by McCall Hoyle
The only reason I go to North Ridge with the preps is because Mom and Dad bought this tiny house on the water when they first married. Crystal Cove was desolate back then, with sand dunes taller than my head and a herd of wild ponies roaming the beaches. The mustangs are long gone, relocated for their own protection when the millionaires moved north to get away from the fast-food restaurants and strip malls taking over the southern end of the island. Now gigantic beach homes dwarf our house on both sides.
Every light in the house is on when I open the back door. I spot my frowning mother and two sad frozen dinners waiting at the table. Forcing a smile, I drag myself across the bare wood floor.
“You’re late.” Mom pushes some rice around with her fork.
Sensing her aggravation with us, Hitch plops his head on her feet in apology.
“Sorry.” I slide into my seat. “Hitch needed exercise. He’s going stir crazy without me.” Ha! Good one. Finally, the mouth and brain both fire when I need them.
She smiles.
Uh-oh.
“Well, then, I think I have some good news.”
Lately, Mom and I don’t agree on what constitutes good news. My chest tightens.
She puts her fork down. “I’ve spoken with Principal Brown about Hitch going to school with you.” Hitch cocks his head at the sound of his name, and Mom rubs the top of his head with her bare foot. “He said now that your Individualized Education Plan is in effect, he’d get back to me in a week or so with the school board’s decision about Hitch—that a seizure response dog might fall under the same disability rules as assistant dogs.”
I try to swallow, but a pea lodges in my throat. Gagging, I reach for my water glass.
I should be thrilled at the idea of Hitch going to the Ridge. He almost always knows when I’m about to seize. He’s been trained to tug on my pants or shirt before an attack, and he knows how to break my fall if I black out. Plus, he’s my best friend.
But it’s going to be hard to explain a seizure response dog to Chatham and everyone else when I haven’t told anyone I have epilepsy.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Sky is low—the Clouds are mean.
EMILY DICKINSON
The next morning I tell Mom I’m sick and need to stay home. She says to take my meds and go straight to jail, not to pass Go, not to collect two hundred dollars. I glance at the handful of colorful pills she has laid out for me on the counter. They’re a blessing and a curse, a new regimen from the good doctor. They seem to finally be controlling my seizures, but they also make me really tired and really moody. And, according to my mom, those are the last two qualities any teenager needs amplified.
As I wash down the prescriptions with a swig of water, the morning sun bounces off the dunes. It shines through the kitchen window and reflects off Dad’s sea glass collection on the sill. But even that string of beautiful colors can’t distract me from the fact I have to face another day at school. Living in fear sucks. I could seize at any moment, lose control in front of a bunch of strangers, convulse, pee in my pants. And my mother no longer seems to care.
This woman—the one who won’t let me ride a bike or swim or even shower with the bathroom door locked for fear I might injure myself—is oblivious to the emotional dangers of North Ridge.
I keep my mouth shut until we’re in the car and almost to school. “Dr. Wellesley said stress can aggravate my seizures,” I blurt, tossing out another reason why I should be learning at home, not enrolled in public school.
“We’ve already discussed this, Emilie. We’re going to try it for three months and then decide about the rest of the year.” She flicks her turn signal.
Three days have felt like forever. I can’t wrap my brain around three months.
We’re seconds from the drop-off line. My heart races in my tight chest. Grasping the door handle, I concentrate on my breathing.
“You haven’t had a seizure in over two months. Dr. Wellesley said it’s time to branch out and try new things.” Her jaw twitches, and I know she doesn’t completely believe Dr. Wellesley herself. “He said it’s time to start focusing on your social and emotional well-being. You can’t do that if you never leave the house.”
I grunt like old Ms. Potts, who shelves books at the library when she’s not at home with her throng of cats. I wish I had her life.
“You’ll feel better when Hitch can come with you.” Mom brakes our Honda Civic to a stop at the front entrance. We’re the only compact vehicle in a long line of luxury sedans and SUVs.
