Hysteria Read Online Free Page A

her bedroom, and shut the door.
    And then she turned the lock.
    That’s when I learned that hate is a funny thing. It can manifest out of nothing in
     an instant. It can jump from there to here. Like how Dylan taught me in chemistry,
     electrons jumping from cloud to cloud, never passing through empty space. It doesn’t
     take time to grow. It’s just not there. And then it is. Effortless.
    So I backed into my bedroom, bubbling with hate, and turned my own lock.

    After the paint on the back door was dry and my mother shut and locked it, she settled
     into her lifeless state. She was perched on the edge of the white sofa, staring through
     a crack in the lace curtains. Every time a car drove by, she’d suck in a breath and
     stare out the window even harder. I tried to see what she saw, but everything was
     muted by the white curtains. Filtered somehow. A little more abstract, a little less
     real.
    There’s nothing ominous about white. White walls, white tiles, white furniture. It’s
     clean, pure, innocent. Nothing hides in white. Except sometimes when the sun is directly
     overhead, nothing casts a shadow. And it’s hard to tell where the wall ends and the
     floor begins. Like there’s just this expanse stretching outward, curving back around.
     Like there’s no depth perception. It feels like the opposite of claustrophobia.
    “She’ll stop when I leave,” I said, standing behind her.
    “I don’t . . .” No smile. No laugh. No declaration. Just this uncertainty. Half a
     sentence. I hated her for it. And suddenly I couldn’t stand the thought of seven hours
     in the car together. Of Mom staring out the window or maybe fidgeting with the lock,
     and Dad telling all these stories about his time at Monroe, hearing about so-and-so’s
     son or daughter, or so-and-so’s second cousin twice removed. Of saying these formal
     good-byes — all fake smiles and fake words and fake everything.
    “I’m ready to go now.” But the words came out quiet and unsure.
    She shook her head. “We’ll drive up together tomorrow.”
    “I’ve taken the train before, you know.”
    “Not that far. You’d have to switch lines in Boston and you’d be all alone . . .”
     Her voice trailed off at the word. I’d be alone for the entire school year.
    “Your father’s at work,” she said.
    I tried to think of how to appeal to her senses. “I’m scared,” I said, which, as it
     turned out, was the most honest thing I’d said to my mother in weeks.
    She stayed silent, doing the staring-off-into-space thing. Then she snapped to attention,
     nodded vigorously, and grabbed the keys off the holder next to the front door.
    We left.
    I didn’t call Colleen. I didn’t leave a note for my father. I didn’t lean my head
     out the door and scream, “I’m leaving!” at Brian’s mom, wherever she was. I didn’t
     tell anyone. I just grabbed my bags and walked out the front door into the stifling
     heat. One last glance toward the kitchen, to the white spot on the floor.
    Good-bye.
    At the train station, Mom handed me several twenties. Then she leaned across the center
     console, a halfhearted attempt at a halfhearted hug. “Be good, Mallory love,” she
     whispered into my ear.
    It was the type of thing she’d never said to me before. It was the type of thing she
     never felt the need to remind me of before.
    I felt the hate again, flashing from nowhere. Light off. Light on.
    And then I walked away from the car.
    My hands shook as I handed the money to the cashier. I didn’t know why. Colleen and
     I used to take this train into the city several times a year. And, really, I was glad
     to leave. Brian’s mom was always waiting, two hundred yards away. And there was that thing in my house, waiting for me. Coming for me.
    I should’ve felt relieved as I boarded the train. Free. I was free. I whispered it
     to myself, like this whole thing was my idea, and by the time I reached Boston, I
     almost believed it.
    I transferred