by McCall Hoyle
After I read the last line, I look up at her, speechless. One side of her mouth turns up in an uncertain smile.
“Ayla, this is amazing.” My voice cracks. “How did you write this?”
“It’s kind of personal.” She studies her hands, avoiding my eyes. “My mom didn’t die. She left us when I was little.”
I don’t know what to say. For the second time in less than half an hour, I’m reminded not to assume things about people.
“We were at the beach. Dad and I were digging a moat around this elaborate sand castle. The sun was shining. Kids played in the surf near us. Mom said she was headed to the corner market for chips and drinks.” She pauses to meet my eyes.
I hold my breath.
“She never came back.”
I sink to the edge of her bed. “What happened?”
She shrugs, but pain tugs at the corners of her mouth. “She just left. We called the cops. It was terrifying. We thought she’d been abducted. But when we got home, she’d left a note saying she needed to follow a dream—a dream that didn’t involve us. It involved New York and performing—like on a stage, not like the acting she’d done pretending to be a dutiful wife and mom.”
My arms ache to hug her, but my heart wimps out. I’ve forgotten how to reach out to others.
“Sometimes people with these really raw emotions pop into my head,” she continues, saving me from my indecision. “I have to paint or write them in order to get rid of them, or they’ll take over my life.” She straightens a charcoal sketch on the wall beside her bed of an old man walking in the rain.
The way she explains her feelings reminds me of how I start worrying about seizing in public or how Dad would feel about Mom moving on with her life. Of how my thoughts snowball into obsessions and how the next thing I know, I’m clenching my teeth or gnawing at my fingernails—my two worst habits.
“It’s kind of therapeutic.” She pulls the sheet back over the painting. “So, any suggestions?”
“Nothing major.” I skim the words on the page in front of me for a second time. “I love that it’s written in first person. You could add more description to the first stanza to set the tone. I think you’ll win anyway.”
She shrugs. “If I don’t win, it’s not meant to be.”
Ayla’s amazing, and I’m a jerk for stereotyping the entire North Ridge student body as a bunch of spoiled rich kids born with silver spoons wedged in their whitened teeth. My chest tightens. I need to tell Ayla about my epilepsy—not because of Mom or because of safety concerns but because Ayla trusts me. She shared this really personal poem with me and the thing about her mom. I should open up to her. That’s what friends do.
My lips part. Do it.
I can’t. I’m trapped inside my shell like the hermit crabs Dad and I used to collect on the beach behind our house. We’d put them in a sand-filled aquarium on the counter, feeding them fruit and leftover fish. I always wanted to keep them as pets, but Dad would make me take them back down to the beach after a few days. They need lots of humidity—more than an air-conditioned house—or they’ll suffocate, and Dad couldn’t stand the idea of keeping anything caged. But hermit crabs are never free, and neither am I. We’re both timid little creatures happier in tight, dark little spaces than out in the big world where we’re likely to be stepped on and crushed.
I shut my mouth, squeezing back into the safety of my shell before Ayla or anyone else can crush me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adrift! A little boat adrift!
EMILY DICKINSON
I hate Mondays. I skipped breakfast because I stayed in bed with Hitch for too long. Our school lunch is unreasonably early, so I barely nibbled on the imitation cafeteria food. By the time school ends, I’m starving and my stomach’s growling. I glance around the media center to make sure the handful of kids studying or using the computers don’t hear it and remind myself to eat something—anything—for dinner. I tell myself to load up on veggies and hummus like Ayla. No matter how hectic my new schedule, I can’t afford to skip meals. Bad eating habits can interfere with the effectiveness of my meds. Dr. Wellesley and my neurologist would flip if they knew I wasn’t making nutrition a priority.
For the twentieth time I peek at the clock above the checkout desk, wondering if Chatham’s going to stand me up. He’s seven minutes late.
