The Hoodie Girl

The frantic rustle of clothes, the desperate sweep of my hands through my dresser drawers—it was a symphony of chaos. Summer break's last week, and my sanctuary, my oversized red hoodie, was gone. My room, a battleground of flung fabric, bore witness to my frenzied search.

A dull ache settled in my chest as my reflection stared back from the vanity mirror. Makeup, I’d once thought, could erase the dark circles, bring back the flush. A failed experiment, leaving me with a chickenpox complexion. I brushed the thought aside; far more pressing was the vanishing act of my comfort blanket.

“Mom!” I yelled, my voice swallowed by the silence. “Where’s my hoodie?”

Her muffled response from downstairs. Another, louder call. A weary sigh from her, then a defeated murmur: “Check the bottom drawer.”

And there it was, nestled amongst forgotten things. Of course, she’d hidden it. My mom, always orchestrating new ways for me to 'open up.' Whatever that meant. All I knew was, stubbing my baby toe repeatedly was preferable to facing school without it.