She motioned for me to sit, and like a good dog, I obeyed. “The end of the marking period is coming up, and you still have an incomplete from the first assignment.”
“Maybe I’ll take the F.”
“Why would you want to do that? You’ve done well on other assignments,” she asked. “Lots of people are afraid of public speaking. It’s a big fear, but I think I can help you, if you give me a chance.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it,” I hissed.
“No, I don’t.” The second bell rang. “Stay after, and we’ll talk.”
“Today?”
“Today.” The tone wasn’t a request, it was an order. Sit. Stay. Roll over. Good dog.
I told Mrs. Howard-Hernandez about my disorder. She was sympathetic, but the incomplete stood. Still, telling her was a step forward. The lack of a party invite from Juan had felt like a step back, so the outcome of the day hinged on Dylan. All I needed was something normal, a nice boy-girl conversation that maybe led to flirting and then, maybe, who knew.
“Dylan, I’m sorry I’m late—” That was as far I got into my speech and into the old home economics classroom where he’d asked to meet. There stood Dylan, my partner in this nice, normal conversation, wearing a black dress. One step forward, one step back, and one kick in the guts.
15
TWO WORDS AND ANOTHER BIG LEAP
The dress was actually a cloak worn by a character in Shaman Warrior, Dylan explained at manga club.
Dylan handed out flyers to me, Tonisha, and three new members Tonisha had brought. The flyers were for an upcoming cosplay event at the St. Paul Convention Center.
“Cosplay? What the freak is that?” one of the new girls asked. Like Tonisha, she was dark-skinned, but she was thin like me. Big glasses, short hair, Chucks, and an attitude I liked.
“Cosplay is short for costume play, where people wear costumes based on characters from fiction, like manga and anime,” Dylan said, way too fast. Whenever he was called on to answer questions in class, he talked so fast he was hard to understand. I didn’t know if it was a speech thing, or maybe he didn’t like to talk in class, so when he had to, it was like he wanted to pull off the Band-Aid quickly. “I’m making a new Shaman Warrior costume.”
“You make your own costumes?” Tonisha asked. “Like sewing and stuff?”
Dylan nodded.
“I don’t know how to sew,” Tonisha said. The three newbies said they didn’t either.
I waited for Dylan to offer to teach them, but he said nothing. I didn’t know much about it. Mom never taught me some of that basic stuff other people seemed to know. I’d just done some sewing on my own. I’d heard about the convention but never dreamed of going.
“I know a little about sewing,” I said toward the floor. “Maybe Dylan and I could teach everyone.”
“I don’t know about playing dress-up,” said the new girl with attitude.
“Shatika, you don’t know nothin’ about nothin’,” Tonisha said, and laughed. “You stick with Tonisha, and I’ll teach you some things you need to know.”
Shatika laughed too. “Alright,” she answered. Mr. Aaron then asked her and the two other girls to introduce themselves to the group. All three were eleventh-graders that Tonisha knew from Central High School. They didn’t talk about why they were at Rondo—nobody usually did. If you were here, it was for a good reason, but nobody’s business.
“Any luck recruiting anyone else, Dylan? Jessica?” Mr. Aaron asked. “That’s okay, we got enough right now. Who wants to start the conversation today?”
He hardly needed to ask since Tonisha always went first. She was funny, which everybody liked, and profane, which Mr. Aaron called her out on, but she was always the center of attention. I don’t need to be like her, I thought, but I need people like her to like me.
Dylan and I did get a chance to talk again, mainly because Mr. Aaron steered the conversation our way. I said a few words about Shaman Warrior, but Dylan didn’t react. When I spoke, he seemed to concentrate more on his drawing than on my words.
As the bell rang, Mr. Aaron said, “Good meeting! Same time next week?”
“Can we talk more about the convention next time?” Dylan asked quietly.
Mr. Aaron agreed as he joined the rest of us walking to the door to get to class.
