What Kind of Girl

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  I look around my room, imagining all the clothes in my closet packed into boxes, all my carefully arranged books shipped across the country. I have a room of my own in Dad’s apartment, but it’s mostly empty—I’ve never stayed there for more than a couple weeks at a time, during school vacations. I picture myself walking down his street to the high school around the corner, starting my senior year with a new set of classmates, but the image is fuzzy because there’s so much I don’t know. Will I be popular there? Will I be someone else’s girlfriend? Will I stop throwing up? Will I end up a burnout, cutting class and sitting in someone else’s car?

  Then again, they probably don’t drive cars to school in Manhattan. I wonder where the burnouts go to do whatever it is they do.

  Which reminds me of another secret I’ve been keeping. “There’s something else I should probably tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been—” I pause. I’m not exactly sure how to say it. It’s not like my limited experience with this kind of thing has been all that much fun. I mostly did it so I could forget about everything else for a little while. “I tried pot. A few times. With a friend.”

  I know for a fact that my dad smoked when he was in college—I’ve seen pictures in old photo albums of him with a joint in his hand. (In fact, that picture led to one of his bigger fights with Mom; she was worried it would make me think that using drugs was no big deal.)

  “I’ll have to talk to your mom about that too,” Dad says finally.

  “I’m not sure I even want to do it again,” I explain. “But I didn’t want to keep it a secret either.”

  “Well, I appreciate your honesty,” Dad replies.

  I uncross my legs and lie flat, leaning my head against my pillows. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything, sweetheart.”

  “How come you never offered before?”

  “Offered what before?” Dad sounds confused.

  “Did it have to be something as bad at Mike hitting me for you to offer to let me come live with you?”

  “Of course not,” Dad answers quickly.

  “Then why didn’t you ever offer before?”

  “Your mother—”

  “Don’t blame Mom,” I interrupt. “I always knew Mom wanted me to live with her. I never knew if you did.”

  “Honey, divorce is complicated—”

  “So complicated that you couldn’t have asked me before moving across the country?” I’m so surprised by the question that I almost drop the phone.

  I always envied my dad for leaving. I thought I understood how much he needed to get away—after all, I wanted to move away someday too. But right now, I wish he’d stayed. It would’ve been nice to know that however bad things were with Mom, however much he wanted to be three thousand miles away from her, it wasn’t enough to make it worth being that far from me.

  “You didn’t only leave Mom,” I say.

  “Oh, honey,” Dad says. “Say the word, and I’ll be on the next plane.”

  I shake my head, imagining other fathers, fathers who’d insist on being by their daughters’ sides at a time like this. I feel a shadow of the anger I felt this afternoon. Why do I have to ask? Why doesn’t he offer? Why did he wait for me to call him, when he’s known about Mike for days? Why hasn’t he shown up?

  “What if I needed you to move back here, to live close by?”

  I hold my breath while I wait for Dad to answer. Finally, he says, “I can’t make any promises, but if you need me there, I’ll do my best to be there for you. Okay?” Somehow, I knew he wouldn’t make any promises. “But you should know, your mom’s there for you too.”

  I exhale. “I know.”

  Mom wanted to pick me up from school on Monday morning, but I begged her not to. Then, she left work early. Maybe it wasn’t because she was upset. Maybe she wanted to be closer to me, in case I needed her.

  “I know,” I repeat.

  “Then why did you tell me about the bulimia, not her?”

  It’s shocking to hear Dad call it bulimia. It’s not as though I haven’t thought about that word since I started throwing up. But I never called myself bulimic. Dad says it as though there’s simply no other word for it.

  At Kyle’s house last night, I thought the words domestic violence, dating abuse, relationship violence were all too big, too much to apply to Mike and me.

  But maybe those were the right words after all.

  “Honey?” Dad prompts.

