“You look sleepy,” she said with concern.
“That would be the understatement of the year,” I retorted.
“So….was it because you were too excited to sleep? Hmm? Because I think I saw a little hug and maybe a little something more last night?” Her eyes were lit up like the city lights; I wished for her lightheartedness, for her energy. It was so frustrating. I used to be just like Kat. Sometime in the last month something changed; I was tired most of the time, sleeping fitfully, and when I was awake, I was usually worried. At first I thought it was related to losing Lisa, but lately I wasn’t so sure. After all, what did my stupid blister have to do with Lisa? I thought about unloading to Kat – we always shared everything, but this seemed strange and well…silly. The things I got bogged down with were things I couldn’t understand myself, so why would Kat?
I shrugged my shoulders, “I just have a lot on my mind,” I admitted. “Speaking of last night, I saw you and Nolan in quite the embrace at the end of the evening.” I raised my eyebrows slightly and forced my voice to sound light. “Now, I didn’t stay around for the grand finale, so do you want to fill me in?”
Kat laughed aloud, covered her mouth with her mittened hand and then proceeded to pick fuzzies out of her lip gloss. “I wouldn’t call it a grand finale per say. But it was a wonderful hug, and Nolan asked if I’d go to the movies with him this weekend. There’s a new film opening up, and the score was written by Hans Zimmer – we’ve studied him in composition class - and well hopefully I’ll be able to pay some attention to the music.”
“Leave it to the band nerds to pick their movie selections based on who wrote the score.”
She punched my arm playfully while correcting me, “We prefer the term ‘geek’, ‘band geek’. There’s no such thing as a ‘band nerd.’”
“I’ll remember that, your ‘band geekiness’.”
“That would be ‘your royal band geekiness’ to you.” She shot back. Only Kat would request to be called that. She was so far from geeky and so far from caring what she was perceived as. Kat was just Kat. In my tight little ball of worry, I envied how she walked to the beat of her own drum, and many times over our years together I wished that I shared her outrageous self-confidence.
The rest of the bus trip passed without me giving one blank stare or getting caught up on something. I told Kat the small sparks of my evening, how James had paid, untied my skates and even kissed me goodnight.
“What kind of kiss?” Kat pushed, “A kiss on the cheek? A French kiss? A-”
“A soft, closed mouth, gentlemanly kiss,” I interrupted, “It was completely perfect,” I added with a sigh. She rolled her eyes, but then winked to let me know she was kidding.
The bus pulled up, and we walked into the front foyer. The cheery decorations that were strung up for Valentine’s Day whirled in the air from the heat vents: some torn, others sagging onto the ground and covered in dirty footprints – they would be all cleaned up by lunch. The PA system was back to playing classical music.
James arrived just minutes before the first bell, and we shyly said hello to one another. He leaned up against the wall, backpack at his feet. His head was tilted slightly downward, and his hands were in his pockets. I wanted to memorize everything about him, each little detail, the same way he absorbed every characteristic of my hair.
“Last night was…really great. I’m glad you invited me…I wanted to ask you to do something on Valentine’s Day but…” he trailed off.
“But what?” I asked.
“I wasn’t sure where you were at. I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but you’ve had so much going on, I didn’t want to make the wrong assumption. I didn’t want to make anything harder for you.” He smiled and reached forward to grab my hand. Squeezing it he added, “When I got the ‘pity date’ accusation from you and Kat when I said I was free for Valentine’s Day, I decided to wait it out. But I’m glad you asked. It was fun - I hope we can do something again soon.”
“Me too,” I grinned. The bell rang, and he squeezed my hand one more time before he headed off to first hour.
James squeezing my hand was the end of pleasantries for the day. At the end of my first class, I got called down to the office. Expecting some random picture for the yearbook or the obligatory semester chat with the principal, I was caught off-guard to see Mr. Monson our guidance counselor waiting outside the office for me. “Hi Amy,” he said cheerily, “Come on in.” He opened the door to his office which was adjacent to the main office and gestured toward a purple and gold arm chair that would have been at home in Barnes and Noble.
Outside of our class meetings with Mr. Monson for college planning, I’d never talked to him or been in his office before. A bulletin board plastered with pictures of graduated seniors hung over his desk. Bookshelves were spilling over with dog-eared selections on anorexia, drug abuse, divorce and suicide. What on earth did Mr. Monson want with me?
He settled into the matching chair across from mine, a small coffee table sat between us. “Can I get you some water Amy?”
“Why am I here?” I asked.
“I just wanted to catch up with you; I know this has been a tough semester for you, and I wanted to make sure everything is going as well as it can. Here, let me get you a glass.”
As Mr. Monson poured, I frantically thought of what could’ve happened to get me called down here. Before a clear idea could settle in my mind he interrupted my thoughts.
“So…how is everything going for you?”
“Fine, everything is fine. I mean mostly fine…as fine as it can be right now,” I managed to stammer back.
“You’re dealing okay with the loss of your aunt earlier this year?” He questioned patiently.
