FIXING WOUNDS

*Ivy’s POV* My life has always been different. Not in the “unique and special” way people put on i********: captions. Different in the way a cracked glass is different — still there, still holding water, but you know it could shatter any second and nobody would be surprised. A typical person would call it bad luck. I call it Tuesday. I’m sitting in Ms. Caldwell’s math class, staring out the window while the numbers on the blackboard blur into grey lines. $x + 5 = 12$. Easy. But I can’t focus. I’m stuck on a different equation: _When did everything go wrong?_ I remember when it was right. I was born into an average family. Not rich. Not poor. My parents both worked. My dad at the auto shop, my mom at the hospital as a nurse. We had food on the table, lights that stayed on, and a roof that didn’t leak. We weren’t lacking anything… except warmth. They were thoughtful. They bought me school supplies, made sure I had a coat in winter. But not emotional. Not the kind of parents who ask _“How are you really feeling today, Ivy?”_ The last real memory I have of being happy is me and my mom. We were best friends. Absolute best friends. I told her everything. My stupid crush on Darius in 8th grade. How I cried when my hamster died. How scared I was before my first day of high school. She’d braid my hair and say, “Ivy, you’re stronger than you think.” Now she doesn’t even look at me. Now she calls me disgraceful. Now she shouts until her voice goes hoarse and the walls feel thinner. Now she’s a stranger who happens to share my last name and my kitchen. I glance around the classroom. Twenty-eight kids. Twenty-eight conversations. Twenty-eight groups that I’m not part of. Everyone moves around me like I’m a pest they’re trying not to step on. “If only my mother liked me,” I think, “maybe other people would too.” The thought makes my chest tight. “Ivy Johnson. Answer this question.” Ms. Caldwell’s voice snaps me back. The whole class turns. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes. I open my mouth but nothing comes out except air. My palms are sweating. My heart is pounding against my ribs like it wants out. “Sir, I’m not feeling too good,” I manage to whisper. “Look at how you’re sweating,” Ms. Caldwell says, not unkindly, but not softly either. “Why don’t you go to the nurse’s office if you’re sick?” The word _sick_ follows me out the door. It follows me down the empty hallway. It follows me home. Home isn’t quiet. Home is loud with six step-siblings running around and a TV that never turns off. My mom married my dad after his first wife died. That’s how I got one step brother and three step-sisters. I’m the first child from my mom. The oldest. The one who’s supposed to set an example. But I’m also the one they forget. I’m thoughtful. I notice when my little sister’s shoe is untied. I notice when my dad’s been drinking again. I notice when my mom hasn’t eaten all day. But nobody notices me. Whenever I try to open up, they say the same thing: _“You’re being too emotional.”_ or _“You just want attention.”_ Maybe I do. Maybe attention is the only thing that makes me feel real. I get sick a lot. Panic attacks. Migraines. That heavy feeling in my chest like someone’s sitting on it. Every time it happens, I used to run to my mom. Because when I was little, she was the one who held me until I could breathe again. But now? Now she’s the reason I can’t breathe. I used to be against marriage. I saw how my dad treated my mom when I was younger — the yelling, the slammed doors, the silence that lasted for days. I swore I’d never let a man do that to me. But then they got better. Things got… normal. At least on the surface. Normal is just another word for quiet. And right now, my life is too quiet. Too empty. Too alone. Ivy’s story doesn’t start in this classroom. It doesn’t start in this house. Ivy’s story starts the day I leave this school for a brand new one in another town. Because sometimes, the only way to survive is to run.