  I didn’t tell Mom I was making myself throw up because I knew she would freak out. Because she would yell and cry and tell me I’m beautiful the way I am. Then she’d call the nearest therapist and send me to an eating disorders support group, and I would think she was blowing the whole thing way out of proportion.

  But maybe that’s exactly in proportion. I mean, not the freaking out and yelling and crying, like I’d done something to her instead of to myself. But the therapy and the support group. Telling me I’m beautiful.

  “Are you going to tell Mom?” I ask finally.

  “I will,” Dad answers. “Because she’d tell me. But I think you should tell her yourself first.”

  I sigh. “She’s not always easy to talk to.”

  Dad chuckles. “She’s always been a worrier.”

  Again, I’m surprised by how much I want to defend her, even though I was just complaining about her. Maybe there are things she can understand that Dad never will. Because he’s never been a seventeen-year-old girl, and she has.

  “You should talk to her,” Dad says. “She’s ready to listen.”

  “She’ll lose it if I move to New York.”

  “No,” Dad says firmly. “She won’t. I promise. We promise.”

  Monday, April 17

  Twenty

  Junie

  I’m late. I promised myself I wouldn’t be, I said this was too important, I even set my alarm for twenty minutes earlier than usual—but still, somehow the day (well, at least the morning) got away from me, and now I’m pulling up to Maya’s driveway fifteen minutes past the time we agreed on. But I know that Maya won’t be mad at me, even if I’m twenty, thirty, fifty minutes late. My hands aren’t shaking.

  In our first session, Dr. Kreiter asked me if I had anyone to lean on, anyone I trusted enough to see my weaknesses. Maybe I didn’t, then. But I know I can trust Maya now.

  Before I left the house, Mom reminded me that I’m scheduled for a special therapy session after school. Apparently what happened over the past few days is a big enough deal that the doctor moved her regularly scheduled Monday appointment to make time for me. Mom said she’d meet me at the office because she wanted to talk to Dr. Kreiter too.

  I knew that Mom and Dr. Kreiter had already spoken (how else could Mom have secured this emergency session?), so I almost asked why Mom needed to be there this afternoon, but I stopped myself. Maybe it will help, her being there.

  Instead, I asked, “Do you think Dad will agree to family sessions?”

  “Of course,” Mom began, but her voice faltered, because we both knew that despite everything that’s happened, he might not. “I’ll go to family sessions,” she added finally. “No matter what.”

  Unlike me, Mom didn’t need to set an alarm to wake up early this morning. When I came downstairs, the kitchen was even more spotless than usual. I suspected she’d been cleaning since about five o’clock, and I know she’ll be waiting in Dr. Kreiter’s office by three fifteen even though our appointment isn’t until three thirty.

  I wonder if that kind of OCD is better or worse than the kind I have. I don’t mean is hers more severe than mine, I mean, which feels worse. Being late and disorganized means I always feel like I’m scrambling to catch up. But maybe it’s just as bad to always feel like you have to put everything in precisely the right place, to give yourself thirty minute
s to make a fifteen-minute drive. Think of all the time you’d spend cleaning or waiting, time you might have spent doing something else.

  “What do you think Dr. Kreiter will say?” Maya asks as she gets into the car. (I already texted her about my emergency appointment.)

  “No idea,” I answer honestly.

  “Do you think she’s going to want to put you on antianxiety medication?”

  “I’m pretty sure my mom wants her to.”

  “Okay, but what do you want?”

  “I don’t know.” I’m still not sure if my actions on Saturday night (and Friday afternoon, for that matter) were my own or if the pills were the ones in control. I’m sure that anything Dr. Kreiter would prescribe would work differently than those red diet pills, but I can’t help being scared of how medication—even proper medication, like Mom said—might change me.

  I say, “A week ago, I would have done anything to avoid being medicated.”

  If my inner monologue hadn’t been silenced by a false sense of well-being Saturday night, I might not have said the things I regret now, even though Maya forgave me. Maybe my inner monologue isn’t all bad. I wonder if that’s something proper medication could help with—not silencing my thoughts, but helping me not to be overwhelmed by them either. That doesn’t sound scary. That even sounds kind of nice.

