Girl Against the Universe

by Paula Stokes

  Sure, I got lonely for a while. But getting invited to slumber parties just wasn’t worth the stress of wondering if I might accidentally burn down the house with my flat iron or be the only survivor of a freak sleepover massacre. And loneliness is just like everything else—if you endure it long enough, you get used to it.

  Perfectly Assembled Boy is in the waiting room again, this time looking a little less perfectly assembled. He’s wearing shiny basketball shorts and a hoodie. His wet hair is slicked back behind his ears, making his blond streaks look painted on.

  He looks up from his magazine and catches me staring. “You can take a picture if you want,” he says, his voice perfectly level.

  “I’ll pass,” I snap as I hurry for the door. What an ass. It’s not like he wasn’t checking me out last week, talking all that crap about my hair.

  I switch my phone off silent as I head for the stairs. There’s a text from my mom. I swear under my breath as I read it. I dropped her car off for routine maintenance at the shop across the street before my appointment, but it turns out they found a bigger problem and are going to keep it until tomorrow. My stepdad is working late, and Mom won’t be able to pick me up for an hour and a half. If I were normal, I would just take a bus or a taxi home.

  I am not normal.

  I text her back and let her know it’s no problem, that I’ll just find a place to read and she can text me when she gets here.

  I find a comfy chair in a deserted corner of the lobby and drop my purse on the small wooden table next to it. As I settle into the chair, I do what I call a five-second check. I scan the furniture, the floor, the ceiling, and everywhere in between. There are people going in and out of the bathrooms, but no obvious hazards. No lurking strangers. When you’re a disaster magnet like me, it makes sense to constantly be assessing your environment for danger. I’m not too worried about anything bad happening inside Dr. Leed’s inner office because it’s just the two of us, but any time I’m stuck in public I try to do a quick check of my surroundings every few minutes.

  I knock three times on the wooden table and then pull the book I’m reading out of my purse. I open to the page where I left off and set my special Irish-penny good luck bookmark on the table. Seven chapters and seven five-second checks later, I’m just about to get to a really good part when a shadow falls over my page.

  “You’re still here.”

  I look up. Perfectly Assembled Boy has materialized in front of me. For being about six foot five, he’s shockingly light on his feet.

  “Um . . . yes.” I turn to the next page of my book with a meaningful flourish and start reading, but my eyes trace the same sentence over and over because the boy isn’t leaving.

  He sits down in the chair next to me, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  I peer over at him. “Should I?” Maybe his comment about taking a picture was serious. I try to reconcile his image with everyone I’ve seen on TV recently. Nope, no matches.

  “No.” He grins. Perfect smile 2.0. I have the sudden urge to buy toothpaste. “I was hoping you didn’t. Do you want to go somewhere?”

  I snicker and then realize he’s serious. “Like, with you?”

  “No. All alone. I want this corner for myself.” He rolls his eyes. “Yes, with me.”

  I think for a second about what life must be like for this boy, someone who can sit down next to a total stranger and ask her to go somewhere like she’s a friend. How does he know I won’t tell him to get lost? How does he know I won’t accidentally get him run over by a bus? “Sorry. No can do. Waiting for a ride.”

  The boy runs a hand through his hair. It’s mostly dry now and it sticks up in awkward sandy peaks. “Call your ride and tell them I’ll drive you home.”

  “My mom’s not going to go for me taking off with some strange guy.” Not to mention I would never go for that. Since the accident, I’ve only been in a car by myself or with my mom. And the only reason I can bear it with Mom driving is because for a while I had no choice. I couldn’t exactly drive myself around when I was eleven. Still, my pediatrician had to give me sedatives for several months just to get me near a car without having a major panic attack.

  “Okay.” The boy points across the lobby. “There’s an ice-cream shop over there. Come there with me instead. Plenty of people around to keep you safe from this strange guy.”

