By spring, the nickname had turned cruel. Boys in the hallway would whisper “Bambi” as she walked past, then pretend to trip, splaying their legs like newborn fawns. She learned to keep her eyes on the floor tiles. One, two, three, four—don’t look up. If she didn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.
And for the first time in a long time, Sandy looked up from the floor. Her legs still trembled. Her eyes were still big and wet. But she wasn’t on ice anymore. Bambi Sandy Downward Spiral
The second turn of the spiral came in June. Celeste moved in full-time. She redecorated Sandy’s room—threw out the old stuffed rabbit her mother had won at a carnival, replaced the quilt with something beige and stiff. “You need order, Bambi. Chaos is what broke your mother.” By spring, the nickname had turned cruel
She woke up in a hospital room with a brace on her leg and her father crying in a plastic chair. Celeste was not there. The first thing Sandy did was reach for her phone. The second thing she did was put it down. One, two, three, four—don’t look up