by Tara K Ross
He nods, and his silent attention encourages me to continue with more confidence. “So, to answer your question, I would guess my mom thinks I’m just hitting puberty and I’m acting all tense”—I add air quotes—“because I need to eat more food with iron and calcium now that I’m … you know … menstruating. Except she’s two years too late.”
I can’t believe I just shared that, but it actually feels good to vent.
“My dad barely notices I stopped wearing sweaters with cats on them. He probably still thinks I want to be a pet store owner, so you can imagine how helpful his insight might be. And whenever he does talk to me, it’s to lecture me.” I shake my head. My family sounds so dysfunctional.
“My parents barely communicate with each other, and if they do manage to talk about anything outside their own issues, it’s about my brother. He has a whole other story that is really much more interesting than mine. Anyways, do I think they know what’s really stressing me out? No. They probably don’t think I have anything to stress about.” I lower my pitch and take on Dad’s disciplinary tone. “‘You’re only sixteen. What could possibly be so stressful? Stop being so egocentric and realize that the rest of the world is much worse off than you.’”
Dr. Kowalski reaches for a bottle of Perrier on his desk and pours himself a glass. He then closes the green file and looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps it would help if you knew what your parents are concerned about.” He passes me my file with a reassuring nod. “Would you like a glass?” He reaches for a cup.
I make circles with my finger on the surface of the file. “Uh, no thanks. I don’t do bubbles.” I bend the bottom corner up slowly to reveal Mom’s perfectly angled script interspersed with the typed questions. For some reason, I feel as though I’m invading her personal diary. “Am I allowed?”
“It’s your health information.” Dr. Kowalski gets up and moves to the rolling chair at his desk and begins typing on his laptop.
Curiosity takes over, and I sift through the pages, searching out any embarrassing stories or lies I should be correcting.
Sensitive baby; startled easily. Sucked her thumb until she was six. I cringe at the reality of seeing my early imperfections so plainly stated. Fearful to try new things. Afraid to fail. Often asked when routine events would happen. Escaped through make-believe friends. Ouch. She could have left that one out. Now uses acting as an escape. Assumes people are judging her. Overly emotional since puberty. My eyes begin to burn, but I hold back the tears. Emotionally fragile over past few months since the death of her grandmother. Has nervous habit of scratching her hair.
I sound like a freak show. I search for anything normal or slightly positive. Seems to connect with others on a deeper level than most teenagers. Can empathize without experiencing another’s pain, and yet seems to carry their pain with her.
My mouth opens, and I freeze on this line, reading it again and again. Carry their pain with her. How does she know that about me? I’ve never talked with anyone about it before. I press my lips together and blink hard.
“I’ve read enough.” With my eyes averted, I close the file and thrust it back onto his desk. It lands right next to his notepad and the underlined word trichotillo-something.
As though I’ve touched a burning stove, I jolt back and shove my hands under my thighs. Tricho—was it mania? Mental note: Google what I can remember of that name when I get home.
He leaves me to listen to his typing for what feels like a twenty-floor elevator ride. With each floor, my brain becomes more messed up, trying to process everything I just read. The clicking stops, and the wheels on his chair swivel to reveal scuff-free loafers within my lowered field of view. I keep my focus on his shoes. If I meet his gaze, I’ll break.
“So, may I ask you my first question again?”
Through gritted teeth, I whisper, “It’s okay, I get it.” I bite my lip hard to keep it from trembling. “I’m messed up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The cafeteria drones with its standard level of commotion. Five long rows of tables hold about a third of the student population during one of the two lunches scheduled each day. When the weather gets colder and fewer are willing to make the short trek across the street to the plaza, that number increases. And so does the noise. The chaotic rate of conversations and activity should cause us all to have ADHD, but instead it provides a numbing, almost calming effect. This—paired with the irresistible aromas of fresh chocolate chip cookies and imitation McDonald’s french fries—makes the tension of morning classes somehow slip away. Dr. Kowalski should take a lesson from Ridgefield’s lunchroom if he’s striving to calm teens into baring their souls.