Maybe he won’t show. We took our literary time periods test this morning, and he was grinning from ear to ear when he walked out of Ms. Ringgold’s room. Maybe he realized he doesn’t need my help after all.
I check my phone again to see if he texted me. Nothing. If he’s not here in three minutes, I’m leaving.
I shuffle my notes on postmodern literature, trying to look busy, which is pointless, as I’m pretty invisible to most everyone at this school. I should be happy. A couple of weeks ago, I would rather have died than be here. Now, I’m not so sure. I still think it’s better to keep my connections to a minimum. If Chatham fades out of the picture, that only leaves Ayla to explain my departure to, and I’m pretty sure I still want a departure.
When I glance at my phone again, I see a missed-call notification from Mom. My hands tighten like fists. Last night, an unfamiliar number popped up on her phone again.
“Who is it?” I asked, sounding way less concerned than my insides felt.
“Wrong number,” she answered without much thought.
“You’ve been getting a lot of those,” I said without trying to hide the edge to my voice.
Her head snapped toward me. Our eyes locked. My stomach tightened, warning me to proceed with caution, but I barreled right ahead.
“You seem to have a lot of new stuff going on in your life lately,” I hedged.
“What does that mean, Emilie?” She enunciated each word carefully.
“It’s just an observation, Mom.”
Tense silence draped every molecule of oxygen in the room. She blew on her chai tea and started to take a sip.
“And then, you know, there’re also the manicure and sundress . . .”
She paused mid-sip, peering at me through the steam rising from her cup.
“. . . and Dad’s clothes all boxed up in the closet.” The words came out all jumbled together in one incomprehensible mess.
She struggled to swallow, then carefully placed her cup on the table. “First of all, Emilie, I am an adult and your mother. I do not have to explain myself. But I will, because I love you. Some things are changing around here—your school for one. Change is not always fun, but it is a part of life.”
When she started quoting Dr. Wellesley, I gritted my teeth and tuned her out.
I’m not buying it. Something’s up. The thought that she might be interested in someone—a man other than my father—makes me squirm in my seat. The only good thing that came out of my little confrontation was she was eager for the change of subject when I also brought up applying to North Ridge’s online-learning program. She said we’d discuss it at the end of the three-month trial period, which was an improvement from the last time I brought up taking virtual classes.
Two minutes since the last time I looked at the clock, the media specialist announces that students should begin making their final checkouts. I take that as my cue to tuck my papers into my backpack and head for the door. I’m texting Mom to tell her I finished early when a familiar gray T-shirt that reads Dare to Soar in front of a picture of the Wright Brothers on Jockey’s Ridge stops me in my tracks. The air whooshes from my lungs.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Chatham smiles down at me. “Don’t leave.”
“Oh . . . I . . . uh.” I bite my lip. I sound like Dad’s bad Elmer Fudd imitation.
Chatham guides me back to one of the empty tables in the center of the library. “Coach Carnes stopped me in the hall,” he explains as he unzips the messenger bag slung across his chest. “He wanted to know about my English grade. I told him ‘No worries—I have a tutor now. I’ll definitely be eligible.’” The table squeaks when
he drops his heavy bag onto it.
The media specialist scowls down her nose at us.
Chatham pulls out a rectangular package wrapped in papers from the funnies section of the Sunday paper. The gift is sealed with enough tape to secure two or three Christmas presents. He places it on the table in front of me.
“What is it?” I ask, sitting with my hands folded in my lap under the table, uncertain. What do I say? I haven’t exactly been showered with gifts from hot guys in the past.
He laughs. “Open it. I found it at The Potter’s House.” He pushes the package toward me. “My mom and I volunteer there twice a month.”
I don’t know what surprises me more: the fact that Chatham York bought me a present or the fact that he volunteers with his mom at a thrift store for battered women and children.
I slip a finger under a loose piece of tape, tearing back a corner of paper, expecting a toy snake or something to pop out and scare me. But it’s not a joke. It’s an old book. I peel back the rest of the paper to reveal the title: Collected Poems of American Authors.