“Well of course I’m sad, and of course I miss her, but I understand what happened.” I paused and looked at Mr. Monson closer. “Who asked you to see me?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat. “Amy, you must understand for confidentiality reasons…”
“Right…you can’t tell me.” I couldn’t help it; I was angry, and I wasn’t even sure why. He hadn’t said anything to make me uncomfortable yet, but I could tell it was coming. He was prying, and he was going to pry deeper before we were done.
“I can’t tell you who, but I can tell you that it is someone that cares deeply about you, and I can tell you why.”
“Go on,” I replied stubbornly.
“I was asked to meet with you today because it seems you’ve been distracted lately, in class and out. I need to know how you’re feeling. Are you lost in thought or memories of your aunt?”
“No.”
“Have you been down lately? Do you find that activities that used to be fun are not so anymore?” He asked with a genuine tone of compassion, and I felt bad that I snapped at him just minutes earlier.
“No. I mean not down down. I don’t know, it’s just kind of hard to explain.”
“Try me,” He replied.
Feeling more comfortable in the Barnes and Noble chair, I took a deep breath and a sip of the icy water. My eyes stung as I fought the urge to cry. The shades on the office were drawn, but my nose turns bright red whenever I cry, and I couldn’t stand the idea of people seeing me leaving Mr. Monson’s office looking like I’d been crying.
Sensing my discomfort, Mr. Monson slid a box of tissue across the tiny coffee table telling me to take my time. “I just don’t want to” - and a gulp escaped, “cry.” A big tear slid down my cheek. Shit.
“Amy, it’s okay to cry. I promise I won’t send you back into the world until you’re ready.”
I mumbled a “thanks” while blowing my nose, now feeling really guilty that I had been so short with him. I took another sip of water and began.
“I’ve been having a bit of a hard time lately,” I admitted.
“In what ways?”
“I worry about things. All kinds of things…most of which don’t even make any sense. And I know they don’
t make sense, and I’m just confused. I never used to be like this.” Another tear slid down my cheek, and I quickly wiped it with my sweater sleeve.
“What kind of things are you worrying about?”
“All kinds of things I guess, but mostly about driving.” I fixed my eyes on the tissue box and worked diligently to not let my vision blur over again.
“Driving? Like you’re afraid you’ll get in an accident? Like Lisa?” he asked.
“No. Not like that. I worry that I’ve hit something or someone. Like, I’ll go over a bump and think that maybe it was more than just a bump in the road. It’s like I’m convinced that I’ve hit something, and I need to go back to make sure I didn’t. Or if I did so I can help.” I paused, waiting to see if he was going to say anything, but seeing that he wasn’t I went on. “I mean I know it’s stupid. I feel like I would know - like without question know if I hit something, but I feel like I have to check anyway. So I’ve been running late recently.”
“You said mostly you worry about driving. Amy what else do you worry about?”
“It’s even more stupid.” I muttered still not able to bring myself to look beyond the tissues.
“It’s not stupid if you’re feeling it Amy, and I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re worried about. Believe me, you’re not the first student to have that first worry; maybe your other concern is something I’ve heard before too.”
I looked up to see Mr. Monson across from me. An open notebook lay in his lap and he held a pen in one hand, but he wasn’t writing anything. Gathering my courage, I remembered that nothing was supposed to leave this room. “Well,” I started, “I worry about germs. I worry that I’m going to somehow get someone else sick. Even though I know I’m not sick.”
“So do you wash your hands a lot?” Mr. Monson asked.
“Not really. I mean I do regularly, but not a lot.”
“So what do you do when you think you may have gotten someone sick?”
“Well that’s just it; when it’s already too late I don’t do anything, I just worry. But if I catch it in time, then I can fix it.”
“And how do you fix it?”
“Well like if I’ve touched something, I can get rid of it or clean it.” I was thinking back to the funeral lemonade and the ice rink skate incident. “But sometimes it’s embarrassing because people will catch me in the act, and I end up lying about what I was doing.”
“So you don’t look awkward?”
“Yeah…I guess.” My tears slowed, and despite having cried in front of a practical stranger in the middle of the school day, I felt strangely calm.
“When would you say these fears surfaced? Have they been ongoing for years, or has this been a newer challenge for you?” Mr. Monson asked.
“Ah well…” I paused trying to remember the first time I’d had the panicked feelings. “I’ve always been a rule follower. I mean I’ve felt the ‘pit’ I get in my stomach when I worry before – like in second grade when I got yelled at in class, I felt sick for the rest of the day, so I guess I’ve always been a bit of a worry wart. But the first time I had these scary thoughts – the persistent keep-me-awake-at-night thoughts - was probably in the intensive care unit shortly after Aunt Lisa arrived. I kissed her near the lips – like I always do. But then I worried all night that I got her sick or that she could die because of complications from my germs. I spent hours running the scenario in my head without any sort of relief”
Mr. Monson nodded slowly and ran his fingers along his jaw. “Amy, I would say that you are struggling with some anxiety issues. Sometimes a big change or loss can bring out some underlying anxiety, especially for someone of your age. I’d like to get you connected with the school psychologist so you can talk about it with someone that specializes in this.
The school psychologist? I wasn’t disturbed, just a bit of a worrier. “Mr. Monson, I really don’t think you understand-,” I started.