She used to know everything about me. Now, we’re total strangers. We’ve been growing apart ever since she joined the support group for people who have lost a spouse. She talks to her support-group friends instead of me, which I know helps. But it’s like we don’t know how to be around each other anymore, like everything good and normal about our family started to fall apart when Dad left us. We toss words around, but we’re not really communicating.
When Mom leans over to kiss me on the cheek, I push open the door and jump out. I know it’s wrong. Dad wouldn’t be happy. But she’s hurting me. Even if she thinks what she’s doing is for the best, it hurts. And sometimes, I want to hurt her too.
I don’t look back.
Ms. Ringgold is fired up. She’s babbling a hundred miles an hour about our upcoming American author research project while I try not to be distracted by Chatham. Today, he’s classic surfer dude without trying in his faded Vans and tie-dyed T-shirt.
“So in just a minute, I’m going to start assigning partners.” Ms. Ringgold’s red curls dance around her face when she talks.
I tear my eyes away from Chatham, my stomach sinking at the word partners. I don’t know what I’ll do if she pairs me with Maddie or one of her friends. Based on the length of their hair and their perfectly coordinated outfits, they appear to have more in common with Barbie than they do me. Though for all I know, they may be really nice. In my few days at the Ridge, I’ve realized the stereotypes in books and movies aren’t always accurate in real life. But enough of those labels seem grounded in reality to make me cautious.
“I’ll pull an author’s name from the green cup”—Ms. Ringgold jiggles the cup in front of our faces like it’s the Holy Grail or something—“then I’ll pull two student names from the blue cup.”
We all watch as she draws a white square of paper. “The father of the macabre—Edgar Allen Poe.” Ms. Ringgold beams.
“Cool.” A boy in the back mumbles something about drugs and alcohol. The guys seated near him lean forward, hopeful. But Poe goes to two bubbly girls near the front.
Ayla and her partner, a serious guy in wire-rimmed glasses, are assigned Jack London, who’s pretty cool. He was crazy adventurous and loved dogs. A guy who loves dogs can’t be all bad, right? I make a mental note to reread Call of the Wild as Ms. Ringgold bounces around the room on the balls of her feet.
She waves another little slip of paper in front of the class. “Emily Dickinson. My favorite poet.” After a dramatic pause, she reaches into the blue cup and pulls another name. “Emilie Day.”
I slink down in my seat.
“Ironic.” Ayla smiles from across the room. “Two Emilys.”
A couple of the smarter kids chuckle.
My Emilie’s not spelled the same as Dickinson’s, but I don’t correct her. I can’t—I’m too nervous waiting to learn my fate. Maddie turns and narrows her eyes, like I’m some kind of competition. She doesn’t seem to like Ms. Ringgold—or Chatham, for that matter—paying attention to me. Yesterday, I could have sworn she was intentionally blocking the row with her tan legs. When I said “Excuse me,” she acted surprised, like she hadn’t seen me trying to get by. I could have misread her body language; I’m a bit rusty when it comes to inferring social cues. But something about the interaction just felt . . . tense.
“And du-du-du-dum . . .” Ms. Ringgold’s chubby hand disappears inside the cup again.
I hold my breath. Time slows.
“De
rek Champion.”
A couple of people laugh. Ayla speaks over them, “Ms. Ringgold, don’t do that to her.”
“Yeah.” Jules, the girl with the purple hair, jumps in. “She’ll end up doing all the work.”
My eyes ping-pong around the room, trying to keep up with their conversation. I remember enough names to know Derek is the enormous football player who hangs out with Chatham before class.
He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m not totally useless, people.” His voice sounds serious, but he looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh.
Ms. Ringgold rests her hand on her hip. “Okay, Jules, Ayla. Who, pray tell, would you pair our new student with?”
They glance at each other. Jules shrugs as Ayla surveys the room. My life hangs in the balance.
“Chatham,” Ayla says.
Ms. Ringgold looks from Derek to Chatham, then at me. “Okay. That could work. In fact, yes, Chatham, you and Emilie work together.”