“Jessica, can I ask you something?” Dylan asked in the same small voice.
I stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted. I turned, and he motioned for me to sit across from him. I dumped my heavy bag between us as a barrier.
“Why did you act weird when you saw my costume?” His pencil pressed hard on the paper.
“It was just odd.”
He laughed. “Like either one of us would know anything about being odd, right?”
“Not at all.”
He laughed. “So what was the real reason?” he asked. I owed Dylan an honest answer, like the one Tim never gave me in his let’s-just-be-friends speech. Dylan added, “You know, it doesn’t make me gay.”
“I know,” I said. Two words and then another big leap: “So can we go to the convention together?”
16
ALL CONNECTED BY A STURDY BARRIER
As always, Nina Martin had placed the yellow box of tissues on the table, but for the first time, I hadn’t needed to reach for it. Yet.
“Jessica, I’m really pleased at the progress you’re making.”
I’d noticed how when I started therapy, everything was “we,” but whenever I succeeded—which was a lot, in the time we’d been working together—then it was all about me. She took the blame, but never the credit. “I wish I would’ve done this sooner,” I said.
“Don’t bother with regrets, Jessica,” she said. “Focus on the positive.”
“It’s just that, what if in junior high, when I first noticed how stressed out I got at small things that seemed so easy for everybody else, what if I’d found you then?”
Dr. Martin set down the pad and pen that took notes on my life. “‘What if’ doesn’t help.”
I nodded in agreement. What if were the two most dangerous words in the dictionary.
“And Jessica, you probably were not ready, not mature enough yet to work through a treatment plan.”
Another nod from me; it was definitely work. But like Dad said, that’s what made something fun. Asking Dylan to go the convention put me up one more level. I was gaining powers.
“Jessica, like any journey, there might be setbacks, but you’re getting more resilient.” She picked up the pad and paper again. “One of the hardest things is managing expectations.”
“If I don’t have any, then I won’t be disappointed,” I joked. She didn’t even smile.
“One key to cognitive restructuring is setting realistic goals and developing realistic expectations,” she said. “We’re trying to get you in a balanced place. A safe, normal place.”
“I don’t know if I can ever be normal, living with my parents.” I cataloged Mom’s high anxiety and Dad’s dulling depression. “That’s what I came from.”
“Like most things in our lives, Jessica, social anxiety disorder is a combination of nature and nurture. You probably have a genetic tendency, but that’s it, a tendency. You have control.”
“I guess I feel that now, but sometimes I’m not so sure.”
The therapist pivoted in her chair and grabbed a folder from her desk. “Before you came in today, I looked over the list of the things you’ve accomplished because you’ve taken control.”
She handed me the sheet of paper filled with crossed-out bullet points. Each bullet point was a reminder of who I was; each cross-off was a reminder of who I was becoming. I had spoken in groups, spoken to someone I was attracted to—actually two someones, both Dylan and Juan—and many other things that would’ve sent me into full-blown meltdown at the start of the year.
“But you’ve got a few more items on our list,” she reminded me. “You still have yet to giv
e your oral report and speak in front of your class, and you still haven’t attended a party.”
I told her about the big Rondo party coming up that everyone but me was going to attend. Just talking about it messed up my breathing.
“Well, maybe we’re taking this too literally. Maybe it could be any social event.”
“Like a convention or a gathering of people I didn’t know?”
“I suppose, yes, that would have many of the same elements of being surrounded by strangers and pushing yourself to interact with them. What do you have in mind, Jessica?”
I told her about the upcoming cosplay convention. She seemed actually interested.
“Well, that would certainly be a stressful event. Do you think you’re ready for it?”
I nodded and then told her more about Dylan, which led to telling her about Tim, which led to every other thing connected by the sturdy barrier of social anxiety that I’d built up and now needed to tear down.
She scribbled and smiled as I spoke, but I didn’t tell her the best part about cosplay: I could put on a costume and, for a few hours, be someone else—or really, just be free to be myself. I reached for the tissues.
