NOTE
You might be wondering when I officially got my nickname. You know … Psycho Sara.
For a while, I tried to pretend it was a superhero name. Like, Watch out, robbers, Psycho Sara is here and she is going to get angry and you won’t like that! Yes, I stole it from the Hulk.
Anyway, after the whole smashing-the-mirror day I got special attention at school and started taking a few classes in the Crazy Box. Most kids don’t get their own Crazy Boxes, but they decided I was a unique case: Socially I didn’t fit in the normal classes, but academically I was ahead of everybody and would disrupt a larger special education class. So I got listed as an “exception,” which would have been cooler with an extra “al” at the end.
In fifth grade I had a special education teacher named Mrs. Gregoriwich. She was supermean, and yelled a lot, and didn’t let me take Sara breaks. One day she decided that I was ready to go back to regular classes, as long as she was there to supervise me. My parents weren’t sure, but she was very convincing.
My new teacher seemed nice. I had pretty much stopped talking a year before because talking got me in trouble, but it wasn’t a full-out life strategy yet. So I just sat there for a few weeks and tried to act normal. It was hard. I kept getting hot. Restless. My thoughts would start spinning. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe right. Sometimes I felt like I was in danger without knowing why or from who.
But I tried and tried because I wanted to stay.
It was tiring, though. Exhausting. And when you get tired, you make mistakes.
It started with a panic attack. I had gotten them before, but I didn’t know much about them. As it was starting, I whispered to Mrs. Gregoriwich to let me go to the bathroom, and she said no, and it felt like my whole body was on fire.
“Please,” I whispered.
“We just went thirty minutes ago—”
“But—” I tried again, keeping my voice down.
People were staring. Daniel was staring. Did I mention him yet? Stand by.
“Just sit still and listen—”
And then I screamed. Like a shrill, bloodcurdling scream. Was it a good reaction? No. Did it scare my classmates and almost make Mrs. Gregoriwich fall over? Yes. Did I care at the time? No.
I screamed, and she hustled me out, and I went to the bathroom to die but surprise! I lived, like I always do. And that was that. I got my new nickname, I went back to the Crazy Box, and I never joined regular classes again. One scream and you’re a psycho. It’s all right. It’s just a temporary thing. As soon as I get better, I’m going back. Maybe I’ll get a new nickname.
Smart Sara. Super Sara. Splendid Sara. Doesn’t matter.
Sara—just Sara—would be fine.
In fact, it’s all I want. Just plain, normal Sara.
Yeah. That would be more than fine.
CHAPTER 6 NOT ALL GAMES ARE FUN
We have school assemblies once in a while. An author visit, or a fire safety demonstration, or a talent show. On Monday morning we had an anti-bullying presentation, and Ms. Hugger decided we could attend.
I always had to sit on a bench with the teachers, even though the other kids were cross-legged on the floor. They organize the grades in seated lines from kindergarten at the front to eighth grade at the back. The whole school was there, so there wasn’t much room. I was close to the eighth graders, and I was being careful not to make eye contact with anything but my shoes.
The presentation seemed nice. It was about helping each other and combatting bullying with teamwork. But two girls were not listening. They were looking at me and whispering.
Ms. Hugger was half watching and half texting, so she didn’t notice. I tried to do the same. But I could hear them and feel them looking. I started to feel fidgety and hot, and that always means my brain is about to pick a Game. She spins a big wheel and we both wait to see what it will be, except she always sees it first and gets to tell me. Today it was the Danger Game.
Now I could hear the girls very clearly.
“What a freak,” one girl said.
She was nearly shouting, but no one else heard her.
“Completely crazy. She shouldn’t be here.”
“She could hurt someone,” the other girl agreed.
They were smiling at me like two hyenas.
“We should do something about it,” one girl said.
It’s just a Game, I told myself. It’s not real.
“I agree,” said the other. Suddenly she had a knife or at least a flash of light on something metal, and then she was standing up. “There is no time like the present.”
My brain won the Danger Game. I stood up and burst through the gym doors and heard laughing. I kept running all the way to the Crazy Box. Then I locked the door and breathed.
Ms. Hugger appeared at the glass. I let her in and she gave me a hug.
“Was I right this time?” I whispered.
“No, Sara,” she said quietly. “You are never going to be right. It’s not real.”
“I saw a knife.”
“You didn’t.”
“They wanted to kill me.”
“They don’t.”
I breathed again and sat down at my desk. We were both quiet for a little while.
“Do you ever lie to me, Ms. Hugger?” I asked.
“No.”
“Never?”
“I would not lie. But that doesn’t mean I can answer every question.”
I wanted to believe her, but it was time for a test.
“Have I gotten better this year? Have I made any progress?”
Her eyes moved. “We have accomplished a lot—”
“Not my academics. Me. My brain. Have I gotten any closer to going back to normal classes?”
“Sara …”
“Tell me.”
“No,” she said finally. “I’m still not sure you’re ready for that.”
I nodded and put my head down. Ms. Hugger was telling the truth, and I knew that was real and I could relax. The Game was over. I was very tired, and Ms. Hugger let me fall asleep.
* * *
As usual, on Tuesday night Dr. Ring knew all about my freak-out. I sat facing him on the corduroy couch and waited as he got his notes in order and turned to me, pen at the ready.
“So, Ms. Hugger tells me we had a round of your ‘Danger Game.’ ”
I was really starting to regret telling them about the Games.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Which, as we know, is a—”
“Schizophrenic episode.” I was staring at my hands in my lap. “My name is better.”
“You know I never approved of the names.”
“You may have mentioned that once or twice.”
“Why don’t I approve of them, again?”
I sighed and recited his usual speech.
“Because they individualize my problems, as if I am the only person who has them, when, in fact, they are very common issues with scientific names and established treatments.”
He put the pen down. “And you thought those girls wanted to hurt you?”
“I … thought I heard something.”
“And the first step should be?”