But then the fame died down. Then the miracle became yesterday’s news, and all I was left with were the stares. It started out as a few odd looks here and there, a strange double take or a wide–eyed glance over the shoulder of a gawking passerby. But soon the few became a hundred, and the hundred became a thousand. Even my parents look at me oddly from time to time, gaping at me unabashedly from across the room.
Mirrors became my best friend, silver platters, anything I could find with a reflection. But each time was the same. When I looked I saw nothing out of the ordinary. No signs taped to my back, no spinach in my teeth, not a hair out of place.
And yet they continue to look, staring at me as if I’m an exhibit in a freak show, as if there is something not quite right, not quite . . . finished.
“Miss Walters,” I hear as I step into the cave–like guidance office a few moments later. Mr. Palmer, the school’s lone guidance counselor, smiles at me from behind his desk. He’s abnormally pale, one step away from albino, with large ears and thinning hair. Beneath the dim lights and gloom of his office, he looks more like a mouse cowering in its hole than high school administrator.
“Hey Mr. Palmer,” I say, taking the empty seat. The old chair groans with my weight, and through the darkness I notice gray eyes searching my form. He stares at me like all the rest, searching for ghosts that aren’t there.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he says, revealing identical buck teeth. “I attempted to reach you in Mrs. Malone’s class, but she said you weren’t present.” He clears his throat, knowing there’s little can be done. Even guidance counselors have minimal control over the side–effects of summer vacation.
“As you know the end of the school year is upon us and I’m meeting with all of my graduating seniors a final time before they embark upon life after North Chamberlain. It’s a formality, really, particularly in your case. I wouldn’t have called Miss Salutatorian in here at all, only . . .”
“Only what, Mr. Palmer?”
“Only your parents insisted on this meeting.”
He stares down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs round and round in circles.
“Why?”
Mr. Palmer makes a half–hearted attempt at straightening his tie before fixing me with yet another bizarre gaze. “They feel it’s best if you talk to someone more qualified to deal with these sort of issues. Your parents love you very much, and only want the best for you. And I happen to have several degrees in—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, holding up my palms. “Why do they think I need to talk to someone? Talk about what?”
“They’re worried about you, Miss Walters. Your father is especially concerned about your health. He spoke of . . .” He peeks down at a clipboard he has on his desk in front of him. “. . . recent bouts of insomnia. Said you haven’t been sleeping, and when you do, you suffer from nightmares.”
It’s my turn to fixate on my hands. I cannot believe dad told him about this! It’s personal. Even if I did tell someone about my self–inflicted sleep deprivation, I would have told my boyfriend. Not some middle–aged, glorified shrink.
“It’s nothing, Mr. Palmer,” I say, trying to sound more convincing than I feel. Pinching the bridge of my nose between my nose and thumb helps to stem the migraine I can sense coming.
He reaches a hand across his desk, a feeble attempt to offer comfort. “You’re not alone.” He whispers the tired cliché through the shadows. “Everyone has moments they would rather not speak of. They find themselves alone and scared, when really all they need is a friendly ear to listen. And let me assure you, I am here for you. My door is always open to North Chamberlain alumni. Please don’t be afraid to come and talk to me.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say, already standing. “It’s fine, really. It’s just a case of the jitters, what with graduation and all. You know how it can be, right? But thanks for listening, and you can tell my parents everything is just peachy.”
“Miss Walters, wait, please.”
“I’ll see you at graduation, Mr. Palmer.”
I’m out the cave entrance before he has a chance to say another word.
That was close. I’d rather have a million people staring at me than sit through another meeting like that one. What were my mom and dad thinking, trying to get me to talk about my problem? So what if I have sleep issues? So what if I happen to feel better awake than I do asleep? The truth is I sometimes feel as if I could go days without shutting my eyes. Weeks even. I feel better, stronger. Strange, I know. Then again, I feel as if everything is backwards now. I have a family who loves me, a boyfriend who adores me, and more status than I’ve ever had in my life.
Why then do I still feel this way?
Back in the hallways, I find myself alone, the sound of my footsteps my only company.
Or so I think.
A shadowed figure lurks behind the nearest corner, a lanky body leaning casually against a nearby wall. A tuft of messy blonde hair sticks out from the top of a single open locker door, a curious, wide eye just barely visible over the metal.
I blink once.
Twice.
And the boy is gone.
I shake the sight away until the peeping tom is no more than a memory. Just another boy who can’t help but gawk at the freak. There will be more, I’m certain. That won’t change. But for now I will focus on what lies beyond the hype and popularity and stares. I will learn to adjust to each existing day and the changes they bring. I will live, if only because it is better than the alternative. I will breathe and survive and wait for what will finally complete me.
One day it will come, and I will be ready.
I welcome whatever fate awaits me.
About the Author
Rebecca Harris discovered her passion for books at an early age. When she’s not writing she enjoys reading classic literature, listening to the blues, and solving crossword puzzles. She currently resides in Tennessee where she lives with two very spoiled cats.
Also by Rebecca Harris
Rebel (To be released in August, 2013)
A Note from Rebecca
First of all, thank you so much for reading Be the Death of Me. It is my debut novel, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. My second novel, Rebel, will be released in August of 2013, but I’m planning to turn Be the Death of Me into a trilogy, and am working on the second installment now. If you enjoyed the book, I would appreciate it if you would take just a moment to post a brief review–just a few sentences–on Amazon. Thank you again.
www.rebeccaharrisbooks.com
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