I’m speechless.
He leans across the table to inspect the book with me.
Careful not to crack the brittle spine, I open the front cover. Inscribed in Chatham’s blocky handwriting on the first page is a Walt Whitman quote: Keep your face always toward the sunshine—and shadows will fall behind you.
“I thought you’d like it,” he says. A flash of doubt flickers in his eyes before being replaced by the confident spark I’ve come to recognize.
“I love it.” I concentrate on enunciating each syllable to cover the shakiness in my voice. “But you didn’t have to buy me anything.” I thumb through the old book in an effort to avoid his eyes.
“I know I didn’t have to.” He pauses, resting his elbows on the table. “I wanted to.”
Suddenly I’m on high alert. Chatham’s normally in constant motion. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sit so still. When he moves his hand across the table toward mine, I freeze. There isn’t much physical contact in my life. Dad was the touchy-feely one in the family—always hugging me and Mom and rubbing my back after a seizure.
I want to meet Chatham halfway, but I promised myself I’d be careful—keep my distance. I feel like reaching out would be compromising my principles, crossing some invisible line in the sand. Plus, I can’t stand the thought of Mom or Dr. Wellesley smiling at me with their smug I-told-you-so-Emilie smiles.
Instinct tells me to run while I can—that I’m about to be in over my head, about to be sucked out to sea in an undertow, about to drown. If I stick around too long, I’ll make a fool of myself. It’s inevitable. I need to escape with my dignity while I have a chance. So I just sit there like a lump of petrified driftwood on the beach. I want to run, but my feet feel like lead bricks.
I want to touch his hand, but I don’t know how to reach out.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He pushes his chair back, coming around to my side of the table and pulling me to my feet. His hands rest on my hips. When I look up at him, the left side of his mouth creeps up in a mischievous smile.
I slip one tentative arm around his waist, inhaling the smell of him—soap, oranges, and boy. I’m in heaven with my head against his chest. If people are watching, I don’t know, because the entire library has blurred and faded into the background, like some special effect in a movie. I pray for time to stop right now while I’m wrapped safely in Chatham’s arms. Despite all my promises to myself to keep my distance, I’m tired of bobbing around alone in the ocean, about to capsize. I want to grab on to Chatham like a life preserver.
He leans down, his mouth so close his breath tickles the sensitive skin in front of my ear. “Let’s do something this weekend.” His lips brush my earlobe.
I pull back, confused. “Like . . . like a date?” I ask, untangling myself from his arms.
The librarian steps out from behind the counter. She’s wearing a disgusted “I’m about to write you up for PDA” face. Chatham smiles at her sheepishly. “Sorry, ma’am,” he apologizes, and the woman retreats.
How does he do that?
He studies my face and nods, like he’s just made an important decision. “Yeah. Like a date.”
“Um . . .” This stuttering thing is getting out of hand. Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, my heart begs. But as usual, my brain steps in to protect me from myself. “I, uh . . . I . . . My mom said something about family day this weekend.” Lame, my heart screams. That’s the best you can do?
“I’m flexible.” He grabs my finger, wiggling my arm. “Let’s climb Bodie Island Lighthouse.”
I squirm free, my chest tightening at the thought of climbing anything higher than the steps to our front deck. It’s too risky. What if I seize? “I don’t think I can. I actually have to get going.”
“But we didn’t even have time to study.”
“Sorry.” I grab the poetry book and scraps of paper off the table. “It’s too late to get started now. The media center’s closing in a few minutes.”
His face falls. “What about another day this week?”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.” I press my lips into what’s supposed to be a smile. “Okay?”
I don’t wait for an answer, turning to go, hurrying past the onlookers who’ve been gawking at us. When the media center door closes behind me, I groan. It’s been eighty-something days since I’ve seized. Maybe I should just take a leap of faith and say yes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
EMILY DICKINSON
On Tuesday, Ms. Ringgold returns our literary time periods tests. I earn a ninety-eight and a note in purple glitter pen saying how much she enjoys having me in class. Chatham receives a ninety and a pat on the back.
