Fool people

It's so easy to fool people. These days, anyway.

All you need are the right credentials - a few documents, a few files and codes in the right databanks, and you're in. People accept you as a person. I mean, a handful of centuries ago, it was so much work, winning their trust. It took decades to craft a disguise, years of careful persuasion and research and diligence. And even then, the humans were still suspicious. You could look right, talk right, even smell right and they'd still carry a little piece of iron with them, keep some rowan in their homes, avoid looking you in the eye. They still worried you might not be what you seemed. There was so much fear.

But now, ha, it's easy. They're hardly aware of being human themselves, let alone worrying if the neighbor is, too. They rely on numbers. Little bits of data and they just relax, content with whatever lies you tell them about yourself.

I talked with a waitress about this recently, just before I ate her. She said she thought that people didn't examine themselves too closely because they're afraid they'll find a monster looking back. That maybe everyone's a little less human these days.

Maybe she was right. It's so easy to blend in.

Brief Encounters

It's always awkward when I run into him, even though I've technically known him for longer than anyone else. The first time was at Valley Forge; I wasn't born too long before that. I was bringing what few supplies I could find to the Continental troops--you know how teenagers love rebellion. Anyway, a camp full of cold, hungry, sick, miserable men probably isn't the safest place for a young girl alone, but I was too stupid to realize that. One soldier pulled me onto his lap, shoved his hand up my skirts (two fingers black with frostbite, I remember), and asked me to keep him warm that night.

Then he appeared. At the time he was a soldier, too. Tugged me up and sent me on my way.

I never properly thanked him, even though, like I said, I've encountered him several times since. Trouble is I don't know know him. I just see him places. We ended up working in the same dirty factory town in Massachusetts for a few years. I don't think he recognized me, though, despite a few meaningful glances I shot his way. Then there was that women's suffrage rally in New York, and that time he was across the street from me at a ticker-tape parade post-WWII. A sweaty little punk show in the 70's. Last time was at the bank. We might have seen a lot, but we still have bank accounts like everyone else.

It's not that I haven't ever talked to him. We shouted at each other for a bit at that concert. Turns out he's even older than I am. Came over from Europe. Saw the Holy Roman Empire, all that stuff. I don't know. I'm not very good at pre-me history.

He said there were a few others, but I haven't met them, at least not to my knowledge. There's no annual convention for people like me. I have no idea why it happens. My body got stuck one way and then stayed and stayed, and still stays. Same thing with him, I guess.

I'd ask you to remind me to thank him next time I see him, but I doubt you'll make it. No offense.

Bobbing

There's shrilling

about about

odd number of razor blades

I'm tired

Tired of

Tired of

cardiac arrest symptoms

brain aneurysm warning signs

vitamin c overdose symptoms

when I left

all old and sticky, and itchy

I didn't want grime and dust

in my skin

I had to stop myself.

I, an ancient rust bucket

a piece of crap

so proud

I wanted insomnia

the moment of falling asleep

like dying

Existing for much longer

awkward and familiar

What's the worst that could happen?

Bobbing for Apples

There's a part of my brain that keeps shrilling about germs and about the fact that there are an odd number of apples floating in the water and about the potential of hidden razor blades. But I'm tired of listening to it. Tired of being hostage to its Just in Cases and You Never Knows. Tired of the fact that WebMD is my homepage. Tired that my latest google searches have been "cardiac arrest symptoms," "brain aneurysm warning signs," and "vitamin c overdose symptoms."

When I was a kid, Halloween was my favorite holiday. My best friend and next door neighbor Ricky would always get store bought costumes of superheroes and stuff. He was Batman three years in a row. My mom and I would hit the thrift store and put together the best costumes. I was a cowboy one year, and a robot, and a dragon.

But at some point, it stopped being fun and started being work. The thrift store used to be this giant box of possibilities, like the transmogrifier in Calvin and Hobbes. I could walk in an average kid, but when I left, I'd be a scarecrow or rat or doctor or president. Slowly, though, it turned into a haunted house, and not the fun kind. The clothes were all old and sticky, and the air was itchy. I didn't want to touch anything, and every time I did, it felt like grime and dust was working its way into  the tiny lines in my skin. It was like I was getting slowly wrapped - mummified - in the cobwebby lives of all the clothes' previous owners. It was suffocating.

