There is a mirror hanging on my bedroom wall.

It’s got a sturdy pink frame with little purple and white flowers, and it’s as tall as I am. My mom likes it, but I wish my parents would take it down. I really don’t like the way my reflection looks at me.

I have to bury myself under all my covers at night so I don’t see her staring; eyes half covered by her tawny, tangled hair; a huge, Cheshire Cat smile spread across her blurry face as if it was drawn there by a knife. Still, it’s hard to sleep, just knowing that she’s there.

Some nights she follows me around in the dark, as I creep down the creaking stairs to get some water from the fridge, sneak across the hallway to use the bathroom. Her footsteps patter behind me. Clop, clop, clop. I whirl around, eyes wide and wild, trembling and cold with sweat, but I never see her there. It’s just me, an empty hallway, and the pitch black night.

So, I try to go back to bed. But then I glance across the room, and the mirror is smiling at me again.