Near the edge of the deck, Heath, who posted that awful picture of me at the science tournament, struts by with another lifeguard. They give me a slow once-over that has me blushing and gluing my eyes to the trash bag. Somehow I resist the powerful urge to drop everything and dive back into the pool.
As they head off, Heath says, “Yeah, she looks like all that, but she’s a mute or something.”
The other guy groans. “What a waste.”
They laugh as I try to shrink my five-nine frame a foot or two. There must be a clever comeback, but even if I came up with one, it would just be filed away along with the thousands of other comebacks I’ve never used.
I finish my trash picking, wash up, and get trained on the snack-bar cash register. Fortunately, I’m paired with a chatty girl named Alicia who interacts with the customers as I fetch ice-cream cones and French fries.
At two o’clock, my work day’s over. Even though it’s been shorter than the shifts scheduled for next week, being around so many people has drained me of every last bit of energy. No time to recover, though. As I trudge to the parking lot, my phone buzzes with another text from Evie.
YOU WILL NOT USE SAMMY AS AN EXCUSE. SEE YOU AT 8.
Crap. She won’t let up until I accept my fate. I drive off, defeated. Maybe there’ll be someplace to hide at Drew’s house. If only he had a pool.
At home, Sammy’s cough is a bit rattly as he gives me the once-over with those wise-beyond-his-years eyes. “Sucky day?”
I remind myself that sucky is taking twelve CF meds a day and probably needing a lung transplant before graduating high school. I say, “Just getting used to the new job.”
If only I could tell him about the chance he’ll be admitted into the pool of AV719 candidates. But I don’t want to get his hopes up yet. When hope’s your most precious commodity, you learn to treat it with care.
And fear.
• • •
Evie, fresh in a neon-green dress and matching headband, picks me up at eight p.m. As we get into her car, she says, “If you just relax, the party could be super-fun. And it’s not like you have to worry about driving.”
“Maybe I should drive. If we take separate cars, then—”
She revs the engine. “That’s not environmental. If you need to leave early, use the code.”
At the other two parties she forced me into this year, which earned major exposure therapy points, I hadn’t resorted to the code, since I saw that as running away, and Evie knew it.
She tugs at her necklaces. “I should actually make you go more often. For the therapy to work.”
“What if all you’re exposing me to is an ulcer?” I pull an elastic band from my wrist.
She shoots out an arm to snatch the band from me. “How many times do I have to tell you? Girls with Rapunzel hair should flaunt it. Just like their impossibly toned bodies. That shirt bags on you.”
I cross my arms. “It’s comforting. Give me one small exception, okay?”
She sighs. “Aiz, if you really, really don’t think you’re up for it, I’ll turn around and drop you off. But I really, really hope you’ll get beyond this fear-of-the-world thing.”
“Thing? It’s not like I don’t try. You of all people should—”
“I just don’t want you to give up. Ever.”
She’s right. How will I be a successful advocate for kids like Sammy someday if I can’t deal with talking to people? I need to suck it up.
If only my resolve could stop my bones from rattling. “Let’s not stay long, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
No, it isn’t fair that a simple thing like going to a party makes my stomach so tight I skipped dinner, and still feel like throwing up.
The heavy bass of the song on the car radio pounds like a funeral march. I cross and re-cross my legs, hoping that’ll ease my nerves in some acupressure-y way. It doesn’t.
We park a block from Drew’s house and run into kids laughing and shouting hundreds of feet before we reach the yard. Someone must’ve bribed the neighbors to sit through this. My insides drum, increasing in intensity the closer we get to ground zero.
Evie drags me by the arm through the front door, giving quick “heys” to the guys who swarm the entryway, rating all arrivals. She ignores their nods of approval and plows us through to the kitchen in less than a minute.
Before I can protest, she fills a red cup to the brim from a keg and hands it to me. “I know it’s lame to rely on alcohol, but desperate times call for desperate measures. So drink up.”
This must be how people become alcoholics. Trying to escape their personalities.
