EMILY DICKINSON
Mom lets me stay home Friday. Even she isn’t crazy enough to try to send me to school after a grand mal seizure and a sleepless night in the emergency room. She’s pretty cool Saturday. Sunday morning, she reaches her limit on my wallowing. I hear my bedroom door creak open. Hitch lifts his head, ready to greet the day. I stay frozen in my fetal position with my back to the door, hoping she’ll go away. I’m pretty sure it’s her Sunday to work at the library.
If I stay in bed long enough, she’ll have to leave, and I won’t have to deal with her. I wait for the door to close again, but it doesn’t. Instead, soft feet pad across the rough floor to the side of my bed. I bite the inside of my cheek and count silently. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand.
She sits down on the edge of the bed. Hitch lays his heavy head gently on my hip. The bed shifts when she pets him.
Four one thousand. Five one thousand. Six one thousand.
“Sweetie, I know you’re awake.”
Crap.
“Listen . . .” She rubs the back of my arm. “I’ve been thinking.”
Not good.
“I’m not going to force you to go back to school against your will.”
I open my right eye a fraction of an inch. If I’ve heard Granddaddy Day say it once, I’ve heard him say it a hundred times: “If something sounds too good to be true, it is.” Lying perfectly still, I wait. I know Mom well enough to know there has to be a catch. There’s always a catch.
“Really, though.” Her hand freezes on my bicep. “I don’t think you should stay home. You’ve made huge accomplishments—come a long way. I think you should go back to school and finish what you started.”
Umm, not in this lifetime. Or the next, for that matter.
“Your friend Ayla and several others left the game and followed the ambulance to the hospital.” She pauses when I stiffen. “They were worried about you. It wouldn’t have been so terrifying for them if you’d been honest about the seizures.”
Well, imagine that—me, wrong again. Seems like my secret’s out and Mom knows I didn’t tell people the truth about my epilepsy. Biting my lip, I refuse to submit to the tears welling behind my closed eyes.
She squeezes my arm when I still don’t respond. “But no matter what—” Her voice cracks. “No matter what I think . . . I’m not going to force you to go back against your will.”
Now a twinge of guilt nibbles my insides. She loves me. And I love her too. But I don’t know how to show it anymore.
“You’re practically an adult. I’m going to trust you to start making some of your own decisions. I’m not going to pressure you to go back.” She lifts her hand to Hitch’s head, wiggling the thick fur and loose skin on the top of his skull. “But I’m not going to let you lay here and feel sorry for yourself either. So get up. We have breakfast to eat and errands to run.”
I’d rather take an ice bath than tag along on her errands, but I bite my tongue. “Give me a second, okay?” Squeezing my eyes shut, I swallow the victory chant rising in my throat. There’s no way I’m arguing a minor technicality like weekend duties when I just won the whole freaking enchilada, the golden ticket, the war.
Woo-hoo. Yippee. Yee-haw. No more risk of humiliation—at least not in a public high school. I’m not going back, not going back, not going back.
“Come on, Hitch.” She pats her thigh as she pads out of the room barefooted. “I’ll take him out so you can get ready.”
Hitch leaps off the bed. Normally, I’d disagree. He’s my dog, my responsibility—my best friend. But there’s no way I’m risking opening my mouth and inserting my foot.
The door clicks shut, and they’re gone. I sit up, looking around my silent room, frozen in time exactly the way it was when Dad died. My sails deflate a little. Not going back to school means staying cooped up in my sad little shell and watching from the shore as everyone else, including my mom, ventures out into new territory, spins the wheel of fate, and takes a chance on life. Staying home means no Chatham, no Ayla, no life. No Ms. Ringgold, no lit mag, no nothing.
Am I seriously contemplating going back to school? No. Avoiding the mirror above the dresser, I drag myself across the room and into a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt.
Less than an hour later, a waiter at the Crow’s Nest seats us in a corner near the back door, away from the Sunday-morning breakfast rush. Unlike most of the restaurants on the beach that close in the off-season, the Nest stays open year-round. And it’s always crowded. They serve the best pancakes and sausage east of Raleigh.
But I’m not ready for pancakes yet. I’m still a little groggy, and my stomach’s weak from the extra meds and the missed sleep Thursday night. A dull headache pulses behind my left eye. I imagine this is what a hangover would feel like. Not that I’ll ever know. There are so many firsts I’ll never experience now that the seizures are back: driving a car, drinking champagne at my wedding, skinny-dipping in the Atlantic.
“What can I get you?” a twenty-something waiter with ash-blond hair and a nice smile asks, interrupting my mopey thoughts.
Mom orders without opening the menu. “I’ll have the Captain’s Special.”