Ricky started to notice it, too. I'd have him over to play some video games, and we'd get in fights over who got to use the wireless controller. He thought I was just being selfish, but the wired controller was bad. I didn't know how to explain that holding it felt wrong, made me feel like I had to hold my breath to avoid breathing in its aura of badness. When we rode our bikes to the Walgreens for candy and cheap waterguns, sometimes I'd have to circle the parking lot a couple times before chaining up my bike at the rack because I needed to coast in at exactly the right angle. I knew he was frustrated and bored, but I couldn't stop myself.

Ricky and I stopped hanging out sometime in tenth grade. I think the last time was right after Ricky's dad got him an ancient rust bucket of a car for his sixteenth birthday. It was a piece of crap but Ricky was so proud of it. He picked me up just to cruise around town. I don't even remember what we talked about. I was just trying to keep it together and not think about the discolored stuffing that was coming out from rips in the seats, and the smell of old cigarettes, and all the fingers that must have touched the door handles. I think I was probably just sitting rigid in the passenger seat, because eventually Ricky dropped me off at home, said "You didn't have to come if you didn't want to, man," and sped off. We saw each other at school, or sometimes if we were both out mowing our yards, but he would carefully look in another direction.

My mom asked me a lot why I wasn't hanging out with Ricky, if something had happened, if anything was wrong. I wanted to tell her that the truth. That I loved and hated laundry day because the smell of the warm, clean clothes was safety but the hours it took to hang up my shirts (it's not sitting right on the hanger, the collar is crooked, the hanger is the wrong color) left me exhausted, defeated, and filled with shame. I wanted to tell her that sometimes I missed class because I couldn't get myself to step through the classroom doorway, or that I'd been plagued by insomnia for months because every time I drifted off, I would jerk awake, filled with panic because the moment of falling asleep felt like dying. That I missed my best friend. That I was starting to think there was something wrong with me.

I've been living in a holding pattern. Existing in a holding pattern. But I can't do it for much longer.

Yesterday, Ricky invited me to this Halloween party. It's the first time we've talked in over a year. I think maybe he's feeling nostalgic. We're seniors now, and pretty soon everyone we know is going to college, or moving to find work. I think maybe he's been thinking back to elementary school, when we'd compete with the other neighborhood kids to get the best candy.

It took me three hours to put together a costume from my closet. My mom tried to get me to go as a ninja, but the feel of her black polyester scarf over my face made me claustrophobic. Eventually I settled on being a Secret Serviceman. I just wore a suit and sunglasses and wore one earbud with the rest of the cord stuffed down the back of my jacket. Normally I don't like suits, because it feels like a restraint, but today it was armor.

I made it through the door on my fourth try. The party's in the basement of Ricky's girlfriend's house. It's kind of cheesy for a high school party. There's a playlist of bad Halloween music on, and bowls of candy corn and non-alcoholic lime punch with an ice cube in it that's shaped like a hand. I guess Ricky's girlfriend Alyssa is taking classes to be an EMT at the community college on Saturdays - she's pretty driven and healthy, so she doesn't drink much. But even so, people seem to be having fun. And, honestly, the school-party-style decorations make me feel almost normal, like when I was a kid.

I find Ricky - or Rick now, I guess - and he comes over. We talk a little, and it's both awkward and familiar. Things aren't the same, but maybe they're not as bad as I thought. We walk over to a table covered in shoeboxes that've been covered in black construction paper. There's a hole cut out of one side of each of them, with black fabric stretched across the top. It's one of those stick-your-hand-in-here-and-feel-something-gross things. One's labeled "Zombie Brains" and another "Ghost Eyeballs," which makes no sense but is just dumb enough to be funny. Rick dares me to reach in.

I look at him, wondering if he knows how hard this is for me. It's probably going to be damp, and other people have had their hands in it. I'll probably end up in the bathroom for the next twenty minutes, washing my hands with hotter and hotter water, worrying about using the towel on the rack because it might not be totally clean, waiting for my hands to air dry. I keep waiting to see signs of impatience or resentment or regret in Rick's face, like it was a mistake to invite me after all. But he's just looking between me and the shoebox, already amused at the impending joke. Alyssa joins us and says she knows the blind-touch boxes are silly but how it was always her favorite thing at Halloween parties when she was a kid.

What's the worst that could happen? It's something I've asked myself a billion times before about everything and it's never helped or worked before. But this is Ricky, and I'm here at a party, and life is going to be changing a lot soon no matter what I do, so I hold my breath and reach into the shoebox.