  I flinch. I walked past that shop on my way into the building. It was packed. Way too many opportunities for people to get hurt. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  My eyes skim past the boy for another five-second check. Furniture fine. Floor fine. Ceiling fine. A lady and her toddler are making their way down the hallway. The little girl’s sparkly shoes are moving too slow for the rest of her body. Just when I’m positive she’s going to trip, her mom bends down and scoops her up in her arms. They disappear into the ladies’ restroom.

  The boy is talking. Apparently he’s been talking, but I haven’t been paying attention. I generally tune people out when I’m doing my checks.

  “Am I hideous to you or something?” he asks.

  Some girls might find him less appealing today, without his hair product and two-hundred-dollar jeans, but I sort of like his dressed-down look. And that smile is growing on me. Definitely not hideous. “No . . . I just don’t know you.”

  The boy hits his forehead with his palm. “That’s why we’re going to get ice cream.”

  “I can’t. It’s nothing personal. I don’t really hang out with people.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “What do you hang out with?”

  “Books, mostly.”

  “Okay. Well, I know when to give up.” He gestures at my novel. “I’ll leave you two alone together. Same time next week?” He holds his hand up for a fist bump.

  Gingerly, I press my pale knuckles to his overly tanned ones. “Same time next week.”

  He turns and strides across the marble floor of the lobby toward the ice-cream shop, his hair flopping with each step. For some reason, I miss him a little after he’s gone.

  But before I can even finish another chapter, he’s back, a cup of ice cream in each hand. “I got you vanilla,” he says. “You seem like a girl who plays it safe.” He sits down in the chair next to me again.

  “You got that right,” I say. “And playing it safe does not involve being accosted by random strangers.”

  “I’m not random. I’m the guy after you at Daniel’s office.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “You call Dr. Leed Daniel?”

  He mimics my eyebrow and scornful tone. “You call Daniel Dr. Leed?”

  “I don’t really call him anything. I try not to talk much,” I admit.

  “Oh, so you’re one of those. Perfect. You don’t have to talk much to me either.” He thrusts the ice cream in my direction. “Here. Take this in exchange for putting up with me for a few minutes.”

  “What is your deal?” I take the paper cup he’s offering. The ice cream is starting to melt. “I thought you knew when to quit.”

  His cheeks go pink—I’ve touched a nerve. “Sorry. It’s just, you seem normal, and I need to hang out with someone who doesn’t know who I am.”

  “Why?”

  “For my homework.” He pauses. “You know—the shrink homework.” Without waiting for me to respond he says, “Are your sessions different? Do you not get homework?”

  “None so far.” Is this what I have to look forward to? Shrink homework? On top of the school homework I’ll have soon?

  The boy taps one foot against the tile floor. “Mine go like this: Small talk. Then I discuss how I’m doing with my goals. Then I think up more homework assignments while Daniel flips through the latest issue of Guitar Player. Basically he makes me do all the shrink work and the client work. Pretty clever on his part.”

  “Guitar Player—I knew it!” I say. “What is he? Full-time psychologist, part-time rock star?”

  “No idea,” the boy says. “But
I’m supposed to find someone who doesn’t know me and hang out with them, and since most people know me, I had to seize this opportunity.”

  “Who are you?” I take a small bite of ice cream, doing another five-second check as it melts on my tongue.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. That’ll wreck things.”

  “This is really good.” I take another bite. “Are you, like, famous . . . or infamous?”

  The boy grins. “I would say neither, but certain people would disagree.”

  “Boy band singer?” I ask. “Reality TV show contestant?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Failed child actor? College basketball star?”

  “Ha. You’re getting warmer.”

  “I give up. You’re not even going to tell me your name?”

  “I’d prefer not to.”

  I shrug. “Works for me.”

  And so the two of us sit there for a few minutes, eating our ice cream and making vague noises of approval. The boy slides my book out of my hand. He flips it over and makes a face. “A book about a boy with mad cow disease? Sounds uplifting.”

