I narrow my eyes to get a better look at her in the dark. “Caroline?” I ask.
“Wow. You remembered my name,” she says as she jumps down and collapses into the seat on my right. “I’m kind of surprised by that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I assumed you were the type of person I’d have to introduce myself to more than once before it would actually stick.”
“Caroline Madsen,” I say, proving that I even remembered her last name.
She looks a little impressed. “So did you see the rest of us?” she asks, pointing at the empty stage.
“I guess. I saw a bunch of people go by. Why?”
Her mouth turns down at the corners. “No reason. Just wondering.”
But now she has me curious. And besides, this is a great distraction. “Who were they? Where were you coming from?”
“Nowhere. We were just…looking around.” I start to press her for more details, but before I can say anything, she leans over, stopping a few inches short of my face. “Have you been crying?”
I sink down farther in my chair.
“Guy trouble?” she asks.
“No.”
“Girl trouble?” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
“No. Not like that. But, well…actually yeah, sort of.”
“Let me guess.” She taps her finger against her temple. “Your locker-wrapping best friends are actually manipulative bitches?”
I look up at her from under my eyelashes. “Sometimes. Is it that obvious?”
“You can take in a lot of information from a few lockers away.” She scoots back into her chair and slides down, kicking her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles, mirroring my posture exactly. “You know what you need?” I don’t answer her, and after a long pause she says, “Nicer friends.”
“Funny. My psychiatrist has been saying that for years.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I suck in a breath. No one outside my family knows about my psychiatrist. She’s not my biggest secret, but she’s right up there with the rest of them. I look over at Caroline for a reaction, expecting a biting comment or a condescending stare.
“Why do you see a psychiatrist?” she asks, like it’s no big deal.
Apparently I’m not keeping secrets from her, because words start spilling out on their own. “OCD. I’m more obsessive than compulsive, so most of the ‘disorder’ part takes place in my own head. That makes it pretty easy to hide. No one knows.”
I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud.
She’s looking at me like she’s actually interested, so I keep talking. “But I obsess about a lot of things, like guys and my friends and totally random stuff.…I sort of latch on to a thought and I can’t let it go. Sometimes the thoughts come rapid-fire and cause an anxiety attack. Oh, and I have this weird thing with the number three. I count a lot. I sort of have to do things in threes.”
“Why threes?”
I slowly shake my head. “I have no idea.”
“That sounds pretty horrible, Sam.”
Sam.
Caroline’s looking at me as if this whole thing is completely fascinating. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, exactly the way my psychiatrist does when she wants me to keep talking. So I do.
“I can’t turn my thoughts off, so I barely sleep. Without meds, I don’t get much more than three or four hours a night. It’s been that way since I was ten.” Now there’s a hint of sympathy in her eyes. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. “It’s okay. I’m on antianxiety meds. And I know how to control the panic attacks.” At least, I think I do. It’s been a little harder since the bizarre impulse to slash the Valentine’s Day roses.
“I started seeing a psychiatrist when I was thirteen,” Caroline says matter-of-factly. After a long pause she adds, “Depression.”
“Really?” I ask, resting my elbow on the armrest between us.
“We’ve tried different antidepressants over the years, but…I don’t know…sometimes it feels like it’s getting worse, not better.”
“I was on antidepressants for a while, too.” It sounds so strange to hear myself admit all this. I’ve never talked with anyone my age about this stuff.
Caroline reclines into the chair and smiles. She looks pretty when she does. She’d be even prettier if she would just wear a little makeup.
I bet I could help her.
I no longer have plans to be at a fancy spa with my four best friends this weekend. I don’t have any plans at all. “Hey, what are you doing on Saturday night?”
She crinkles her nose. “I don’t know. Nothing. Why?”
“Want to come to my house? We can watch a movie or something.”
Maybe I could talk her into letting me give her a mini-makeover, too. A few highlights to give her hair a little dimension. Some concealer to hide the pockmarks and blemishes. Nothing dramatic, just a touch of color on her cheeks, eyes, lips.
Caroline pulls a pen out of the front pocket of her baggy jeans.
“I’ll text it to you,” I say, reaching for my phone.
She shakes her head. “Technology is a trap,” she says, waving her pen in the air. “Go.” I give her my house number and street, and she scribbles it on her palm and pockets the pen again. Then she bounces up from her chair so quickly, I jump in my seat. She backs toward the stage, places her hands on the surface, and with a little hop, she’s sitting on the edge again. She leans forward and checks the room. “I want to help you, Sam.”
Wait. What? She wants to help me? “What do you mean?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
I’m great at secrets. My friends tell me all their dirt, knowing I’ll never breathe a word of it to anyone. They have no idea I’ve been keeping a mental disorder from them for the last five years.
“Of course I can,” I say.
“Good. I want to show you something. But if I do, you can’t tell anyone. And I mean anyone. Not even your shrink.”
“But I tell her everything.”
“Not this.”