My fingers close on peeled grapes. I don't know what my face looks like, but Rick bursts out laughing. Not at me, but just happy at a good joke. And now my hand is occupying a huge amount of my brain, along with the internal neon sign that's flashing "WASH YOUR HANDS, WASH YOUR HANDS." The longer I don't, the more a sense of looming catastrophe builds. But Alyssa and Rick are smiling, and I realize that I'm smiling.

It's not like I'm suddenly okay. It still feels wrong to not immediately wash my hands. But I can handle it, at least for now.

And I'm staring into this metal tub, at the five apples left. All the apples with stems have already been fished out. These apples have no obvious handholds. Mouthholds. It's just going to be a matter of pinning one down at the bottom and sinking your teeth into it.

"BACTERIA. BACTERIA. BACTERIA." It's like a klaxon in my head. I don't want to get water up my nose, or have my head all wet, and I keep wondering if these apples were washed clean of pesticides before being dumped into the tub.

But I'm sick of the anxiety, the hesitation, the fear. The klaxon is still wailing and I still want to wash the sticky grape juice remnants off my skin, so I focus on one apple, one apple, one apple, the only thing in the world, and take a deep breath, and plunge.

And Eat It Too

They met online--an eighty-seven percent match. Pretty high, he thought. I want her to like me, he thought. So he made her a cake. Chocolate, because girls like that. Packaged powder mix from a cardboard box. Threw in an extra egg to make it softer, something his mom had taught him. He frosted it, placed it gently in a tupperware container. When she arrived at the bar, he set it on the table between them.

"Oh. That's so sweet. But I mean, I've never met you. Probably shouldn't take candy from strangers, you know?"

Until that moment, he didn't know.

He ate the cake that night on his couch, the whole thing, licked the frosting off his fingers, and he felt sick.

Sugar and Spice

when i want
i can make cakes
that will make you forget
all other cakes

when you eat it
little involuntary sighs
will escape your lips

you'll eat too much
even though you know
it'll make you sick
you won't be able
to help yourself

you'll look at me
in wonderment
amazed i'm capable
of such things
that i have this
sweetness inside

but i don't want to
make cakes for you

you don't deserve them

if you wanted cake
you should have
texted me back

Groceries

Rick could gauge Alex's moods by the items on their grocery list.

Onions meant he was comfortable, secure in their relationship, happy to make food that left him with smelly breath and the possibility of farts.

Brie meant he was feeling uncertain and needing to feel a little more grown up and sophisticated.

Lemons meant Alex was nostalgic and would probably want to watch John Hughes movies.

Blueberries meant he was guilty, sorry for hurting Rick's feelings and planning on making him blueberry pancakes and breakfast for dinner to apologize.

Fettuccine meant Alex was determined, about to embark on a big project (either personal or professional) and wanted to fuel up and access his don't-take-no-for-an-answer Italian mobster side.

Snap peas meant he was nervous about something and wanting the fidgety process of zipping away the fibers from the sides of the beans, snapping open the shell, popping out the peas, and crunching the cool crispness.

Lite sour cream meant he was feeling athletic and would soon drag Rick on another 5k.

Root beer meant Alex was celebrating something, that he'd be exuberant and effusive and even more affectionate than usual.

Sweet potatoes didn't mean anything. Alex and Rick just liked eating homemade sweet potato fries.

Running at Night

Jordan doesn't understand people who run in the morning. He tried for a few weeks, muscles tugging in the sick, weak sunlight, eyes too wet, stomach queasy. When his feet slapped the ground it felt all wrong, as though the concrete of the sidewalk weren't fully dry. Is any race worth that kind of ugliness? Is good health?

Mornings are for pillows, heavy blankets, the soft skin over a woman's hip and behind her ear. Mornings are for showers, long hot ones where you might forget to rinse out the conditioner. Mornings are for toast with lite cream cheese, black coffee, National Public Radio.

Nighttime is for running. Jordan feels faster with the dark slips off his sweat, more powerful with the cool air on his neck, the only heat emanating from his body and whatever remains in the pavement. He prefers the calm yellow glow of old dirty streetlights, of the moon.

The Alarms on Jane's Phone

Alarm: 5:55 am - Wake up and go running! Yay!