I guzzle down half the cup. “Enabler.” That’ll teach her to spew psychology crap on me all the time.
“Only enabling you to have a decent time.” She tops off my cup and grabs a soda for herself. “Now let’s mingle.”
Does the English language have any two words more horrifying than let’s mingle?
She pats my shoulder. “We’ll start easy. There’s Abby and the swim teammers.”
We make our way to the sliding glass doors where they huddle. I talk to these girls at every practice, so they should fall into my “safe” territory. In theory. But something about parties—or nearly any kind of social gathering, for that matter—fills my belly with barbed wire. I gulp at my beer, arrange my facial muscles into what I hope is a smile, and gulp some more. My cup empties too soon. Evie seizes it and runs off for a refill even though I tell her not to. While she’s gone, I pretend to keep up with the stories, the jokes, and the flirting with the boys who’ve joined us. But it’s overwhelming and I feel the way I always do around a crowd—as if it’s a living creature with a thousand limbs that move in sync to a rhythm I can’t hear.
What is wrong with me?
When Evie returns I take another sip, hating myself for needing a crutch. Especially a stupid one. Exposure, smexposure.
Evie’s shoulders abruptly pull back and her body goes on full alert. I follow her gaze to the foyer, where Rafe Sellers, a tall guy with shoulder-length black hair and the promise of a UCLA soccer scholarship, has arrived.
I tug her sleeve. “It’s okay if you go talk to him.” She’s not the only one who can push a best friend toward progress.
She bites her lip, reminding me that much of her bravado is an act of willpower learned as a little girl, when our classmates would tease about her family eating chicken feet. Back then, she hid in corners too, but, over the years, she ventured out and has been dragging me along ever since.
She says, “Eventually, he might come over this way.”
He probably would. Evie and Rafe have been flirting for months, even though they haven’t taken things further. Which makes him brain dead as far as I’m concerned. What guy wouldn’t be crazy about my amazing, gorgeous friend?
I will not be the one to spoil her fun. “Go. I’ll be fine here, really.” I take another swig of beer to prove it.
“You sure?”
I wipe the corner of my mouth. “If I change my mind, I’ve got the code, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
She nods to herself, still unsure, despite the invisible tether that pulls her toward the kitchen, where Rafe and his buddies disappear.
I push her gently. “Now who’s chickening out?”
She takes a deep breath and flutters off. I turn to the folks around me and try to think of something to add to their conversation about naked bicycle riders at the solstice parade. But, really, what can I say, besides maybe suggesting strategically placed talcum powder?
I sip, nod, and check my phone. We’ve only been here for twenty-five minutes? I burp. Hmm, better slow down on the beer.
Abby O’Keefe, twirling a red curl around her finger, asks me about working at the pool. I open my mouth to respond, and that’s when I catch sight of the latest party ar
rivals. My breath hiccups. Jack is here.
Abby laughs. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”
I stand there, unable to form a rational response. Somehow, I blocked the possibility Jack would be here too. Which was stupid. Or denial. I’m a pro in that department. For years I held on to the pathetic belief that Dad didn’t really die in a diving accident; it was all a massive mistake.
Abby’s face gets serious. “I’m going to help you.” She waves toward Jack. What is it about me that launches my friends into pimp mode?
Finally, I get a word out. “No.” As much as I like Jack, when actually confronted with the real live version, all of my systems scream, “Hide!” But my protest is too late. He heads our way, his gaze locked on mine. All I can do is hope my eyes aren’t too glassy and that I’m not blushing too hard. More denial.
As he approaches, I’d swear he gives me a lightning-quick head-to-toe appraisal. Only fair, since I do the same to him, taking in his slightly damp blond hair, blue-blue eyes, and swimmer’s build. He leads the guys’ team in butterfly.
His features soften into a slow smile. “Aislyn, you came.”
“Yeah.” Deep breath, get words out of mouth. “Evie forced me to.”
“I hoped she would.”