I can’t tell whether this is better or worse. Maybe the slacker with the sense of humor would have been better. Or even one of the life-sized Barbies. I could’ve done the work for both of us and turned it in without much interaction. But Chatham’s so nice. We’ll be forced to get to know each other, which goes against my number one goal here: keeping my distance.
Chatham leans toward me. When he smiles, little lines form at the corner of his eyes. It’s like his whole face wants in on the action, not just his lips. “Cool. My tutor and now my partner.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Yeah, cool.” I manage to move the muscles in my face, but I’m not sure if I’m grinning or grimacing. My escape plan disintegrates.
Ms. Ringgold and Emily Dickinson are complicating my life. I had this whole elaborate excuse about Mom’s schedule planned out and was going to tell Chatham this afternoon while in the media center that I couldn’t be his tutor. But there’s no way to get out of the Dickinson thing.
Ms. Ringgold jabbers about one of her favorite Dickinson quotes—the one about not living in vain if you can stop at least one heart from breaking. Which is pretty funny considering her research project is causing a pain in my chest right this second.
I doodle in the margin of my paper, trying to brainstorm a getaway strategy. Surely, if I think hard enough, something will come to me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Come slowly—Eden!
EMILY DICKINSON
At lunch, I use a limp pickle to poke at the ham sandwich on my Styrofoam plate.
“That bad?” Ayla asks, sliding into the seat beside me.
It was nice of her to ask me to sit at the lit-mag table, so I dig down deep and force a half smile. As I drop my soggy spear, she reaches inside her metal Wonder Woman lunchbox.
“At least you’re sitting with the coolest kids in the building.” She raises one eyebrow.
I can’t help but laugh. I know she’s totally joking. But from what I’ve seen, the student literary magazine crew is actually pretty cool. Jules sits at this table. Katsu, a Japanese guy with glossy black hair and eyes to match, sits here too. He’s always glancing at Ayla, unless he’s immersed in his sketchbook. Or maybe not. Maybe his interest in Ayla is another instance of my social antennae misinterpreting a frequency.
“Yeah.” I smile. I owe her one. She invited me into her group, which is more than anyone else in this lunch period has done, and it’s way better than hiding in the bathroom. Which I may or may not have done earlier this week.
Ayla smears hummus on a stalk of celery. “You might even start coming to the meetings. You seem like the writer type,” she says, then tilts her head to look at the clock.
I turn as well. When I do, I notice Chatham two tables over. Maddie sits beside him, sipping a bottle of water and talking with such enthusiasm that the massive bow in her hair bounces up and down, punctuating her sentences. The North Ridge Cheer logo plastered on her chest screams “Look at me!” Apparently, she’s on the debate team and the cheerleading squad. That’s actually kind of impressive.
Chatham nods at me. I sit frozen, mesmerized by his genuine smile and . . . full lips. When Maddie jiggles his arm with a French-manicured hand, he looks away, and I remember to exhale.
Ayla crunches a carrot stick. I try to swallow, but a bit of rubbery pickle catches in my throat. Ayla pounds me on the back until a tiny chunk of green shoots out my mouth, landing near the tray of the girl seated across from me. Thankfully, the girl doesn’t notice. She’s deep in conversation with a guy in glasses about the layout for the next edition of Over the Ridge.
“Sorry,” I cough. “I don’t know what that was all about.”
Ayla raises that flawless brow again. Without a stitch of makeup, she is beautiful. She’s got this whole artsy, natural thing going that I could never pull off. Maybe Mom and I should substitute the TV dinners with more of Ayla’s crisp veggies.
“It’s just—I’m supposed to tutor Chatham after school. And I know it’s going to be . . . awkward.” I push my tray away. My stomach is no longer inside the cafeteria with me. It’s moved ahead to this afternoon’s study session in the media center. There’s no way I can eat the food on my plate, even if it was actually digestible.
Two minutes before the bell, Chatham pushes back his chair and heads toward the trash can with his tray. I see this because I’ve been unsuccessfully trying not to watch him out of the corner of my eye for the entire twenty-seven-minute period.