Alarm: 6:03 am- Seriously, you have to run

Alarm: 6:10 am- You know you need to run if you want to be Erica in that 5K

Alarm 6:20 am- Wake up now and you'll still have time to stretch!

Alarm 6:40 am- Shower

Alarm: 6:47 am- You want to look good for work, right? Get up and shower!

Alarm: 7:00 am- Still time for a quick shower!

Alarm: 7:15 am- Want to look better than Erica today? Get up now

Alarm: 7:30 am- Now you're going to miss breakfast too

Alarm: 7:45 am- Looks like it's a ponytail and no makeup for you today

Alarm: 8:00 am- YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR WORK!

Alarm: 9:00 am - Fuck it. "Sick" day!

Snooze

Alex missed the snooze function of his alarm clock. In college, he'd keep hitting that button until ten minutes before his 3pm lecture. He was a champion napper. And when he started seeing Jill, the desire to stay in bed was even stronger. They spent hours in the warm honey halfway state between sleep and wakefulness, luxuriating, each blissed out on the simple nearness of the other. The beeping of the alarm would make them ruffle, hands flapping sleepily toward the clock until it was quiet, and then they'd settle back down in a soft tangle of limbs and sighs.

Now, though, Jill got up early. She worked at an optometrist's office downtown and the commute was long. The alarm would go off, and instead of another ten minutes of stretching and fuzziness, she'd slip out from under the covers, brisk and efficient, leaving behind a little hollow that slowly cooled and erased itself.

Alex usually had an extra hour or so to doze if he wanted, but would watch Jill as she got ready for the day, stepping into the pantyhose that weren't necessary but which she wore because it felt more officey and businesslike, pulling her hair up and off her neck into a loose bun held sort of in place with three pins. On her way out, Jill would lean over and kiss Alex, a light touch that was more air than mouth that nonetheless bathed him in warmth - the feeling of safety and home.

But he could never fall back asleep. The space where Jill should have been always pulled at him like an undertow. Today, his arm wandered over to find Jill's shoulder but just met cool sheets. It felt like when you were a kid and had your feet sticking out of the sheets but then you noticed how quiet the house was and how dark the room seemed and what might be crawling out from under the bed to grab you by the ankle and drag you away screaming, so you pulled your feet under the covers even though it was too warm. It was like that. Alex pulled his arm back to his chest, hoping to shake off the chill, but the feeling followed him to work.

That night, over dinner, Alex asked Jill if they could play hooky, just once, and sleep in together with no schedule to keep, without worrying about being adults with important jobs. Jill went upstairs without saying a word. Alex washed up after dinner, but even the hot soapy water didn't dispel the cold from his hands.

By the time he climbed the stairs to their room, Alex was shivering. He pushed open the bedroom door, knowing he'd find Jill already asleep, or at least pretending to be asleep, her back turned and her shoulders hunched, her spine an unfriendly ridge telling him to keep his distance.

He slid quietly into bed, something dull in his stomach. Alex reached out and softly brushed Jill's shoulder. He meant to turn to his other side when he felt her uncurl. Her eyes peered out at him from under the comforter for a minute, and then she handed him something she'd been holding.

It was their alarm clock. The numbers were dark, and Alex followed the cord across Jill and to the wall, where the plug lay on the carpet. Alex looked back at Jill, who raised her eyebrows at him a couple times and yanked the covers over her head. Adam tossed the alarm clock onto the floor and joined her.

Not a Morning Person

"CHHHH dun-ch-dun-ch-dun-ch-dun-ch"

Josie swerves, almost hits the car in the next lane. The driver honks and she jumps again. 

It's that fucking drumbeat. Every time. Who makes Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself" their alarm clock song? Someone who wants to make weekday mornings worse than they already are. Someone going through a dry patch. Someone bitter, but with a bleak sense of humor. Josie to a T. 

This was a few years ago. She's been seeing someone new lately, Danielle. They met in line at the bank. Danielle is an optimist, sunny all the time. Josie is constantly surprised she doesn't hate her. Danielle is soft, curvy hips. Whenever Danielle spends the night, Josie tries to avoid turning on the alarm clock at all. If she does have somewhere to be the next day, it's just a generic beep.