“Um, yeah.” I swallow a beer burp. Why is this so hard? Jack and I have what pass for interesting conversations online, and we’ve e-mailed a zillion times about submissions for The Drizzle. But now, no matter how much I will my heart and lungs to slow down, my knees to hold up, and my brain to focus, my body resists on all counts.
I say, “Um, congrats on the science competition.”
“I thought for sure you’d win. Your stuff is always way beyond the rest of ours.” He pulls at his shirt. “This place is crazy hot.”
I resist the urge to tell him exactly what, or who, is crazy hot, and point toward the glass door like a robot.
“Good idea.” He opens it, letting in the evening breeze.
Ah, that’s delicious against my burning face. A few minutes of this and I could cool down enough to avoid fainting or puking. With major luck.
He starts through the door. “You coming?”
Oh, no, he wants me to go outside with him. Actually make these feet move.
There’s a hand at my back. Abby says, “Way to work fast,” and gives me a push.
I stumble outside behind Jack. About twenty kids hang around the yard, but Jack’s able to find a couple of deck chairs. It’s a relief to get off of my feet, which I don’t trust to support me anyway. My belly is the next body part to fail me, turning all quivery with the thought that here I am with the object of all my—well, with Jack. I take a deep breath. God, I want to cry. Just break down and let all my anxiety out in a gushing torrent of tears. No one would ever expect me to do any kind of exposure therapy ever again.
He points to my cup. “What’s in there?”
I peek inside as if I don’t know. “Um, beer. There’s a keg in the kitchen.” I’m slurring. Great, I’ve finally gotten out two complete sentences and I sound drunk.
He shrugs. “Maybe later.”
Guys like him don’t need liquid bravery, which makes me feel more pitiful. Stop, stop, think of something to say, like a normal person would. I ask, “So you start at the radio station next week?” He scored an internship that would look great on his college app, along with dozens of other accomplishments.
“Yeah, Kids Eat Free is coming for an interview on my first day.”
I shake my head. “I can’t imagine doing something so . . . so public.”
Jack shrugs those smoothly muscled shoulders that make a wide V down to his waist. “Goes with the territory.”
“Still, always having to be so on.” Oh no, a bead of sweat rolls down my face. Probably the first drop in the tsunami of misery I expect to melt into at any moment.
He laughs. “You make it sound like shoveling elephant dung.”
Oh, now he thinks I’m insulting the band. “No, no, they’re great. Just like you. You’re always great.” I blink rapidly and put a hand to my head, partly to steady my vision, partly to wipe away another drip along my temple.
He cocks his head and gives me that look he often does, which makes me feel so seen. Usually it causes a combination of thrill and terror, but tonight I’d rather be as unseen as possible. “Can I get you something?” he says.
“No, I’m okay. Just a little dizzy. Not used to so much beer.” I stand up and lean toward a bush to dump out the rest of my cup, but stumble and spill it on his foot instead.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”
He jumps up. “I’ll get you some water. That’ll help.”
He rushes off toward the kitchen. At that moment, my belly lurches and I feel an overwhelming urge to escape from all the kids who suddenly glare my way. I remember seeing a bathroom off the entryway. Now, if I could just walk without falling over. I try. My legs are almost steady now that Jack isn’t around. I make my way inside, and push through the crowd to the bathroom. But it’s locked. No!
I chant under my breath, Do not barf. Do not faint. The seconds tick endlessly. Jack’s probably back with my water. I should run and tell him I need to go home, that I’m sick, yeah, that wouldn’t be hard to convince him of. My stomach cramps. Nope, not running anywhere.
Finally, the bathroom opens and out pop Jessica and Caleb. I scurry past them, slam the door, and pant as I lean on the sink to hold me up.