“I think I do,” he said kindly. “Please don’t think that seeing the psychologist is a bad thing. It’s not. All kinds of kids see Mrs. Millen - kids you would never expect - for everything from anxiety and depression to stress management.” I sat quietly staring at the tissue box again.
“I need you to get this form signed by a parent, and then we will arrange a time that works best for you either during the school day, say during a study hall, or after school. Or if you like, you can see your own family doctor.”
I was stunned. Not only had Mr. Monson decided that I had an anxiety problem, but now I needed to tell my dad about it to get permission to see the school psychologist? My dad that I can’t talk about normal things with; how would I bring this up? A pit grew in my stomach just thinking about leaving and going back to class. There is no way I can concentrate on class when I have to talk to dad about this. I glanced up at the clock. Painting was long over, and I had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the day.
I’d waited in Mr. Monson’s office until I was sure my nose was no longer pink. I slipped into the back row during 3rd hour and asked to be excused a few moments later. My stomach churned, and my heart raced like it was about to beat out of my chest. I was feeling panicked about how I was going to talk to dad. How was I going to tell him that I needed to see the psychologist? I needed to leave – needed time to myself – most of all needed to get away before anyone I knew saw me.
When I reached the nurses office, I quietly asked her to call my dad to pick me up - I told her that I felt like I was going to throw up. At first I thought she was going to make me lay on the cold green vinyl beds and rest to see if I’d feel better, but as she studied me my eyes filmed over again, and I reached for a tissue from the box on her desk.
“Student ID number?” she asked.
I smiled a tiny bit and recited, “56782.”
“Take a seat – I’ll give your dad a call.”
Chapter Twelve
We tell lies when we are afraid…afraid of what we don't know, afraid of what others will think, afraid of what will be found out about us. But every time we tell a lie, the thing that we fear grows stronger.
~ Tad Williams, To Green Angel Tower
I must have drifted off. The rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen and warm yellow light filtering in from the hall woke me. I stretched, pulled on my slippers and padded out of the bedroom and down the hall. A pot of macaroni and cheese bubbled on the stove.
“Feeling better?” Dad asked.
“Yeah…thanks for cooking.”
“Well a little comfort food can hit the spot when you’re not feeling well. Get some bowls?”
As I rummaged through the cabinets getting our dishes for dinner, I decided to downplay seeing the psychologist: make it sound more as if I needed to see her because they wanted to check in on me after losing such a close family member. My stomach churned all the same.
We were arranged at the dinner table awkwardly across from one another: a rare occurrence to be sharing a weeknight dinner. Dad shifted back and forth in his chair before asking, “So did anything interesting happen today before you left school?”
Part of me wanted to groan at this predictable question. Still, I did have something to tell him. “Funny you should ask. Um, I was called down to Mr. Monson’s office this morning. He asked about Lisa and thinks that I should meet with Mrs. Millen…probably some sort of formality.”
Dad looked confused and questioned, “Mr. Monson? Mrs. Millen?”
“Mr. Monson is our guidance counselor, and Mrs. Millen is our school psychologist. It’s probably no big deal, but I need you to sign a permission slip.”
Dad’s face shifted from confusion to concern. “Are you sure everything is alright Amy?”
“Dad, it’s just a formality. Do I not seem fine to you?” I sighed with feigned exasperation.
“No Hun, you seem fine. Dads worry that’s all.”
“Well you don’t need to, not right now. I’m good.” I forced a big smile and took an extra bite of the chee
sy noodles to show him what a good mood I was in.
Relieved to have the conversation behind me and the permission slip signed, I went back to my room to work on my homework. The phone in the kitchen rang as soon as I opened my book.
“Amy! Phone,” my dad shouted down the hall. I climbed back off my bed and jogged to the kitchen. “Hey sorry I didn’t ride the bus home tonight,” I sighed into the phone. There was a silence on the other end - just long enough for me to realize that it wasn’t Kat.
A throat was cleared. “Amy?”
“Yes,” I paused
“It’s James.”
Of course stupid, stupid, stupid. “Oh hi…I’m sorry. I assumed it was Kat.”
“Hey no problem, I just wanted to check up on you. You weren’t at lunch or in art so I looked you up. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine. I…went home early today,” I said struggling for words. I didn’t want to lie – I wasn’t sick after all. “I didn’t feel great, and I wanted to get a little extra sleep.”
“Oh.” There was another pause. “Well listen, you sound tired, and I don’t want to keep you.”
“I’m okay James, I’m sorry. How was the rest of your day? What did we do in art?”
He relayed what he did in class, and we relaxed into easy conversation. The awkward start of the phone call was washed away within minutes. I was glad he called and embarrassed that I hadn’t said goodbye or dropped a note in his locker before leaving. I smiled realizing that a kiss meant something official to him too.
Chapter Thirteen
Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
~ Søren Kierkegaard
“Hey,” James said the next morning, “let me see your phone.” I took it out of my backpack and handed it to him. He added himself to the contacts, smiled and handed it back saying, “There, now you have no excuse.”
“Alright then.” I typed a quick text into my phone and pressed send. His phone chimed seconds later, “Now you have my cell number.”
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