Josie should have known. About Billy Idol, that is. This has happened before with other songs. "Kiss Off" by Violent Femmes. Blondie's "Heart of Glass." Just a few notes and that's it. Whatever else she's doing, whatever else she's thinking--gone. She is alert, heart pounding. She is running late, even when she isn't. There is no snooze button in the grocery store, at the dentist's office, in the car. The early morning interruption lingers with her for hours. 

Dance like Elaine

If you want to test a relationship, dance like Elaine from Seinfeld

Preferably in a crowded place
Preferably at a black tie event

Really go for it. Bust out your thumbs and full body dry heave

Make sure you have enough space
Make sure you maintain eye contact

Everyone will stare at you, so be prepared for that. Own it

Some friends will pretend not to know you
Some dates will sneak out through the back

Let them go. You don't need that in your life. Keep dancing

Calloused

[this post has been removed]

Injuries

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

I would have agreed a year ago. Chad and I brought her home from the shelter, a fluffy little thing to love, easier than a child, cheaper. We bought organic dog food. We stocked up on squeaky toys. We let her sleep in our bed, curled up on our feet.

Shit all over the carpet, shredded cushions, toppled trash cans--these I dealt with as best I could. Chad rarely saw any of it--I cleaned the messes before he got home from work--and he loved his new canine companion so much that he easily brushed off my complaints. "Once I get that raise, I'll take her to training lessons," he'd promise, rubbing her pink belly. He never followed through, of course. 

I reach down to her, hold my bandaged hand in front of her face, remind her of her actions.

It had been too long, so I pulled Chad close to me. I kissed him, and we fell to the bed. My hand twisted through his hair, but it didn't feel good. It hurt, sharp, and I realized she had bit me. Holes in my skin, blood in his hair, on the yellow sheets. "Little bitch!"

Chad scooped her up. "You just scared her, that's all." He wrapped her up in his arms, kissed her ears, pressed his nose to hers. 

That was last night. Today I led her down to the basement with treats, since she doesn't come when I call. I led her right to the crawl space. I tightened a muzzle around her nose and jaw. I tied her paws together. We don't store anything back here--I doubt Chad even knows about it. I'll say she ran away. I propped open the door while taking out the trash. Stupid mistake. We'll drive around searching for her, check the local shelters, put up flyers. 

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

"No regrets," I reply. I shut the door.

Sorry, Sorry, Sorry

Sorry, but

Sorry, no

Sorry, the bus is running slow

Sorry, and

Sorry, not

Sorry, you don't have a shot

Sorry, who?

Sorry, why?

Sorry, I won't say goodbye

Sorry, how?

Sorry, can

Sorry, shit has hit the fan

Sometimes the only thing to do
Is just say sorry and push on through

sorry not sorry

I get these heart palpitations sometimes. I'm actually not sure if they're palpitations - it's never been diagnosed. What it feels like is a skipped heartbeat, like the muscle is staying squeezed for too long, doing these quick little knifelike flutters for a half a second before resuming its normal pace.

It happens when I'm stressed, or anxious, or angry.

It's happening now, but I'm not stressed or anxious.

I'm angry. And sad. And ... furious at this crushing sense of helplessness, at the feeling of having no agency, no real ability to directly and immediately change the problem.

A friend of mine just wrote about being catcalled - no, about being sexually harassed, because "catcalling" has a jaunty, silly, just-having-fun sound to it - by her neighbor as she was walking home. She was shocked and disgusted, and kicked herself for not having a quick clever comeback, and didn't know what to do with the rage the instance caused, and was afraid because this man lives five houses away from her.

I don't know a single woman who hasn't experienced something like this. I literally can't think of one. I can't count the stories friends have shared with me, stories that feel like deja vu: requests from strangers to just smile, baby; men on public transit rubbing themselves while they stare at your tits; casual remarks made about your body so you feel like wearing eight layers of sweaters every time you step outside; strangers following you down the street while you try to convince yourself that you're just being paranoid but knowing that the fear is there for a reason and that it's not totally illogical and hating that you have to fight yourself and feeling guilty for feeling afraid.

What's infuriating is that people do these things without shame, without any sense that this is a shitty way to treat another human being who has thoughts and emotions.

What's infuriating is the fear I and many women feel which prevents us from calling these people out - what if I say something to them that reminds them I'm a human, and what if that makes them feel ashamed and then angry and then what if that anger makes them violent (because lashing out and making the bitch shut up is easier than examining one's own flaws and admitting that one has been a supreme asshole)?

