypocrite. I wear all black because that’s who I am inside: dark. I don’t buy into all this shiny happy shit. We went shopping one weekend back then and I spent all my allowance on new clothes kind of like hers even though I wasn’t copying her. I was just ready for a change. She still thinks I copy her but I so don’t. Her parents aren’t around much … I’ve never seen them … so I think she likes having someone to talk to about everything. Like at school and stuff.

      It’s like my parents don’t care what I think. It’s more like they care who I come from, which figures since that’s kind of what I care about, too. I know I don’t belong to Samantha and Bob anymore. It’s so hilarious how me calling them by their first names makes them all mad. Like “oooh, Cammy’s acting up again” when it’s just their own first names. Everybody else not related to them calls them by their first names so why not me. I didn’t mean for the boys to start doing it so I can’t really do it to their faces anymore. It’s not the boys’ fault I don’t belong. They don’t care what color my hair is or what’s pierced or how much makeup I wear, they treat me normal. Like I’m their sister. I don’t want them to find out about me for a while. They’re too young for it now and whatever, like they’d really care anyway? The only people who notice the difference are Robert—Bob. Dad. Whatever.—And me. Oh, and Missy Delaney.

      Here’s a poem I wrote today in class and I think it sucks but whatever. I’ll put it here for posterity, in case I blow my brains out or something. In case I go all Columbine on everyone.

       Different

       He looked at me with eyes that said “wow I thought you figured it all out by now”

       Like I’m so dumb it never occurred to me. Puzzle pieces fitting together at last. Mystery solved only not that day.

       That day felt small and dark like a cave I couldn’t climb out of. The solving of the mystery only recognized after emerging from the cave of childhood that ended there in the car on the way to soccer on a day that started like every other one before it.

       The answers lying in front of me there, in the middle of growing up. I take this with me like a rock I picked up on the beach and put in my pocket so I can remember the sand even when I’m home from the vacation. Even when I’m under snow. Even when I’m in a dark cave.

      That’s my stupid-ass poem.

      Samantha

      We’re on our way home from a new couple’s house. We met them at an open house at the boys’ school. It was set up so the parents attended mini versions of the classes their kids take and this was lunch hour so we were in the cafeteria standing over a plastic tray of grocery-store crudités with wilting lettuce garnish, dried-out baby carrots and blue-cheese dip that had a film over the top of it. That night Dave and Susan Strong seemed terrific. He looked about as happy to be there as Bob was, but she was upbeat, and because they are new parents she peppered me with questions about school. When the bell rang we shook hands and I said we should get together sometime. The next day I got an e-mail from her with a list of dates they were available and I thought it was wonderful…. I’d been planning on following up, too, because I hate those empty offers. Finally we nailed down a night. I was happy to be able to bring someone new into the mix. I’ve been trying to shake things up and what’s pathetic is that I thought something like having dinner with new people would shake things up. It took an act of Congress to get Bob to go. He never wants to go out, period.

      In the car on the way home from dinner Bob turns to me at a red light and says, “Please tell me we don’t have to get together with them again. He wears man-clogs, for God’s sake. Even male nurses don’t wear those anymore. They’re the most dysfunctional couple I’ve ever seen in my life. Did