The Boy with Words for Skin

Chapter 1: Pinprick

    I knew it wasn't going to be a good day before I even opened my eyes. The pinprick was there at the base of the back of my neck, and I knew what that meant. I was going to shed.

    I'd already shed three times by then, but shedding's always different. So even though I kind of knew what to expect, there was still a lot I didn't know.  All I really knew for sure about shedding was the warning sign--the pinprick--and that it was going to hurt like crazy.

    "Words?"

    I jerked to the left and my eyes popped open. My brother, The Headless Boy with the Headless Dog, was there. He stood next to my bed in the dim light, hands resting on the edge of my mattress.

    "Words," he said again. His voice came from where his mouth should've been, like his head was just invisible and not actually gone. "We get to go home today."

    My brother's pet, The Headless Dog, a white terrier with brown spots along its left side, put its front paws up on the edge of my bed.

    "Down," I said. It didn't listen to me--it never did--so I kicked out from under my sheets and swiped its paws away. The Headless Dog fell out of sight with a yip but bounced right back up and its front paws were back on my mattress.

    "We get to go see Mom and Dad and Judith and Grandma Harriet today," he said.

    "You know I don't want that dog on my bed, Boy," I said. I turned over onto my right side so I wouldn't have to look at them.

    "Down, Heady. Get down."

    I heard the dog's paws hit the wood floor with a soft thud. I gritted my teeth. Stupid dog.

    "It's Saturday. We get to go home today, Words. Family dinner."

    Of course I knew it was Saturday, and of course I knew that meant we had our weekly family dinner--if you could still call the Brandts a family, and if you could still call what Mom served us dinner.

    I clenched my jaw even tighter.

    "What number is it? How many more numbers until we get to go?" Boy was excited. You could hear it in his voice. He would've been smiling if he still had a mouth to smile with.

    He used to have dimples. Our mom used to say they were wishing wells all the girls would fall into once he got old enough. I squeezed my eyes shut and hoped that would erase the image of his smiling face from my mind. It didn't.

    I sighed.

    Almost five months later and I could still barely look at him. Almost five months since I'd picked him up or hugged him. Almost five months since I'd touched him without having my skin crawl and my stomach clench up. Being avoided by an older brother wasn't the way a seven-year-old should be treated. But, then again, 407 West Marshall Street wasn't the kind of place where a seven-year-old should live--where anyone should live.

    "We get to go home, right?" The smile in his voice was half gone.

    The pinprick was still just a pinprick, but I wished it would just hurry up and spread. It wasn't that I wanted to shed. I just wanted to get it over with, to get at least one terrible thing out of the way.

    "Words? How many more numbers?" The smile was gone. He sounded uneasy. His voice was louder.

    I sighed again. "Not for a long time," I said. "It's still morning."

    "No. The day feels almost over."

    "You don't know what you're talking about, Boy."

    "It's almost night. I can tell."