What's infuriating is the culture that dismisses these things as being "just how life is," protecting harassers and pushing the recipients of this harassment into silence, telling them to "deal with it" or "get used to it".

What's infuriating is that I can't force clarity and understanding and empathy into the minds of harassers. I wish I could Professor X them into realizing why doing and saying that shit is a terrible way to treat people.

What's disappointing, but fixable, is that even intelligent, kind, well-meaning people can be hugely unaware that this is something their daughters, sisters, friends, girlfriends deal with all the time.

And that seems to be the only solution: making people aware that this bogus unbelievable shit still happens, all the time, without any fear of social judgment or consequence. Once people are aware, things can change. Once people understand, the culture can change.

I was supposed to write a story, but this is what I'm giving you instead. I'm ... never mind. I was going to say I was sorry, because it seemed like the polite thing to do, but politeness is going to have to excuse me today. No apologies for saying what needs to be said.

My heart's still palpitating (or whatever). But I'm hoping it won't have to for long.

Lifetime Guarantee

I was six. Mama and I pressed our fingertips together, our index fingers. I ticked her pulse aloud: tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Then she ticked mine: tickticktickticktick. I got scared because mine was so fast. Mother and daughter should match, I thought. I held out another finger, the littlest one, made her pinky swear I wasn't dying. She told me everyone dies someday, but she swore I wouldn't go that day. I made her promise me the same thing every day, and she did, until I was about twelve, when I decided I was invincible. What I wouldn't give now for such a guarantee.

Palm to Palm

When it's too hot
to shake hands
I want to just reach out

Reach out and touch
the pad of my index finger
so it meets with yours

Your whorls will line up
with mine and vice versa
It will be like E.T.

E.T. if he just didn't want
to touch someone else's
sweaty, sweaty palm

Because it's just too hot

Walls

In the house where I grew up, the walls of my bedroom were sticky. Not sticky enough to trap bugs, but sticky enough to keep dust and hairs. Sticky enough to pull a little on my fingers when I touched it.

The wallpaper was old and yellowing, a dusty pink and green floral pattern crossed with beige pinstripes. The wall glue had saturated the paper. Sometimes when I lay in bed in the summer, with lazy late-day orange sunlight filtering in through the gauzy white curtains, I'd reach out and stick my fingers and palm to the wall. Stick, peel, stick, peel, stick, peel, just sleepily feeling the soft tug as my skin parted from the paper. I'd turn onto my side and study the repeating patterns, turn this rosebud and that leaf into a happy face with crazy spaceman hair. Even back then I needed to wear glasses, so the flowers on the walls were blurred and vague, edges fuzzy and gentle like my stuffed animals.

The paper had a smell. Not a musty, coiling, basements-and-attics smell. Not a chemical smell, either. It was old, and comfortable, and a little bit dusty and fragile, like an old book you've read so much it has soup stains and wiggly water-warped pages and the dolphin bookmark you bought from the book-order in fourth grade still stuck in it. It was the smell of my bed and home.

At friends' houses, I'd run my hands lightly across walls that weren't sticky. They felt smooth and cool and indifferent. They didn't care if you touched them, didn't help keep a grip when you put out a hand to steady yourself. They were crisp and pretty and clean, so all you could do was smudge them up.

We moved out of that house when I was eleven. I heard the new owners pulled down the old sticky paper and painted the room a fashionable icy blue and put a saltwater fish tank in there, and now it's a home office.

Reaching and Hearing

I heard the noises in the vent night after night, but I couldn't reach up there. I was only eight. I told Aidy but she didn't believe me because I had imaginary friends. Thing is, I knew they were imaginary, my friends, and why would I make up noises as awful as all that? Squeaks like when the dentist takes that skinny metal pen to your teeth, only I could feel the sounds in my belly somehow, bouncing, like marching band drums in July. I told Aidy, but she wouldn't listen. Her room was next to mine, but she couldn't hear a thing. She didn't hear when I dragged a chair inside one night, didn't hear it wobbling as I stood on the seat. She only heard me when I burst into her room squalling, and my face was wet, and so was my hand. Even with that chair I couldn't reach all the way, and whatever it was only got away with the tippy top of my middle finger. I guess that was enough. Aidy let me sleep in her room for a couple months, and I couldn't hear, and I turned nine, and when I moved back in I still couldn't hear. I knew I could probably reach, with the chair, but I couldn't hear, so I didn't try.