Samantha’s secret is in the bathroom, alone, her playlist on full volume. Outside the door, the café buzzes with voices, dishes clattering, clanking, energy flowing throughout the brightly lit space. Her best friend’s laugh reaches through the tiled wall. Stupid fake laugh isn’t fooling anyone, she thinks to herself. She reaches into her purse. She does not enjoy shoving objects down her throat, feeling the acid rise up searing her esophagus, her eyes watering as the dry heaves turn to convulsive retching. A single tear makes its way past freckles and that one mole on her left cheek.

We all have things we have to do whether we like it or not. Her mother’s voice returns to her at all the worst times. I love you more than the air I breathe. Her mom didn’t see the irony of her own words as she drove away to ‘get some fresh air’ in some other town that Samantha couldn’t even pronounce. That was three years ago. Holding the bristle end of the hairbrush, the stubby horse hairs prick her palm, but the handle goes down smooth. The gag reflex is instantaneous. The turkey sandwich and chips she ate for lunch are now just a memory, flushed down the toilet with her mom’s words and her dad’s silence.

She splashes cold water on her face and brushes her teeth with the tiny toothbrush she carries in her purse. For a moment she feels better, but then the familiar ache is back. The only thing worse than feeling full is the loneliness, the empty space that can’t be purged. One quick glance in the mirror, she adjusts the tortured look on her face and joins her friends again with a smile she hopes is convincing. Her best friend is pretending to ignore her buzzing phone, working hard to maintain eye contact with the group. But Samantha knows what’s happening. She has known for a month about Amy’s affair with their history teacher. She looks at Amy’s frigid smile and wonders if there is a single happy person in the whole world.

Samantha needs something, someone, anything to believe in. On the train ride home, she looks for the old woman with the little dog, the one they all call the crone. Her soiled coat with no buttons and her constant humming keeps everyone at a distance. Every eye watches as Samantha slides carefully across the torn vinyl seat, laying her head on the crone’s shoulder. Her friends’ mouths are open tombs. When Samantha’s eyes flatten like the edge of a knife, every face freezes for a millisecond before the nervous giggles break the silence. The woman is a statue, her eyes fixed on something outside the window, smeared with the oil of hands and faces desperate to see the world as it passes by. Samantha closes her eyes and hums along with the woman’s familiar song.