I focus on Ayla as she delivers another sales pitch on the benefits of being a part of the lit mag. Ever since Ms. Ringgold read part of my first essay to the class, Ayla’s been after me to join. I love to write, but I’m not so sure I want to share my private thoughts. I’ve never written for anyone but myself, and I don’t know what I’d have to say that the rest of the school would want to read.
When Ayla pauses in the middle of a sentence about creative writing, the hair on the back of my neck tingles. Without looking, I know someone is standing behind me. I don’t move—until Ayla nudges me under the table and a lightbulb flickers in my dense head. It must be Chatham.
I turn around. He smiles down at me. “Hey, tutor.”
“Um, hi.” The tables on either side of us hush as if they’re trying to overhear our conversation. Maybe they’re curious what the golden boy has to say to the quiet new girl.
“Can I have your number?” he asks, ignoring their prying eyes.
“My number?” I glance at Ayla and back at Chatham, confused by the request.
He nods. “Your phone number.”
Someone at the table behind us snickers.
“Oh, uh, yeah. My phone number.” Flustered, I jumble the first three numbers and have to correct myself.
He adds me to his contacts. “I’ll text you.”
I try to nod, but the muscles in my neck don’t work. Ayla pinches my thigh, and I snap out of it. “Yeah. Right. Text—”
The bell interrupts me. Hundreds of kids push back their chairs, ready for the mad dash to fourth period. When I stand to join the masses, a huge upperclassman bumps me with his overloaded backpack, pushing me chest-first into Chatham.
I gasp.
My. Boobs. Are. Touching. Chatham. York.
“S-sorry.” I apologize, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. He’s so tall, the room spins when I lean back to look up at him.
He places a steadying hand on my waist, the left side of his mouth turning up in a half smile. “Please. Don’t apologize.”
With a wave, he turns to go. I suck down a lungful of air in an attempt to steady myself, unsure whether he’s flirting or teasing or both. He only wants my number because of the tutoring thing this afternoon, but I have a flock of seagulls flapping in my belly—a flock of very unruly seagulls who must be restrained before I reach fourth period.
I search for Ayla’s steadying face in the masses. When I can’t find her, I head out to the main hall completely on my own.
CHAPTER SIX
It’s such a little thing
to weep—
EMILY DICKINSON
Mom’s Honda is not in the pickup line after school.
All I want to do is go home, take a hot shower, and lay on the bed with Hitch. If I can muster the energy, I might read some of the Dickinson poems Chatham and I printed in the library. If not, I’ll crawl under the covers and sleep. My seizure meds make me tired and moody enough as it is. Sometimes they make my face break out—because that’s really the kind of thing I need. And today’s emotional roller-coaster is bound to magnify all the negative side effects.
My first tutoring session with Chatham was both amazing and horrifying—the way I imagine parasailing would be if I ever had the nerve to try it. I don’t remember much of anything after our hands touched when I offered him a pencil. Somehow I filled thirty minutes talking about poetry, theme, and mood, because it was four thirty when the librarian ran us out of the media center.
I zone out like that sometimes. It’s not as serious as a full-blown, muscle-contracting, loss-of-consciousness seizure. It’s not even as bad as an absence seizure, where I lose bits of time without convulsing. It’s more like when you’re sitting in class aware that the teacher’s talking, but you’re not really comprehending what’s being said—kind of like daydreaming. In fact, my neurologist says it’s not even a real seizure. It’s more like a warning. He calls it an aura.
Thankfully, since he switched my meds again, I haven’t experienced anything beyond that weird out-of-body feeling. I still don’t like it, though. It’s a reminder of what could happen if my meds fail and the auras progress to the real deal.
The breeze rushing in from the Atlantic is a perfect mid-October temperature only experienced on the Outer Banks. It’s not hot or cold. It’s not damp or dry. It’s more like the movement of music across your skin than actual molecules of air. My hair flutters around my face as I pull out my phone to text Mom. I told her I’d be finished at four thirty, and she’s not here. Something’s up. My mother is never late. Never.