What's Wrong
By Ella Wainwright “What’s wrong?” He asks. Typically his voice is a comfort, but today it does little to ease the stress settled into my temples. I can’t see his face over the phone, but the soft frown I’m sure he’s making is clear in my mind—a North Star among my jumbled thoughts. I called him immediately after hanging up the last phone call. My sister is starting to face the hardships of teenage life. I worry if she will be able to handle it, and then the worries stack on top of one another—worry, after worry, after worry—until they get caught in my throat. “Nothing,” I say out loud, but I think of the time I went to my uncle’s house and didn’t go past the doorway. I remember it like it’s happening. I creep up the crumbling front steps, the ever-growing pile of leaves crunching under my sneakers. The roar of a football game on the T.V. inside drowns out the soft idling of the car behind me. My shivering hands clutch at the warm squash casserole, drawing it closer to my nose. It’s n