Caroline waves me over to her. “See that spot over there?” She points at the piano in the corner of the stage. “Come back here on Thursday, right after the lunch bell rings, and wait for me. Don’t say a word to anyone. Hide on this side of the curtain and don’t come out until I come get you.”
“Why?”
“Because.” She grabs me by the shoulders. “I’m going to show you something that will change your whole life.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please.”
“It might not.” Caroline moves her hands to my cheeks. “But if I’m right about you, it will.”
The elevator is already waiting. I press 7 and then, because I can’t help it, I press 7 two more times. As soon as I open the office door and step inside, Colleen’s head pops up from behind the counter and her whole face brightens. “Ah, it must be Wednesday!”
At first, I found her regular greeting mortifying, but then I realized there are never any other patients here, and even if there were, there’s no reason to hide. We’re all regulars.
“She’s running about five minutes late. Water?” she asks, and I nod.
I fish my phone out of my purse, pop in my earbuds, and put on my typical waiting room playlist, In the Deep, named for lyrics in a Florence + the Machine song. I think of my naming strategy as a hobby, even though my psychiatrist doesn’t see it that way. I don’t simply listen to music, I study the lyrics, and when I’m done making a playlist, I pick three words from one of the songs—three words that perfectly encapsulate the collection—and that becomes its title.
I let my head fall back against the wall and close my eyes, ignoring all the motivational posters hanging above me. I mentally transport myself back to the pool two weeks ago, to that moment when Brandon kissed me but didn’t, and I feel my face relax as I relive the fantasy again. His mouth was so warm. And he smelled good, like Sprite and coconut sunscreen.
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“She’s ready for you,” Colleen says.
Sue’s office hasn’t changed in five years. The same books line the same shelves, and the same certificates hang from the walls covered in the same beige paint. The same photographs of the same children stand propped up on her desk, suspended in time like the office itself.
“Hey, Sam!” Sue crosses the room to greet me. She’s this tiny Japanese woman with thick black hair that hangs to her shoulders, and she’s always impeccably dressed. She looks like she’d be refined and soft-spoken until she opens her mouth.
I’d only been seeing her for a few months when I came up with the nickname “Shrink-Sue.” I never actually thought I’d call her that to her face, but one day, it slipped out. She asked me how I came up with it, and I told her it sounded like something badass you’d call out while throwing a judo chop.
Until that point, I hadn’t really stopped to question whether or not psychiatrists appreciated being called shrinks. I was only eleven years old. And I didn’t want to offend her, but once I’d said it, I couldn’t take it back.
But Sue said she liked the name. And she told me I could call her anything. I could even call her a bitch, to her face or behind her back, because there would certainly be times I’d want to. I liked her even more after that.
She sits in the chair across from me and hands me my “thinking putty.” It’s supposed to take my mind off the words I’m saying and give me something to do with my hands so I don’t spend the entire fifty-minute session scratching the back of my neck in threes.
“So,” she begins, opening the brown leather folio across her lap like she always does. “Where do you want to start today?”
Not with the Eights. Not with the spa.
“I don’t know.” I wish I could tell her about my secret meeting with Caroline tomorrow, because that’s pretty much all I’ve thought about over the last two days, but I can’t break my promise. Then I think about the rest of the conversation, the two of us bonding over medication and therapy sessions.
“Actually, I sort of…made a new friend this week.” The words sound so dorky coming out of my mouth, but apparently Shrink-Sue doesn’t hear them that way, because her eyes light up like this is the best news she’s heard in ages.
“Really? What’s she like?” she asks, and I feel myself mimicking her smile. I can’t help it. I think about the way Caroline put her hands on my face like an old friend. That look in her eyes when she said she wanted to help me. The whole thing caught me completely off guard.
“Well, she’s not like any of the Crazy Eights,” I say, picturing her long stringy hair and lack of makeup and those chunky hiking boots. “She’s kind of awkward, but she’s nice. I barely know her, but I already think she sort of…gets me.”
Sue opens her mouth, but I hold my finger up in the air between us before she can speak. “Please. Don’t say it.”
Her mouth snaps shut.
“This doesn’t mean I’m leaving the Eights. You always make it sound easy, Sue, but I can’t just ‘find new friends.’” I put air quotes on the last words. “They are my friends. These are the people that every girl in my class aspires to be friends with. Besides, it would kill them if I left. Especially Hailey.”
Sue shifts in her chair and crosses one leg over the other, taking an authoritative pose. “You have to make decisions that are best for you, Sam. Not for Hailey or anyone else,” she says in her straightforward way.
“Sarah made a decision that was best for her, and look what happened.”
I’m not about to be on the receiving end of what we all did to Sarah. Shooting her dirty looks as we passed her in the halls, talking about her from the other side of the cafeteria, leaving her out of our plans for the weekend. I’m not proud of myself, but when she dumped us for her drama club friends, we made it feel like an act of disloyalty on her part.
“She’s probably quite happy,” Sue says.
“I’m sure she is. But being part of the Eights makes me happy.”
Their friendship might require weekly therapy, but I have fun with them. And I’d be truly crazy to say good-bye to parties every weekend, cute guys crowded around us at lunch, and VIP tickets to every major concert that comes to town.