A single, underbaked cookie lies neglected at the edge of Ashley’s tray, so lonely and in need of someone to appreciate it. She won’t even notice if it decreases in size. I bend off a small chunk while she fiddles with Ethan’s ever-growing shag of hair.
She slaps my wrist right when I bend the half-baked dough. “Get your own, cookie thief.”
“Come on, Ash, it’s therapeutic for me.” Here comes my puppy begging, honestly perfected from watching the movie Bolt. While babysitting of course. Her stank-eyes retreat to mildly unamused, and the whole cookie takes flight and lands with surprising accuracy on my plate. “Wouldn’t want to upset the doctor.”
“I’ll let him know about your generosity.” I wink while devouring the still warm, chewy goodness.
Both Ashley and Jade know about the therapy session with Dr. Ko-wow-ski, as they have now named him. They don’t know I broke down into a pile of mush. Or that I got diagnosed with some random impulse-control disorder within the first five minutes of my session. Google was very helpful with fleshing out the details of my trichotillomania. Mom now has confirmation of my messed-up brain function. And even better, she probably already knows it’s related to obsessive-compulsive disorder. Not that I have any time-related fixations. And this is the icing on the cake: I now have written proof that pulling my hair can impede my chances of finding a husband. I didn’t need Google to slam me with that reality. Yeah, I’m that awesome.
I may have also swayed the girls’ understanding of the sessions as being obligatory (which Mom says they are) grief counseling (which I say they’re not). But given how much emotional energy I discharged during that first session, I’m okay with a cookie pity party, whatever the cause.
With melted chocolate reinforcement, I return to my trig assignment. Any attempts at mental math are thwarted almost immediately by an orchestra of high-pitched pings—a sure sign that something gossip-worthy has hit social media. Jade, Ashley, and Ethan immediately turn to their phones, but I fight the urge to dig mine out of my bag. This on Dr. K’s advice of removing myself, whenever possible, from the social FOMO epidemic. His parting words: “Worry about yourself and not all those other kids and their drama.” Although I took offense to the word kids, I think the point may still be valid. I do tend to obsess about what I may be missing out on if I don’t check into Instagram every five minutes. So, my baby step this week was to silence my alerts and bury my phone when not in use. I have proudly made it through six days so far.
Apparently, Dr. K didn’t take into account that I’m in the company of at least one acquaintance with a device at any given time during the school day. In this particular instance, I get the stereo version from the table of jocks behind me, who feel it’s necessary to share the details with added commentary in place of the emojis and GIFs.
“Listen to this: ‘Second teen ends up in hospital after late-night accident at Shadyridge RV Park.’”
“It’s got to be Nora. That chick is messed.”
“I can’t believe she would try to copycat Malin.”
“What a poser. As if she would actually go through with it.”
“I heard she was on a golf cart.”
“Ha! How fast can a golf cart go anyway?”
“Now, her boyfriend—that’s another story. That pothead has probably already tried a cou
ple times.”
“Yeah, but’s he’s likely too stoned to get it right.”
It clicks in who they are talking about. I glance over to the “Vape and More” corner of the cafeteria. Evan is there alone. Without Nora. He stares down at his phone with a flat expression, but the staccato thump of his trainer perfectly mirrors Jade’s nervous tell. Then, as if he has heard the idiots from behind me through the frenetic cafeteria, his foot stops hard on the ground. He glares straight at them, then his gaze shifts and stops on our table. The pain his eyes throw hits my stomach like a missed volleyball spike. He rises, switching his attention back to the jocks. His original fury is gone, but his body caves inward with each of their unsuppressed hoots. He staggers toward the cafeteria exit, hits the doors hard, and thrusts himself out of the deafening choir of judgment.
