EMILY DICKINSON
The pungent smell of bleach rips through my nostrils, and the familiar beep of a heart-rate monitor beats out a steady tattoo on my right. My stomach turns in on itself, suffocating any hopeful butterflies or birdies that might still be holding on from earlier in the evening.
Without opening my eyes, I recognize the sounds and smells of Outer Banks Hospital. Balling my left hand in a fist under the stiff white sheet, I press my fingernails into my palm, and pray for a few minutes alone before I have to deal with Mom or any other intruders.
I don’t want to think about how I got here or the horrific scene I must’ve caused in the gym. Hot tears sting the backs of my eyes as my brain replays those last minutes at the game—Chatham’s dad seated behind me, Maddie hassling me about plans for the night, the arc of the perfectly executed three-pointer that very possibly could’ve given the War Eagles their first lead of the night.
“Sweetie?” Mom whispers.
I freeze, holding my breath, desperately needing a minute to organize my thoughts before dealing with her.
“Sweetie?” She rubs my arm. “I know you’re awake. Talk to me. Please.”
I shake my head.
She brushes the hair back off my forehead. “You seized at the game.”
I turn away.
“The medics brought you to the hospital.” Her hand falls from my face.
I grit my teeth—annoyed that she’s hovering and annoyed by the sudden absence of her hand. I want her to comfort me, to take care of me the way Dad would’ve. But at the same time I know she can’t.
A pent-up sob rushes from my mouth. Hot tears escape my tightly closed lids, burning my cheeks. I swipe at my face, opening my eyes to a dimly lit, curtained-off corner of a room. From the sound of the drunken cursing on the other side of the screen, I must be stuck in the emergency room with the Friday night party crowd. That means my vital signs weren’t bad enough to warrant being admitted to the hospital. I’ll be going home tonight.
I know this drill—IV anti-seizure meds, observation, and then back to my crappy life. Except now my life’s the crappiest it’s ever been because I tried to live a lie and got busted. It’s like I accidentally hit Send on a group message to everyone at North Ridge High School, delivering a viral video of myself seizing and doing God knows what else in front of a packed gym.
I bet it was the highlight of Maddie’s semester—probably the entire school year, maybe her life—if she wasn’t too traumatized by the bodily fluids and the messiness of the whole ordeal.
Mom sits down in the chair beside the bed, reaching through the bedrail to touch my arm. “Emilie, there are people who want to see you.”
I clutch my head in my hands, tugging on my hair, in an effort to compose myself. “No. No way.”
“I sent everyone away but Chatham and Ayla.” She pulls my hands away from my face, squeezing them in her palms. “I thought you might want to see them.”
I yank my hands free, covering my mouth. “I’m . . . going to . . .”
She grabs a pink, kidney-shaped barf bucket from the nightstand, pressing it under my chin as I heave. After several gut-wrenching spasms, I regurgitate a dribble of yellow bile from the depths of my stomach.
Mom wipes my chin with a rough white washcloth. I don’t fight her. What’s the point? I may as well let her take care of me. I’m probably never going to be able to do it myself.
“Take a sip.” She lifts a Styrofoam cup with a Flexi-Straw to my lips. “In a minute, I’ll go tell them you don’t want to see anyone tonight.”
“Ever,” I mutter, my tongue thick from the seizure meds and the cold water.
She raises a skeptical brow.
“Ever,” I repeat, fighting off a sudden, overwhelming urge to sleep. “I’m not going back to school, and I’m not going to see them again. Ever.”
Later, I wake to the sound of hushed voices outside the drawn curtain.
“She’s not feeling too good about herself right now,” Mom whispers, the high-pitched tone giving away her near panic.
Good. She should be stressed. If it weren’t for her, none of this would’ve happened. Well, I still might’ve seized, but it would’ve been in the privacy of my own home with Hitch at my side, not in front of a crowd of strangers. It’s payback for her making me go to the Ridge.
“It’s really not that big a deal,” Roger soothes.
He just dropped about seventy-five more flights in my book. Not a big deal? The guy isn’t just a nerd. He’s an idiot.
Mom sniffles.
“She’s a beautiful girl. And smart. She’s got so much going for her.” He pauses, probably massaging her back or something.
Hmm. If he knew I was awake, I’d think he was trying to flatter me. Yuck.
“Everyone has flaws, Connie. Some of us hide them on the inside,” he says. “Some can’t be camouflaged so easily. But we’re all flawed. We’re all human.”
“You’re right. It’s just—” She breaks off, sobbing.
I grit my teeth. I know it’s hard on her being a single mom, especially with my epilepsy. But I want to scream. She’s not the victim. She’s not the one who deserves to be comforted. It’s me. I’m the victim. I’m the one trapped in this nightmare.
I want to stomp my feet, punch my pillow, bang my head against the wall. But I can’t. I can’t do anything but lay here. The high doses of Phenobarbital or whatever they injected me with slow everything down—my speech, my breathing, and the muscle contractions required to stomp, punch, and bang. I bite back the scream rising in my throat and taste hot, coppery blood on the back of my tongue. When I gag, their conversation screeches to an abrupt halt.
Mom peeks around the curtain. She sees me awake and steps into my white cubicle. Her posture is ramrod straight, her face dry. But she can’t hide the swollen eyes.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” She stands over me, running the fingers of her left hand through my tangled hair. Our eyes meet for a second before I look away. A clean pair of jeans and the Cape Hatteras National Seashore sweatshirt lay on the chair beside the bed. The dark green hoodie reminds me of Chatham and the other people I lied to. I won’t be able to hide from the wreckage forever.
I shake my head.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Mom glances from my face to the chair, obviously trying to read my thoughts.
Hmm. Let’s see. “Nothing,” I lie, already falling back into the deception routine. It’s like riding a bike. Once you master the technique, you never lose it. You might be a little wobbly at first, but you never forget. “Nothing. I just . . . I just want to go home.” I fiddle with the IV taped to the back of my left hand, wincing at the pressure when I jar the needle.
Mom pulls my hands apart, gripping each of mine in her own. “The nurse said she should have your discharge orders after the next vitals check.”
I know this drill too. Mom will be comforting and nurturing for a few hours, maybe a day, but eventually she’ll get tired of me feeling sorry for myself. Then we’ll go back to the merry-go-round of our life. But instead of ponies and gold rings, our carousel sports ghosts of dead dads and epileptic demons.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of such morbid thoughts, but what’s the use? This is my life—real life. I tried public school. I tried making friends. I did everything Mom and Dr. Wellesley wanted me to do and then some. I climbed a lighthouse with the cutest boy in school and kissed him, and look where that got me.
Right back where I started.