Page 7 - Scar Girl

S car G I r L

into a zone where whole chapters pour out of them with-
out ever once needing Wite-Out. That’s what happened

to me.
A song. This song. It was just floating in the air or
in my brain, or maybe in the background hum of Bob
Barker hawking everyday household items, and somehow

it came out of my hands and out of my mouth. It was a
kind of magic.
When I was done, I turned the TV off and called Johnny.
Someone needed to hear this.

“Yeah,” Johnny said when I called him. “C’mon over,
I’m just listening to music.”
I could hear in his voice that Johnny was kind of
out of it. He had good days and bad days, and after the

excitement of the CB’s gig, I think he was having a bad
day. I didn’t really like to be around Johnny when he was
like that—I guess I saw too much of myself in him; it hit
too close to home—but I also knew that’s when he needed

me the most.
He was sitting on the floor of his bedroom when I got
to his house, his back leaning up against his desk. Above
his head, on the desk blotter, were three brown vials of

prescription medicines. I couldn’t read the labels, but
figured they must be painkillers or antibiotics to stave off
any infection that might have lingered in his stump. I used
to have those little bottles lined up in my room, too.

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