17
SORRY, NOT SORRY
My science class reminded me of the bar scene in Star Wars: a bunch of aliens with nothing in common except for sharing a space at the same time. Our latest addition was Calvin, a new bigmouth at Rondo who reminded me of every bully at Verdant Hill. Mr. Hunter had already had harsh words to shut Calvin up so that we could hear about our next assignment.
“This is your final project, and it accounts for one-third of your grade,” Mr. Hunter said. I forced myself to breathe deeply as he explained that we’d be doing group projects involving a presentation. That was two threes, working with a group and presenting to a crowd, thrown together. I wondered if Nina Martin would let me count it as a six to cross off my list.
“Each group will choose a topic,” Mr. Hunter continued. “Discuss and decide on one that all four of you agree on.”
I got up and started for the front of the room, where Mr. Hunter kept the bathroom key. But I didn’t get far before I tripped over Calvin’s outstretched leg. I hit the floor loud—though not as loud as the laughter that followed.
“Clumsy. It must be all the words stuck in her metal mouth,” Calvin said.
“Say another word, and you’re done,” Juan shouted from across the room.
Like me, Calvin shut his mouth. Was Juan really acting as my knight in shining armor?
“Gentlemen, that’s quite enough,” Mr. Hunter said. “Stop. Now.”
I pulled myself up. I took a step toward the bathroom key but then turned and took two steps back toward Calvin.
“What is it, mute?” he whispered. His expression dared me, from his zit-filled forehead down to his stubbly bearded chin.
Clutching the table for support, I leaned in over him. “What?” I asked.
“I said that’s enough!” Mr. Hunter yelled. But I hadn’t had enough yet as I raised my voice and unleashed my inner dragon on Calvin’s bully face, breathing fire and spewing insults directed at every person who’d ever made fun of me.
Mom tapped her foot double-time, but Dad actually chuckled and said, “I never thought I’d see it.” By it, he meant the day Jessica Johnson got in trouble for talking too much.
However, Mrs. Baker looked anything but amused. My profanity-laced tirade meant serious consequences. “As an alternative school, we allow our students some leeway to express themselves, but Jessica …” And she stopped talking, like she was too amazed at the morning’s events to go on.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t. Not one bit. I don’t know if verbally tearing a bully apart with everyone watching counted as “speaking in front of the class,” but it seemed good enough. After class, more than one person told me what I did was cool. Juan and Selena were the first to congratulate me.
“At the same time, from Mr. Hunter’s report, it’s clear that Jessica was provoked.” Mrs. Baker rattled off the events for my parents. “So after some consideration, Jessica will get a one-day suspension.”
I said nothing, out of relief. My parents nodded, understanding that it could’ve been much worse.
“Mr. Hunter also said that he thought Jessica was doing much better at participating in class,” Mrs. Baker continued. “I’ve had similar reports from other teachers, and Mr. Aaron says he enjoys her contributions to the manga club. Despite this morning’s events, she’s been a fine addition to Rondo.”
With that, Mom and Dad’s expressions lifted into smiles, rare genuine smiles, and this meeting to discuss my punishment suddenly felt more like a reward.
“Jessica …” It seemed that Nina Martin, hiding a smile, couldn’t find the right words after I told her about the events of the day. “Questionable behavior aside, it’s another sign of progress. But you still need to give your oral report. Why do you think you were able to talk in front of everyone today?”
I thought about it. “I didn’t feel people judging me or making fun of me, because I just didn’t think about it.”
“Exactly, Jessica. One of your issues is that you overthink words and actions before an interaction—”
I finished her sentence. “And then I overanalyze everything afterward. It’s a bad cycle.”
She nodded in agreement. “With our work here and your medications, you’re making real progress, but I want to give you more tools in case you feel the dominos starting to fall again.”