My hands begin to sting. I stand up and my chair topples backward to the floor.
“What the—!” One of the jocks yells some kind of profanity, but I can’t hear him. The rush in my ears has begun.
With an intense need to reach Evan, I head for the door but can’t make it beyond our table. Its surface grounds me as the sea of bobbing heads in front of me smears into a colorful, nausea-inducing wave. I focus on my own group of friends. This is just another panic attack, Thea. Breathe. Focus. Ethan is slipping Ashley money and whispering something in her ear, but then they blur. Jade, clearly unaware of my state this time, nervously bites her nails while reading the post. She too begins to disappear. This is not helping.
At a table across from ours, a glow draws my attention. Light comes from each of the students, just like I saw during the assembly. I clearly see each of their faces, hear them laughing. Is that warmth coming from their direction? I study them as if they are in a petri dish and unaware of my inspection. And they are unaware, engulfed in their own conversation, not affected by the noise around them. One kid even reads from a book. Is that a Bible? The Bible made zero sense to me when I read it to Grams, but it always brought her such peace.
Peace. My fists release. My jaw relaxes. I allow a slow exhale. Peace. My vision focuses again on the cafeteria doors. Evan is gone.
Something soft hits the side of my leg. “Thea? Hey, Thea. Earth to Thea,” Jade says in a robot-like voice.
I blink hard and drop my gaze to my trig assignment, now a scrunched ball of paper nestled within crumbs and eraser bits. “What?” I say as casually as I can.
“You were space-cadeting.” She helpfully imitates a vacant stare. “What were you looking at?” She pauses, her voice changing from jovial to quiet and concerned. “Did you see something again?”
“No, nothing. I was trying to … um”—I gather up my textbook and papers—“to see if one of the math elite over there could help me with this trig question.”
“Uh,” Jade points to herself, “unofficial math elite right here.” She waits, eyebrows raised, probably wondering how long it will take for me to arrive back to earth.
She’s right; she is a math genius. I pan from her to my disaster of an assignment. That was a lame excuse. She’s so going to call me out on that one. Why didn’t I just ask her in the first place?
She interrupts my thoughts. “Just leave it with me. I can finish it for you.”Ashley takes a break from popping Ethan’s collar up and down. “What is she going to finish for you?”
“Nothing,” I snap. Both Ashley and Jade turn toward me, eyes wide. “I mean, I should do it myself.” I blow loose hair from my face. “I need a caffeine boost first.” I shove my textbook into my bag.
“You can have another cookie.” Ashley waves at a pile on Ethan’s plate.
Without pausing, I grab one, stuff it into my mouth, and then force a smile. “Thanks.” My half-done trig assignment sticks out from my textbook, mocking me. There is no way I can finish it in time. I shoot the paper across the table to Jade, along with my most apologetic expression. “Sorry, I should have asked you at the beginning of lunch to help me with this. Would you mind?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll even try to copy your weird sevens.” Jade tilts her head as she scans my pathetic attempt. She is honestly the only reason I’m still pulling a B in math. I feel horrible having her give me the answers today, but I need to get out of here. I think she knows it too. She frowns at me like I’m the stray cat she left at the Humane Society. I attempt a more heartfelt grin, but it feels forced.
“Hey, Thea, don’t forget rehearsal after school today,” Ashley says in between kissing Ethan’s neck.
“Thanks.” I don’t know where to look when she does this. “I forgot we were back on this week.” I clear my throat. Ethan seems oblivious to even being necked; his attention is glued to his phone through all of Ashley’s preening. “Do you remember what scene we’re doing?”
She glances at me and pauses. “Like you would forget. Ms. Vosper wants us to start blocking.” She puckers her lips. “Time for some up close and personal time.” She winks.
“Right, how could I forget?” I attempt her stank eyes, but it likely comes across as though I have an astigmatism instead of attitude. She doesn’t notice anyway.