The guy looks up from his notepad, eyes wide. “With all the fixings?”
“Yep.” She beams, her cheeks flushed. “I’m starving.” And she must be if she’s going to eat eggs, sausage, grits, hash browns, and pancakes.
Charming Waiter Boy turns on me. “And for you?”
“An English muffin and apple juice.”
His face drops. “How ’bout some ham or a side of grits?” He winks. “Something that’ll stick to your ribs.”
“No, thanks.” I fidget with my fork as he scribbles down our order. Swallowing a sip of lukewarm water, I wish he’d head back to the kitchen. When I look at Mom, she raises an inquisitive brow.
“What about some orange marmalade or honey for the muffin?” He grins hopefully.
So much for him leaving. It’s like he’s vying for some Server of the Year award or something. “Okay.” I compromise. What’s the point in arguing? “The marmalade sounds good.”
He nods, satisfied, and tucks his pencil behind his ear, then finally turns on his heel and scoots around a group of old men seated in the noisy dining area.
Mom excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I reach for a folded newspaper left wedged between the condiments and the wall. When I pull it toward me, it flops open to the sports page. The large-font headline reads “Buzzer Beater Decides Match between Local Rivals.” I skim the first few lines. “North Ridge loses to the War Eagles by two.” My stomach turns. “After a medical emergency in the stands interrupted the game at the halftime buzzer, starting point guard Chatham York walked off the court, leaving teammates in a lurch. The Ridge managed to hang on till the final seconds of the game with Seth Ross filling in.”
My eyes race to the end of the article, but my brain fails to comprehend the words. Chatham walked off the court in the middle of a tied game with everyone watching, including his dad, to follow me to the hospital—where I refused to see him.
My eyes pause on the last sentence. “War Eagles center Matthew Thomas fired off a half-court shot for the win at the buzzer.”
I’m glad I’ve already decided not to return. Facing the student body, who surely blames me for the loss to their major rival, would be too much even if I wanted to go back.
I cringe at the sidebar image of a crying North Ridge cheerleader wrapped in the arms of another face-painted member of the squad. A second photo shows the War Eagle bench charging the court, ready to dog pile the teammate who sank the winning shot.
I shrink down in my seat and undo my ponytail in an effort to camouflage my face. Folding the paper inside out, I shove it back where I found it and hope nobody recognizes me.
“Why so glum?” Mom slides into her seat. “I thought you’d be in a better mood after our discussion.”
I shrug. What is there to say? She’s right. I should be happy now that I got my way on the school thing.
Chipper Surfer Waiter Guy appears, grinning from ear to ear, and slides four plates heaped with food in front of Mom. He turns to me empty handed. “Your food will be out in a second.”
The muscles in my face twist into a stiff smile. “Thanks.”
He scurries off in the direction of the kitchen as Mom digs into a pile of hash browns smothered in fried onions, cubed ham, and shredded cheddar. “Want some?” she asks around a mouthful of potatoes.
“No, thanks.” I try to relax my rock-hard face. Nothing happens. I think I’m fossilizing.
When Chatham and I first started researching Emily Dickinson, I couldn’t understand how such a gifted writer could become a recluse. But I get it now, because all I want to do is go home and crawl under the covers. I glance across the crowded dining room, contemplating an escape to the bathroom.
Our waiter weaves his way toward our table with my sad little English muffin and a ramekin of marmalade. “Here we go.” He slides the white bread plate in front of me. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
Um, yeah. Some camouflage and a good hiding place. “No, I’m fine.”
Mom lifts her shoulders, her mouth too full to do anything but shrug.
Waiter Dude turns to check the table behind us. “Do we have many errands?” I ask, ripping my muffin into tiny pieces and nibbling at the rabbit-sized tidbits.
“No. I need to drop a birthday card for your grandmother at the post office and grab a few things at the grocery store.” She swallows a cheekful of pancakes. “Oh, and . . . I have a couple of boxes to drop off at The Potter’s House. A few of Dad’s things.” Her hand shakes a little when she dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “It’s time, sweetie.” She reaches her free hand across the table.
I stare at it like its grown a sixth finger. The toasted muffin scratches the back of my throat. I chase the dry crust down with a swig of water. “The, uh . . . Potter’s House?” A few of Dad’s things?
She nods.
The slick glass slips against my wet palm, and water swishes over the rim. I mop the spill with my napkin, bumping the glass with my shaky hand and splashing more liquid on the table.
I’m not sure what freaks me out more: the possibility of running into Chatham volunteering at the thrift store or Mom’s decision to get rid of Dad’s stuff without consulting me.
All I know for sure is I’ve got a problem—a big problem.