Turning toward her desk, she lifted a sheet of paper. Was it my therapy report card, completed? “This is the address for the Social Anxiety Support website. It has lots of information, but more importantly, it has a forum for teens. These online groups can be a real source of support, especially from your peers. You’ve done well here with me, so I think you’re ready.”
I stuffed the paper into my purse, next to my cosplay convention ticket.
“I hope you’ll follow up on that, Jessica. You can lurk; you don’t even need to post.”
“To be honest, I’m a little afraid,” I said. “Not of what people might think, but that I’ll get sucked in, and soon I’ll be like my dad, living more online than in real life.”
The psychologist set her pad and pen aside and leaned in, meeting my eyes. “It’s about choices, Jessica.”
I nodded. “I’m trying to make the right choices, but it’s hard to know.”
“That’s what cognitive behavioral treatment is all about,” she said. “It’s giving you the tools to become your own healing therapist and stop being your own harshest critic.”
18
I LIKE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU, EXCEPT
I was wrong. My science class wasn’t the Star Wars bar scene; the cosplay convention at the St. Paul Convention Center was. Except it was the bar scene on steroids. More than a thousand people in costumes filled every inch of the massive old building. It looked as if magic had brought every science fiction and fantasy action flick to life. It was bright inside but was made even brighter by the constant, blinding flashes of cameras and phones.
“Over here!” Tonisha shouted as Dylan and I made our way to our arranged meeting place. I almost hadn’t made it, since Mom had all sorts of concerns, but I made a rare stand and won parental approval. Dad even agreed to drive Dylan and me. As always, Dad didn’t say much in the car—not that he could have gotten a word in, since Dylan and I talked most of the way about Shaman Warrior and the convention. Yet, the entire car ride, I noticed Dad’s sly little smile.
Tonisha and the other three girls were decked out as characters from the manwha Bride of the Water God. Tonisha was dressed as Soah, the lead character.
“You all look great!” Dylan said.
“You’re just saying that because you made the costume!” Tonisha replied, nearly yelling to be heard over all the other noise.
“Teach a man to sew and he’ll make a hundred costumes, right, Jessica?” Dylan ask
ed.
“Who?” I asked. “Who is this Jessica of which you speak?”
“Sorry, I mean Sawako!”
I wore a long black wig with straighter hair than I’ll ever have, a flowing, white multilayered dress, and my character’s signature red bow tie. I wasn’t Jessica. I was Sawako, the main character of From Me to You, the misunderstood girl who just wants to be liked and then finds Kazehaya, the boy she’s longed for all her life. Dylan was dressed as the Shaman Warrior. Everybody could be somebody else today.
Tonisha and the girls joked back and forth. They made fun of each other’s costumes, not in a mean or bully way, but how I recalled friends did such things. When they did the same to me, I didn’t feel stressed. They were including me through insults. Friendship is one crazy cracker, I thought.
“So, what do you want to do first?” Jasmine asked.
The four girls crowded around the program, discussing all the events. There were talks, contests, celebrities, games, panels, autographs, and even a cosplay prom. I’d hoped Dylan and I could attend, but it was a nonissue since Mom wanted me home before it even began.
“You did a nice job with them,” I said to Dylan, pointing at the girls’ costumes. He and I had helped the four design and make their outfits. Since Mrs. Baker always stayed late to run the after-school program and detention, she’d allowed us to use the old home ec room. I doubt that room had ever been filled with as much laughter before. I know that no classroom I’d ever been in had brought me as much laughter, at least. Maybe for people like Tonisha, that came easy, but to Jessica—to Sawako—it did not. “And I had a blast helping,” I added.
“I had fun, but mostly hanging with you,” Dylan said. I hoped my heavily made-up face masked my blushing cheeks. “Too bad we couldn’t stay for the prom. That might have been fun.”
“Well according to my mom, all the people in costumes make it very dangerous,” I reported.
Dylan laughed. “Maybe next year…”
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