  I guess I could ask Dr. Kreiter about all this, instead of refusing to talk about much of anything at all. I could even try using some of the tools she recommended to keep myself from spiraling—not only medication, but some of the thought exercises she suggested. Maybe they’re called exercises because they take practice. It’s not like anyone can do a pull-up on their first try.

  “It’s not fair to judge by the past week,” Maya offers. “This wasn’t a normal week.”

  “Yeah.” I nod in agreement. After all, I never had a panic attack before yesterday. “But there were a lot of weeks before when I still wanted to cut, weeks when I did cut.” I pause. “I think whether or not it was a bad week might be beside the point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Other people get through bad weeks not just without cutting, but without wanting to cut. I mean, it doesn’t even occur to them, you know?”

  “You mean how it doesn’t occur to other people to make themselves throw up when they want to lose weight?” Maya asks, and we both start laughing.

  “This wouldn’t be funny to anyone but us,” Maya points out, and I know I’m right to believe I can trust Maya to love me no matter what side of me she sees.

  As our laughter fades, I say softly, “Maybe someday it won’t be funny to us either.”

  At school, I pull into my usual crappy parking spot and turn off the car. Even though we’re late, neither of us is in a rush to get to homeroom.

  “Let them try to scold us for being late after what we’ve been through.” Maya grins.

  “You’ve never broken a rule in your life,” I protest, though now I know it isn’t true.

  My best friend shrugs. “And still, I managed to cause so much trouble.”

  For some reason, this strikes both of us as hilarious too. We’re laughing so hard that I almost don’t hear it when someone taps on the driver’s-side window. I look up.

  Tess.

  “Can we talk for a minute?” she asks.

  Maya and I get out of the car. I lean against the door. “I’ll just go…over here,” Maya says, wandering off in between the cars. I’m not sure if she lingers because she doesn’t want to go into our school alone, or because she knows that after Tess and I talk, I might need her. Maybe both.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” Tess begins. “That I never really knew you.”

  Her hair is back to its usual height. She’s wearing tight blue jeans and a faded gray T-shirt that looks so soft, I’m tempted to reach out and touch it. Instead, I stuff my hands in my pockets.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I say carefully. “Like I said, it’s not your fault.”

  “I was thinking that I’d like a chance to get to know you. The real you. Whatever that means.” She smiles. “So I thought I’d ask you out on an official date. We could start over.” She holds out a hand like she wants me to shake it. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Tess Washington.”

  A week ago, I thought that Tess and I had done everything backward. We kissed before we dated; we called each other baby before we held hands. A week ago, if she’d asked me out on a real, official date, I’d have said yes before she had a chance to finish inviting me.

  But a week ago, Tess had no idea how much of myself I hid from her.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I answer finally.

  Tess drops her hand.

  “I’m not saying no,” I add quickly. “I mean, I literally don’t know if that’s a good idea or not.”

  Maybe this is another thing I should actually discuss with my therapist. Did I ever tell Dr. Kreiter that Tess and I broke up?

  “Do you mind if I think about it?” I ask. “I don’t expect you to wait for me or anything, if someone less complicated comes along.”

  “Maybe I like complicated,” Tess tries.

  “That’s really nice of you to say,” I answer. “But I’m not even sure how complicated I am yet.” Maybe Dr. Kreiter will add pathological liar to my diagnosis later, because of all the parts of myself I kept hidden. Maybe I’ll walk out with a stack of prescriptions a mile high.

  Tess nods and leans against my car beside me. “Just so you know, everyone is complicated. There’s a lot I haven’t told you about me too.”

  “There is?” I’m genuinely surprised. Tess always seemed like an open book.

  “Of course there is.” Tess grins. “I wasn’t about to let you see what a weirdo I am. I wanted you to like me.”