  “You’d be surprised.” I peek over at his cup. “You got yourself vanilla too?”

  He nods. “I’m more of a mint chip guy, but it’s good to do something different now and then.”

  I think about that for a second. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  The boy gives me another smile and the temperature in the room goes up a couple of degrees. “Do you want to see where I was going to take you?” he asks. “You totally missed out.”

  “Oh yeah?” I finish the ice cream and set my empty cup on the table between us.

  He pulls out his phone and swipes at the screen. A folder of images pops up. “Yeah. My friend showed me this place up the coast that you can only get to when the tide is low, this little rock island. Dolphins hang out there a lot.” He hands the phone over to me.

  The pictures look like they belong on postcards—the blue of the Pacific spraying up onto jagged gray rocks, the sun setting in the distance painting the clouds a rainbow of red and orange, a cluster of seven or eight dolphin fins jutting out from beneath the crystal surface of the water. I would like it; pretty sure I’d love it, but for some reason I feel like messing with this boy. I toss the phone back to him. “Just because I’m a girl means I like dolphins?”

  “More like because you’re a human. Everyone likes dolphins.” He sets his empty ice-cream cup next to mine.

  “Well. Probably not everyone.”

  He shakes his head. “Pretty sure everyone. ‘Oh, ugh, not dolphins. I hate them.’ That doesn’t even sound right.” He pokes me in the arm.

  I twitch. I can’t remember the last time I was touched by someone who wasn’t related to me.

  The boy keeps talking, oblivious. “They’ve got those smiley faces and big brains, and it’s so annoying the way they’re always learning complex languages in captivity and saving drowning fishermen in the wild.”

  “Okay, probably most people,” I say. My phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out. There’s a text from my mom saying she’s parked in front. “I’ve got to run, Dolphin Boy. Thanks for the ice cream.” I hop up from the chair and sling my purse over my shoulder. “We’ll have to finish this discussion another time.”

  The boy points at the floor. “Is that your bookmark?”

  Sure enough, when I grabbed my purse I must have knocked my lucky bookmark to the ground. I start to bend, but he quickly reaches down, picks it up, and hands it to me. “See you next week, Dolphin Hater.”

  I can’t help but grin as I head for the door.

  But then my smile fades.

  Maybe this boy is right. Maybe I am missing out.

  CHAPTER 4

  Session #4

  I’m not just missing out on dolphins.

  I’m getting ready to leave for my appointment when my mom looks up from the kitchen table, the pages of a handwritten letter spread in front of her. I recognize the looping script immediately.

  “How would you like to see your grandma Siobhan again?” Mom asks.

  Siobhan is my dad’s mom, a vivacious gray-haired lady who runs a horse farm in Ireland. I met her only twice: once when I was seven, when she traveled to the United States for Christmas, and then again at the funerals. She’s actually the one who gave me my lucky penny bookmark. She used to write Mom and me letters when I was little. She’d send pictures of the new foal each time there was a birth. After the accident we slowly lost touch. I figure it’s because thinking of Mom and me makes her think of Dad and Kieran. She lost both of her sons in one day.

  “Grandma Siobhan wants to come here?” I ask hopefully. “That would be amazing.” I scan the kitchen, searching for Mom’s car keys, but my eyes are drawn back to the pages of my grandmother’s letter.

  My mom exhales slowly. “Actually she invited us to Ireland. She’s having a special gathering to honor your dad, uncle, and brother. Since this December will be—”

  “Five years,” I whisper.

  Mom nods. “Apparently everyone is going to come. Relatives I didn’t even know we had. You could see where your dad grew up, his house, his town . . .”

  My eyes start to water. “You know I can’t get on a plane, Mom. I can’t even ride in a car with other people.”

  “I told her that’s what you would say, but I wanted to run it by you . . . just in case.”