My shoulders feel heavier as I leave this time, the need to escape returning with more urgency. I am in no place to see Gavin today. I need to find Evan. Or talk to someone about what is going on.
I pass by the “Vapes and More” corner on my way out. A plain spiral-bound notebook lies next to a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich. Evan’s sandwich. In one quick motion, I scoop up the notebook and add it to my pile of books like a mother hen before hip-checking out the cafeteria door. I reach the front doors to the school, and my shoulders begin to lighten, as do my steps.
Another hip check and I am free.
CHAPTER NINE
Cotton-candy-scented smoke wafts past me as I approach the lights on my way to Milk and Honey. I scan for Evan at the front area of the school, along Vapers’ Alley, but he is long gone. He’s probably halfway home by now. I know I would be.
His dog-eared black notebook looks out of place next to my pristine aqua binders. I pull it out and skim the cover for any indication of a school subject, but there is none. I fan it open and immediately feel an overwhelming urge to close it. Pencil and black ink swirl across the pages in the form of faces, bodies, and intricate designs. Font-perfect block letters intersperse between the pages of artwork. This is not school content, but some kind of journal or sketchbook. He’s going to want this back. I return it to my bag and search the parking lot of the plaza with no luck.
M&H calls me like a haven, and I arrive at the front door with sweet release. The warmth and aroma of coffee take away the last of the tension in my shoulders.
Having been cashless for the last week, I’ve been deprived of my usual tea runs in the morning. Thank goodness Mrs. Stratton asked me to watch her kiddos yesterday, but I need to ditch babysitting and get a regular-paying job. Maybe that would help with the finances at home too. I could apply at the retirement home and use some of the money to pay for my expenses. The community board near the M&H entrance doesn’t have any job postings this week.
I trace the blackboard walls that mark the remainder of the short entranceway. Each week Nadia searches through the stacks of books that literally make up her barista counter for quotes and musical lyrics to welcome her customers. When I’ve scheduled enough time, I pause to soak in her selections. Today there are four. In beautiful swirling script, she has written a portion of Leonard Cohen’s lyrics from “Anthem”: Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
A selection from Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms adorns the opposite wall: The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.
Below it is a quote from the Bible in small clean lettering: In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world. John 16:33.
And the last, at the end of the chalkboard, is a familiar quote from Louisa May Alcott’s Li
ttle Women. Nadia chose a delicate script to write, I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. Under it, she drew a small boat and wrote the name Amy, the youngest sister. The four March sisters. Mom and Grams rarely agreed on their reading preferences, but when it came to Little Women, they were both adamant I join in the tradition started before I was born. Every Christmas Eve, an age-appropriate copy of the classic tale would appear under the tree. When I was a child, we would read the truncated story by the gas fireplace, which at the time I thought was real wood and flames. Once I could read the original version, Mom, Grams, and I would read aloud from our favorite chapters.
I cock my head to the side as I trace around Amy’s chalked boat. From what I remember, Amy was a spoiled, entitled brat who got almost exactly what she wanted in the end. Her storms didn’t seem so tough. Nothing like the kind or magnitude I’m experiencing.
I shake away the last of the nostalgia. That tradition will not feel the same this year. If Mom even remembers to get out her copy.
Perhaps I should’ve stopped reading at Hemingway.
I round the corner, and Nadia’s face crinkles into the familiar lines of a welcoming smile. Using the armrest of the velvet couch, she pushes her robust figure up. She places her spray bottle and washcloth on the coffee table and then sidesteps between the couch and an armchair to welcome me.
“Hello, my sweet Thea.” She gives me a peck on my cheek as she heads for the sink to wash her hands. “I was beginning to worry you had switched to the cafeteria tea.”
“When hell freezes over.” I wince. I shouldn’t use profanity around Nadia. “That stuff is at least five years expired.”
With her back still toward me, she starts to steam milk. “Well, we’ve missed you this week. Khi was in this morning asking about you.”