“I got an A—a ninety. A big, fat nine zero.” He waves his paper in the air, and the entire class cracks up.
“Seriously, dude? You’re making me look bad,” Derek complains, but he’s smiling as he flips his messy brown curls off his forehead.
Chatham winks at me, and the trembly feeling I’ve come to associate with being in the same room with him flickers in my belly. He hasn’t confronted me about another tutoring session this week or about a date this weekend. If he does, I don’t know what I’ll do. One minute, I think I should just do it. The next, I know the risk is too great.
“Your grades were good.” Ms. Ringgold pauses. “So good, in fact, I’m going to let y’all have the rest of the period to review for another class or work on your annotations and analysis essays.” She beams as she rotates a pot of violets in the windowsill. The woman must have two green thumbs, because the flowers are plump and cascading over the sides of their mismatched pots.
A few people get up to go work with their partners. Chatham slides his desk up to mine, his knee grazing my leg. We’re both wearing shorts, hanging on to the last days of warm weather before the wind off the Atlantic rushes in with her biting teeth.
“So, partner, thanks for tutoring me.” He drapes an arm across the back of my chair while I try not to stare at the ropey muscles in his forearm.
“There’s no need to thank me.” I open my notebook, flipping pages, looking for my Dickinson quotes.
His hand brushes the back of my neck as he removes his arm, placing a palm on my papers, stopping me mid-page turn. “Sure, there is. Making an A is huge.”
“Why? You seem really smart.” I glance around the room to see if anyone’s watching us.
“I am pretty smart when it comes to playing basketball, or even with math and science,” he says, picking up my pen and doodling a picture of a lighthouse in the margin of my paper. “Not so much with reading.”
With his head bowed, I can’t see his eyes.
“When I was in first grade, I had a hard time learning to read. My mom took me to all these doctors. We found out I had tunnel vision.” He stops drawing for a second to study my face. “It sucked being the only ki
d reading those little phonics books when everybody else had moved on to Magic Tree House.”
I can’t help smiling. Jack and Annie were my best friends in first grade, the year before I was diagnosed with epilepsy, back when I still believed magical tree houses packed with books could transport me to faraway lands.
He goes back to his sketch, filling in the horizontal black bands around the lighthouse.
“But you didn’t give up on reading.” I’ve only known Chatham for a few weeks, but a few weeks is long enough to know he’s not a quitter.
“Nope, and look at me now—making As, hanging with the smartest girl in class.” He’s writing something under the lighthouse sketch.
I tilt my head to read his words. Bodie Island Lighthouse? Please?
“Oh. Uh . . . I have that family-day thing with my mom.” I shove my hands under my thighs.
The thing is, I really, really want to say yes. On one hand, all I ever do is wish for normal. Cute high school boy, plus crush, plus fun outing, sounds pretty normal. On the other hand, saying yes is opening myself to serious physical and emotional peril. I’ve weighed the consequences, and no amount of normal is worth the risk of humiliating myself in front of Chatham. It would be bad if we were at school and I seized. It would be worse than horrible if we were alone somewhere without any adults trained to handle a seizure, and he had to care for me while I puked or worse.
“Which day?” He watches my face as he leans over to pull an orange out of his backpack.
“Saturday.” I pause. “My mom’s super strict about stuff like that.” A burst of citrus invades my nose when his thumb punches through the thick skin and into the heart of the fruit.
“What about Sunday?”
“I have plans on Sunday too.” I draw a dark cloud above his lighthouse without explaining that my unofficial plans involve an eight-year-old and a game of Monopoly.
He crosses his arms, his brow creased.
Somehow, I doubt Chatham has much experience with rejection. I open my mouth to apologize, but before I can, Derek lumbers over.