  “I do like you,” I say.

  “I like you too.” Tess’s smile falters. “I guess I should get to class. Not everyone has your magic touch with the faculty.”

  “You know, they only let me get away with being late because my doctor told them I can’t help it.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “OCD.” I feel my hands shake in my pockets as I reveal this secret, but I keep talking. “Makes me late to everything. But I’m working on it. Or anyway, I’m going to work on it.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Maya approaches as Tess walks away. “You okay?” she asks.

  I almost start laughing again. “I seriously don’t know how to answer that question.”

  Maya smiles. “Fair enough.”

  I gaze at our school, knowing that Mike is probably somewhere inside. “You okay?” I ask.

  Maya nods. “I kind of am. At least, I feel better than I did last Monday.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” Maya pauses. “Don’t you?”

  I consider it. A week ago, I was determined not to let anyone see that I was an anxious basket case, even if that meant holding the people around me—from my therapist to my girlfriend—at arm’s length. But how could I have been a good best friend—or girlfriend, or daughter—when I was so busy balancing the different parts of myself that I never got to actually be myself?

  Maya’s right. This—standing beside my best friend without hiding anything from her—feels better.

  “Do you think Tess and I should get back together?” I ask, confident that Maya will have the right answer.

  “I don’t know,” Maya replies. “I don’t know whether a person has to sort out her own problems before teaming up with someone else like that.” Gently, she bumps her hip against mine. “But I’ll be your best friend either way.”

  It’s not a yes or no, but still—Maya managed to find the right thing to say. Like always.

  Maya takes a deep breath in, then out, and
stares across the parking lot. I follow her gaze to the one car parked farther away from school than mine. Hiram is sitting inside his car, silently supporting Maya from his place in the background, just like he did yesterday, and maybe for a long time before that. I wonder if he and Maya will ever walk down the halls hand in hand the way she did with Mike. I remember his text on Saturday night: I’m here if you need to talk. Maybe he’s supporting me this morning too.

  I look back at Maya and say, “I’ll be your best friend either way too.”

  Part of the reason I was late this morning had nothing to do with my OCD. Dad stopped me as I was racing out the door.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I’m sorry I put so much pressure on you. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have felt the need to plan that protest, you wouldn’t have had that…” He paused, like he was searching for the right word. Finally he said, “That episode on the track.”

  I shook my head. “I wanted to plan that protest,” I explained. “I wanted to do it for Maya.”

  “But you got…” Dad paused like he couldn’t think of the word to describe what happened to me yesterday. “You got sick,” he finished finally. “Maybe if your mother and I had raised you differently—”

  “You mean by teaching me not try to make things better, not to be a good friend?” I interrupted. “That’s the kind of person I want to be.” My breath caught in my throat. “I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to do all the things I want.”

  Dad nodded. “We all want to do more than we think we can.” I could practically see him biting his tongue. Normally, that would be the moment when he’d encourage me to try, no matter how hard it is.

  Finally, I took a deep breath and asked, “Are you going to come to Dr. Kreiter’s this afternoon?”

  “What?”

  “Mom’s coming,” I explained. “She wants to talk to the doctor in person. You could come too. The appointment’s at three thirty.”

  Dad hesitated. “I have a meeting,” he began. “But I’ll see if I can move it, okay?”

  I nodded. I wanted to ask if he was still proud of me. I wanted to ask if I’d let him down, by admitting that I might need therapy and medication, that I might not be able to handle everything on my own. Actually, I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t stop the questions from bouncing around my brain. I knew Dad would have said of course he was proud, of course I hadn’t let him down—that’s the kind of father he prides himself on being. But I also knew that no matter what he said, deep down, he might still be disappointed. And I was scared that if I asked out loud, I’d be able to see the lie in his face when he answered. But this morning, Tess didn’t look like a liar, asking me out even though I lost my cool with her twice in the last two days.