EMILY DICKINSON
Hitch scratches at my bedroom door around eight that night. I open it to let him in, relocking the door behind him. He jumps on the bed, and I lie down beside him, draping an arm across his chest. We lay like that for a long time. When Mom jiggles the doorknob and whispers my name around ten o’clock, I pretend to be asleep. Hitch whines but doesn’t get up.
By eleven, Mom’s room is quiet, and it’s pretty obvious I won’t be falling asleep any time soon. I flip on the bedside lamp, glancing around the room for a distraction, and on the nightstand, there’s the little book of poetry Chatham gave me, staring me in the face. Anything is better than thinking about the scene I caused in the kitchen tonight. So I open the cover, careful not to damage the fragile spine.
Chatham’s bold handwriting grabs my attention. Keep your face always toward the sunshine—and shadows will fall behind you. A smile pulls at the corners of my lips. The first time I read the inscription in the media center, I was too overwhelmed by Chatham’s physical closeness to really comprehend the message. But now, in the quiet of my room, the irony hits me. The first time I met him, he reminded me of the sun. How I would love to keep my face toward that flaming ball of light and let the shadows created by epilepsy, Mom, and all my insecurities fall behind me.
If I were a glass-is-full kind of girl like Ayla, I would take Chatham up on his invite to Bodie Island Lighthouse. If I were a glass-is-full kind of girl, I would believe Mom and Dr. Wellesley when they said my seizure meds were working. I’d be optimistic about not having an episode in almost three months—at least one that I’m aware of. There’s always a chance I could’ve seized in my sleep. But Hitch is super reliable about waking Mom, and that hasn’t happened.
I kick my legs over the side of the bed, pulling open the drawer of my bedside table and fumbling around until my hand grazes the spiral notebook I’m supposed to use to journal about my seizures.
My neurologist seems to think I might be able to ward off some of my seizures by controlling my sleep, diet, and stress levels. Personally, I think he’s crazy. I’ve never been able to determine any rhyme or reason to what triggers a seizure. They just happen. They’re like storms during hurricane season—inevitable. I can try to lessen the damage by boarding up the windows and barricading myself in the house, but all the plywood in the world won’t push back the gale-force winds or the rising tides of a grand mal seizure.
I flip toward the back of the notebook in search of my last entry—July 15. Glancing at the golden retriever calendar hanging on the back of my closet door, I realize it’s the fifteenth of October. It’s been exactly three months since my last seizure. I can’t believe Mom and I both forgot my three-month anniversary.
Ugh. I want to run into her room, jump on her bed, and do a little victory dance. But I can’t since we’re not speaking—well, since I’m not speaking to her. The last time I went three months without a seizure was before I was diagnosed with epilepsy when I was seven years old.
When I bounce on the bed, Hitch lifts his head. “I haven’t had a seizure in three months,” I whisper, squeezing his jowls and laughing at his scrunchy fish face. “Hitch, what if my meds are working?”
He raises his left brow, placing a paw on my thigh.
I bend down to kiss the top of his blond head, then float across the room to grab my phone off the dresser, my heart racing. This is huge. I need to celebrate, to face the sun, to let the shadows trail behind me.
Before I can second-guess myself, I open the contacts in my phone and scroll to the Cs. My finger develops a mind of its own and presses the message button. Are you awake? I hit Send, instantly doubting myself. What have I done?
Yes
Crap. Crap. Crap. I rack my brain for a clever response. I’m an idiot. I should turn off my phone and pretend I never texted Chatham. But I’ll see him in class tomorrow. My pulse throbs in my neck. What do I say? He has to know something’s up. I’ve never called or texted him first.
Hello?
I have to say something. I stare across the room. When I blink, my vision clears. The dog on the calendar smiles encouragingly. It’s been three months, I remind myself. Channeling my favorite butt-kicking Disney princess, Mulan, I start typing. Hey, do you still want to go to Bodie?
My phone’s dead weight in my damp palm. I’ve lost my freaking mind. It’s taking too long for him to respond. My free hand hovers at my neck as I inhale through my nose. If I don’t relax, my heart’s going to thump out of my chest.
Hitch whimpers.
When I squeeze my eyes shut, an image of a sleepy Chatham, lying on his bed, his sandy-brown hair mussed, flashes in my head, and a little groan escapes my lips. He’s changed his mind, invited someone else, decided I’m not into him. He’s laughing at me, toying with me.
The phone vibrates. I jerk, bumping Hitch with my elbow. He narrows his eyes.
“Sorry, Hitch. I’m an idiot.”
He rests his head on his front legs with a sigh.
I’ve been reprimanded by my dog. Squinting with one eye, I dare to peek at the phone.
What about family day?
Crap. What about family day? What about family day?
My mom had a change of plans.
And now I’m lying to the nicest boy on the face of the planet.
Great! Saturday at four?
Stop! Abort! the voice in my head commands, like Captain Kirk from the helm of the Enterprise. But do I listen? Of course not. I lack even one tidbit of Spock’s logic.
Yes. Saturday at four. :)
My plan is riddled with more holes than a duck brought down with one of Granddaddy Day’s shotguns. I don’t know whether to be more worried the buckshot will maim my relationship with Mom, who has no idea I’m putting myself out there on the dating front, or that I’ll mortally wound myself.
One thing’s for sure: I’m taking risks, and Dr. Wellesley seems to think that’s what’s going to lead to me breaking out of my shell. But taking risks also leads to skydiving accidents, motorcycle crashes, and brain injuries. I guess one way or another other, I’ll develop or die.
When Hitch stands, scratches the quilt where he’s been lying, circles a few times, and collapses in a lump back in his original spot, I know it’s my signal to go to sleep. And I try. I really, really do. But I end up tossing and turning until the alarm clock buzzes at six thirty, forcing me to face the day, my mother, and eventually Chatham.