With shaky movements, I wipe my brow with a damp tissue. And then I make the mistake of looking in the mirror. My red-rimmed eyes glare in pain and my mouth opens and shuts repeatedly like a fish. I put a hand under my chin to stop my jaw, but it seems to fight against it. I clasp my mouth, trying to keep it shut, to avoid breathing in any more of this, this, whatever craziness this is. My eyes bulge with pressure. My head goes light. Is this when I’ll completely snap with the inner turmoil that builds up every single day, from when my first conscious sensation is a bolt of fear straight through my chest? My existence is a constant struggle against the world. And now, here I am at a party, a party, with way too much alcohol flooding my system.
I let go of my jaw and clutch the sink with both hands. That’s when the tears, mucus, and muck I’ve been holding in decide to explode. It’s also when someone knocks at the door.
“Just a minute,” I choke out.
I spend the next five minutes sobbing, trying to wipe myself up as best I can. When the knocking becomes too insistent, I splash my face, dry it off, and stagger out the door.
A girl I remember from freshman gym class pushes past me. “Bitch.”
Her hostility threatens to start me crying again. Holding back tears, I make my way toward the patio.
But Jack isn’t there. Or anywhere in the backyard. I slowly spin around, peering into the dark. Suddenly, a flurry of raindrops begins hitting like missiles, sending everyone rushing for the house. I join the herd. Inside, I hunt through the crammed living room, but Jack isn’t there either. I hold my hands over my ears against sharp techno music that’s turned up so loud the walls echo. It isn’t until I reach the kitchen, where the crowd is densest, that I spot him in the far corner, laughing as if he’s never heard anything so funny. At his side giggles Alexandra, editor of the school paper. Her magazine-worthy face sparkles as they engage in a high-octane tête-à-tête.
My heart does a free fall. Of course he’s with Alexandra. Why has it taken my straight-A brain so long to figure it out? She and Jack are perfect for each other. Both of them seriously into writing, both naturally gorgeous, and, as much as I hate to admit it, both really sweet. I might be jealous of Alexandra’s easy confidence, but she isn’t one of the mean girls, not by a long shot. Which only makes me feel worse.
In that moment, the noise and motion swirl around as if I’m at the center of a vortex, being sucked into a black hole. My breathing q
uickens and I feel sick to my stomach. Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run. I don’t have to shine, but I can’t let myself flee. That’s the promise to myself I have to keep.
The ghost of my tantrum in the bathroom tugs at my brain, begging to be let out again after its taste of wailing and gnashing. Trembling, I back into the living room until I spot Evie on the sofa next to Rafe, in deep conversation. Well, she is. He stares intently at her chest.
My legs seem to move of their own accord in Evie’s direction. I know I should stop. Look how happy she is. But it’s a choice between yielding to my legs or to the harrowing need in my chest to scream at the world. Maybe a few minutes in Evie’s company will calm me down.
I sidle next to her, hating myself when she forces a smile at my miserable self. Her whole body, her whole spirit is aimed at Rafe, and I’m in the way. I should go back to the swim team girls, or the bathroom, or the kitchen. No, not the kitchen. But also not here, ruining Evie’s chance. Yet my brain and body feel as if they’ll lose all control at any moment.
My mouth blurts, “Cap’n Crunch.” Those two small words unleash a rush of guilt and self-loathing. I want desperately to unsay them. But I can’t stay in this house a second longer without imploding, or exploding, whichever is messier.
Evie’s sagging shoulders make me feel like I’ve kicked over a baby carriage. With a hesitant blink, she asks, “Are you sure?”
Oh hell, how can I do this? Just because I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff doesn’t mean I need to destroy her night too. Barely able to meet her eye, I mumble, “If you give me your keys, I’ll wait in the car until you’re ready to leave. No hurry. Really.”
She nods and hands me the keys. I rush out the door and into the rain. Why didn’t I bring a jacket? Because I’m hopeless. My head pounding, I jog and then run down the block with my arms wrapped around myself. The rain pelts me, but I no longer care.
A sob wracks my chest and I moan into the night. This is it. I’ve let myself flee. Finally. There’s a certain liberty in giving up that last shred of defiance against my affliction. Yet there’s also a choking despair.