“It’s been busy this week.” She glances sideways out the window at Queen Street, the main road that cuts through the heart of Ridgefield. “Any sign of winter seems to ramp up emergency room visits for this community. The mental health floor barely has any beds left.”
That doesn’t surprise me. The gray sky has enveloped the sun and despite it only being four thirty, the streetlights have already switched on. Nothing like perpetual twilight to send you into a major depression. “Does that mean you’ll be picking up extra shifts on that floor?”
“If we need the …” She restarts as if I don’t know our financial situation. “If I can avoid it, I won’t.” She finally lets go of her cone with one hand and rubs the base of her neck. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to talk to you.”
Ugh. That was the wrong line of small talk. I lock eyes with Dora, desperate for any escape into a chalked world. Her theme song ear-worms through my head.
Ice cream drips down the side of Mom’s cone. She licks the spot not once, but three times before continuing. “Maybe I’ve been working too much. Since going back full time, I haven’t had a chance to check in with you as often.”
Come on, Thea, get to it. How does Dora stay upright with a head that big?
“We never really talked much after Grams passed away, and maybe I’m not the one you want to talk to about her. But Dad is in no place to … well, let’s just leave Dad out of the equation for now.”
You can do it. Can I Dora? Can I really do it? My fingers tighten around my cone until it begins to crack. She’s bringing up Grams? And now Dad? Next, she’ll bring up how their marriage is crumbling.
I pour my attention into the map Dora holds in her hands. Go through the small talk, endure the funeral, to get to the main event.
“But you need to talk with someone. And after what happened on Monday morning, I think this is the right time to start.”
And there it is. At the mention of Monday, I’m pulled out of my childhood sequencing lesson. My brain rewinds the last sentence it heard from Mom. “What happened on Monday?”
She reaches across the table for my hand and tilts her head. “For more than a minute, it was like you left us. Your body flinched backward and you were gasping for air.” She waits, searching my face, but I give her nothing to confirm or deny this.
“And when you came back, your eyes held this fear. Darker and more painful than any of the panic attacks you’ve had this past year.” She thinks this was another panic attack. But a dark one?
When Mom and Dad went back to fighting that morning, I assumed my zone-out had been forgotten. Some glitch to my neural circuitry she had sloughed off as within normal limits. At least normal-ish. For me. But it wasn’t. Even by Mom’s standards.
No wonder she’s been checking in on me in the bathroom, texting me throughout the day, popping in unannounced before bed. She thinks I’ve cracked. That I’m one step away from swallowing pills or cutting myself. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’d had someone follow me on my run yesterday. I can’t tell her—or anyone else—what happened. Next thing you know I’m going to be under house arrest.
Sticky cold trickles down my knuckles. I should lick, but my mind is a cyclone of thoughts. What am I supposed to say that will help her realize I’m not crazy? Because I’m not. Right? Nothing happened. “Mom, it was nothing.”
She glances between my cream-coated hand and the napkins and lowers her voice. “I scheduled you an appointment for this Saturday.”
“For this Saturday?” Let’s not waste any time by—oh, I don’t know—asking me if I want to go. She hasn’t even questioned me about what I believe happened. Whether I think that whatever it was warrants therapy.
“It’s with someone I greatly respect.” She picks up a napkin and starts to dab at the stream now traveling down my wrist. Apparently, there isn’t going to be any discussion. She must have decided this on Monday. Or maybe even before that. And I gave her the right motivation to move full steam ahead.
I swipe the napkin from her hand and crumple it in my fist. I could try to argue, but there were sprinkles for a reason. I press my tongue firmly on the top of the scoops, sending drips down all sides of the cone. I dare her to clean up my mess.
She matches the intensity of my glare for one, two, three, four seconds. Then she looks away and slouches into the bench. Only then do I lick. She can think what she wants. I’m not going to change her mind tonight. But I will prove to her that therapy is not what I need by sticking to my new mantra. Forget it ever happened.
CHAPTER FIVE
School today feels more predictable. No random coffee shop encounters, no new headlines, and no other breakfast-induced supernatural experiences. In case it was a bad instant-oatmeal pack, I decided to change over to cinnamon squares—much better shelf life. My routine punctuality rewards me with my “chance” day-two-on-the-timetable Gavin encounter. It may sound like I’m a stalker, but I am only allowing natural patterns to unfold. Other than drama class, Gavin and I have completely opposite schedules. So I have taken to learning his usual travel routes between classes, and day four is the only day I can guarantee our paths will cross without looking too premeditated. He needs to pass by my locker to get to his class, or I can casually saunter past his at the other end of the hallway for mine. Again, not a stalker—just a planner. I may also put a little more effort into my appearance on these days, but this is simply sensible forethought.
Gavin glides down the hallway in time for first bell, flanked by his best friend, Lennox. I’m not the only one who stops to watch the jaw-dropping duo jest with each other. I could be watching my favorite sitcom on Netflix the way they stride down the hall, both decked out like an Abercrombie ad. Lennox punching Gavin like he just heard the most hilarious inside joke, and Gavin rubbing his arm in mock pain. Given the size of Lennox’s biceps, it very well could have hurt. While most of the girls ogle Lennox’s football-jock appeal, I can’t help but wonder how they fail to get sucked into Gavin’s magazine-cover perfection. Wait—I should be thanking Lennox for at least reducing my competition. As if I have a chance either way.
Maybe a fresh layer of lip gloss will help? I slather it on and swing my locker shut with timing perfected to pivot toward their approach. I raise my hand to my hair to ensure it is flipped to my better side, and then Gavin’s cologne freezes my movement, fingers buried in curls.
The usual flutter takes over my stomach’s contents, and I get sucked into his deep-set hazel eyes. I can’t help the goofy grin that reaches my lips as I force my vocal cords to vibrate. “Hey, Gavin.” My hair flip proceeds with unplanned ferocity. Although I would like to think it looked seductive, I feel immediately unbalanced. With my uncontrollable volume, I probably come across like a tree being uprooted in a storm.
His smile changes from open and relaxed to an obvious smirk. He thinks I’m a ridiculous, unruly sapling. He hesitates for a split second, which feels like a lifetime of personal judgment, and then recomposes his smile. “Hey, Thea,” he says with his resonant voice that is the essence of Romeo. “See you at rehearsal.” He doesn’t pose it as a question. A tornado couldn’t keep me away, and he knows it.