“Either way, this is a really positive step, Sam. I’m glad to see you making new friends.”
“Friend. Singular. One person.” I hold up a finger. “And no one can ever know about Caroline.”
“Why not?”
Before I even realize what’s happening, my chin begins to tremble. I take a deep breath to steady myself and stare at the carpet.
“Why can’t they know about her, Sam?” Sue repeats softly.
“Because.” The word comes out all wobbly. “If they kick me out—” I can’t finish my thought. I squeeze the back of my neck three times, as hard as I can, but it doesn’t help. “I don’t have anyplace else to go.”
The tears start to well up, but I fight them off, biting the inside of my lower lip, forcing my gaze toward the ceiling. Sue must be able to tell how uncomfortable I am, because she jumps in and says, “Hey, let’s change the subject.”
“Please,” I whisper.
“Did you have a chance to print out those pictures?”
“Yeah.” I blow out a breath and reach into my bag.
Dad took a bunch of photos during the county championship meet and sent them to me. Last week, I showed them to Sue. She spent twenty minutes sliding her fingertip across the screen of my phone, carefully taking in each photo. Then she asked me to pick my three favorites, print them out, and bring them with me today.
“These are great,” she says, taking her time to examine each one. “Tell me, why did you choose these three?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “I guess because I look happy.”
Her expression tells me that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “What word comes to mind when you see this?” she asks, holding one of the pictures up in front of me. “One word.”
Cassidy is squeezing me hard; her nose is all scrunched up and her mouth is open, like she’s screaming. Dad took it right after I beat her time by a tenth of a second, breaking her record in girls’ butterfly. I was afraid she’d be upset, but she wasn’t. “Friendship.”
She holds the next one up. My stomach feels all light and fluttery when I see Brandon resting one hand on my shoulder and pointing at the first-place medal around my neck with the other. He kept high-fiving me. And hugging me. All day.
Sue wouldn’t approve of the word “love,” even though it’s the first one that pops into my mind, so I fix my gaze on the medal, thinking about the way he made me push myself all summer, making me believe I could be faster, stronger. “Inspiration.”
I feel my face heat up and I’m relieved when Sue moves on to the next picture and says, “I was really hoping you’d print this one.”
Dad took it with a long lens and you can see every detail in my face. I’m standing on the block in my stance, seconds away from diving in, and even though my goggles are covering my eyes, you can see them clearly. I stare at the picture for a long time, trying to think of a single word to describe what I like so much about it. I look strong. Determined. Like a girl who speaks her mind, not someone who cowers in the dark every time she gets her feelings hurt.
“Confidence,” I finally say.
Sue’s nod is proud and purposeful, and I can tell my word was spot-on.
“Here’s what I’d like you to do. Bring these to school tomorrow and tape them on the inside of your locker door.” She taps the last one with her perfectly manicured fingernail. “Put this one right at eye level. Look at it off and on all day to remind you of your goal this year. Which is?” she prompts.
“I’m going to make swimming a priority, so I can get a scholarship and go to the college of my choice. Even if it’s far away.”
The “far away” part makes me start hyperventilating. I feel nauseous when I think about moving away from here, l
eaving my mom, leaving Sue. But I force myself to stare at the picture, locking in on that strong, determined expression.
A swim scholarship. Competing at a college level. A chance to reinvent myself.
This girl looks like someone who could do all those things.
“And don’t forget,” Sue says. “This isn’t Summer Sam, who shows up in June and disappears when school starts. This is you.”
“Is it?” I ask, staring at the photo. It was only two weeks ago, but I already feel like a completely different person.
Sue rests her elbows on her knees, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Yes, it is. And she’s in there all year long. I promise. You just have to find a way to pull her out.”
On Thursday morning after first bell, I linger, taking my time at my locker. I keep peering toward the end of the row, looking for Caroline, but she hasn’t shown up. I haven’t seen her once since we sat together in the theater on Monday. Finally, I give up and race to class.
The last few days have been brutal, with Caroline’s words running through my head in an endless loop. I can’t imagine what she wants to show me today or how it could possibly change my whole life. And if she’s right about me? What does that even mean?
Lunch can’t come soon enough. As soon as the fourth period bell sounds, I stand up and race past the rest of my U.S. History classmates, bolting for the door. Everyone heads for the cafeteria and the quad, but I take off in the opposite direction.
When I arrive at the double doors that lead into the theater, I take a quick look around. Then I slip inside and go straight to the piano, hiding from view like Caroline told me to.
I keep checking the time on my phone, and I’m starting to wonder if this is all a joke, when I hear voices, quiet but audible, coming toward me. I’m tempted to take a step forward so I can get a look at their faces, but I press my back flat against the curtain and tell myself not to move.
The voices fade away and Caroline pokes her head around the curtain, curls her finger toward herself, and whispers, “Follow me.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, and she brings her finger to her lips, shushing me. We disappear backstage, and about twenty feet away, I see a door closing. We wait for it to shut completely, and then we creep forward.