  “Just in case what? I turned into someone else while you were having other kids?” My mom recoils, and I immediately regret my words. I have a half sister, Erin, who is two and a half, and a new baby half brother named Jacob. They are both adorable, and I love them to pieces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

  My mom nods again, but I can see that my words hurt her. “I just thought . . . in case Dr. Leed might be able to help you.”

  “I don’t think he’s a magician,” I say. “But I guess it can’t hurt to ask.”

  But after the receptionist waves me into the office, it takes a few minutes to work up the nerve to mention my grandmother’s invitation.“Hey, Dr. Leed,” I say as I settle into my usual chair. No music today. He’s drinking a coffee from the shop next door.

  “Hi, Maguire. You seem . . . different.”

  “Who’s the guy that comes after me?” I ask.

  Dr. Leed shakes his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  I tap my flip-flop against the black and white carpet. “Then just tell me what he does. Is he famous?”

  Dr. Leed’s eyes brighten behind his glasses. A smile plays at his lips. “Why the sudden interest in him?”

  I clear my throat. “No, it’s not like that. He just made a point of asking me if I knew him, and I was wondering why he thought I would.”

  “Ah. Unfortunately, I can’t talk about my other clients.” Dr. Leed sips his coffee.

  I cross my arms. “You are not very helpful.”

  He sets the coffee cup on the desk behind him. “I could be, if you let me.”

  Grandma Siobhan’s letter flashes in my head, followed by my mom’s hopeful look. I take a deep breath. “Yeah. About that. I heard you give people homework.”

  “You heard wrong. I help people create challenges for themselves.”

  “So like, you think these challenges can fix me?”

  Dr. Leed leans back in his chair. “You’re not a toaster, Maguire. You’re not here to be fixed.” He makes air quotes around the word “fixed.” “The first thing you need to realize is that mental health is fluid. It’s not like you have an infection and a doctor gives you antibiotics and then you’re cured. No matter what the two of us accomplish together, you’re still going to have good days and bad days. Make sense?”

  “I guess,” I mumble. “Though I think I might rather be a toaster.”

  “You and me both.” Dr. Leed smiles. “What I try to do is get my clients to tell me where they are and where they want to be. And then we figure out together how to get you there.�
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  “And this has actually worked for you?”

  He laughs under his breath. “Once or twice.” For a second we both just sit there, looking at each other. Then he says, “What’s changed? A few weeks ago you didn’t want to talk at all. Why are you suddenly interested in therapy challenges?”

  “I want to go to Ireland,” I blurt out. I tell him about Grandma Siobhan and her horse farm, about the memorial service, about the look on my mom’s face when she brought it up. “I wish there was a way I could do this for her.”

  “It helps if your goal is something you want to do for yourself,” Dr. Leed says kindly.

  I take in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I want to do it for me too. I want to see where my dad grew up, see my grandma again, meet all my relatives.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I can’t get on a plane! I can’t even ride a bus or be in the car when my stepdad is driving.”

  “So you’re afraid of public transportation?”

  I shake my head. “I wish it were that simple. It’s like I told you last week. I’m afraid of hurting people.”

  Dr. Leed’s cell phone vibrates on the desk behind him, startling both of us. He reaches over to grab it, peeks at the screen, and then tucks it into his pocket. “Sorry about that. Hurting people. But you mean indirectly, because you might be . . . cursed.”

  “Yes—like I showed you in my notebook. Bad things happen to other people when I’m around.”

  “Well, I don’t know if any challenge is going to convince you that you’re not cursed, but the type of therapy I do is meant to help you face your fears and also to restructure your thought processes. That way, even if the same things happen, you’ll think about them differently, in a more helpful manner.” He pauses. “I understand why you’ve been isolating yourself, but we can both agree that it isn’t healthy, right?”

  “I guess,” I mutter.

  “So basically you need to do things around other people and have nothing terrible happen. And then if that works okay, maybe we can get you on public transportation of some sort, and ideally help you see that you and everyone else can survive a plane ride to Ireland.”