EMILY DICKINSON
The next morning I tell Mom I’m sick and need to stay home. She says to take my meds and go straight to jail, not to pass Go, not to collect two hundred dollars. I glance at the handful of colorful pills she has laid out for me on the counter. They’re a blessing and a curse, a new regimen from the good doctor. They seem to finally be controlling my seizures, but they also make me really tired and really moody. And, according to my mom, those are the last two qualities any teenager needs amplified.
As I wash down the prescriptions with a swig of water, the morning sun bounces off the dunes. It shines through the kitchen window and reflects off Dad’s sea glass collection on the sill. But even that string of beautiful colors can’t distract me from the fact I have to face another day at school. Living in fear sucks. I could seize at any moment, lose control in front of a bunch of strangers, convulse, pee in my pants. And my mother no longer seems to care.
This woman—the one who won’t let me ride a bike or swim or even shower with the bathroom door locked for fear I might injure myself—is oblivious to the emotional dangers of North Ridge.
I keep my mouth shut until we’re in the car and almost to school. “Dr. Wellesley said stress can aggravate my seizures,” I blurt, tossing out another reason why I should be learning at home, not enrolled in public school.
“We’ve already discussed this, Emilie. We’re going to try it for three months and then decide about the rest of the year.” She flicks her turn signal.
Three days have felt like forever. I can’t wrap my brain around three months.
We’re seconds from the drop-off line. My heart races in my tight chest. Grasping the door handle, I concentrate on my breathing.
“You haven’t had a seizure in over two months. Dr. Wellesley said it’s time to branch out and try new things.” Her jaw twitches, and I know she doesn’t completely believe Dr. Wellesley herself. “He said it’s time to start focusing on your social and emotional well-being. You can’t do that if you never leave the house.”
I grunt like old Ms. Potts, who shelves books at the library when she’s not at home with her throng of cats. I wish I had her life.
“You’ll feel better when Hitch can come with you.” Mom brakes our Honda Civic to a stop at the front entrance. We’re the only compact vehicle in a long line of luxury sedans and SUVs.
She used to know everything about me. Now, we’re total strangers. We’ve been growing apart ever since she joined the support group for people who have lost a spouse. She talks to her support-group friends instead of me, which I know helps. But it’s like we don’t know how to be around each other anymore, like everything good and normal about our family started to fall apart when Dad left us. We toss words around, but we’re not really communicating.
When Mom leans over to kiss me on the cheek, I push open the door and jump out. I know it’s wrong. Dad wouldn’t be happy. But she’s hurting me. Even if she thinks what she’s doing is for the best, it hurts. And sometimes, I want to hurt her too.
I don’t look back.
Ms. Ringgold is fired up. She’s babbling a hundred miles an hour about our upcoming American author research project while I try not to be distracted by Chatham. Today, he’s classic surfer dude without trying in his faded Vans and tie-dyed T-shirt.
“So in just a minute, I’m going to start assigning partners.” Ms. Ringgold’s red curls dance around her face when she talks.
I tear my eyes away from Chatham, my stomach sinking at the word partners. I don’t know what I’ll do if she pairs me with Maddie or one of her friends. Based on the length of their hair and their perfectly coordinated outfits, they appear to have more in common with Barbie than they do me. Though for all I know, they may be really nice. In my few days at the Ridge, I’ve realized the stereotypes in books and movies aren’t always accurate in real life. But enough of those labels seem grounded in reality to make me cautious.
“I’ll pull an author’s name from the green cup”—Ms. Ringgold jiggles the cup in front of our faces like it’s the Holy Grail or something—“then I’ll pull two student names from the blue cup.”
We all watch as she draws a white square of paper. “The father of the macabre—Edgar Allen Poe.” Ms. Ringgold beams.
“Cool.” A boy in the back mumbles something about drugs and alcohol. The guys seated near him lean forward, hopeful. But Poe goes to two bubbly girls near the front.
Ayla and her partner, a serious guy in wire-rimmed glasses, are assigned Jack London, who’s pretty cool. He was crazy adventurous and loved dogs. A guy who loves dogs can’t be all bad, right? I make a mental note to reread Call of the Wild as Ms. Ringgold bounces around the room on the balls of her feet.
She waves another little slip of paper in front of the class. “Emily Dickinson. My favorite poet.” After a dramatic pause, she reaches into the blue cup and pulls another name. “Emilie Day.”
I slink down in my seat.
“Ironic.” Ayla smiles from across the room. “Two Emilys.”
A couple of the smarter kids chuckle.
My Emilie’s not spelled the same as Dickinson’s, but I don’t correct her. I can’t—I’m too nervous waiting to learn my fate. Maddie turns and narrows her eyes, like I’m some kind of competition. She doesn’t seem to like Ms. Ringgold—or Chatham, for that matter—paying attention to me. Yesterday, I could have sworn she was intentionally blocking the row with her tan legs. When I said “Excuse me,” she acted surprised, like she hadn’t seen me trying to get by. I could have misread her body language; I’m a bit rusty when it comes to inferring social cues. But something about the interaction just felt . . . tense.
“And du-du-du-dum . . .” Ms. Ringgold’s chubby hand disappears inside the cup again.
I hold my breath. Time slows.
“Derek Champion.”
A couple of people laugh. Ayla speaks over them, “Ms. Ringgold, don’t do that to her.”
“Yeah.” Jules, the girl with the purple hair, jumps in. “She’ll end up doing all the work.”
My eyes ping-pong around the room, trying to keep up with their conversation. I remember enough names to know Derek is the enormous football player who hangs out with Chatham before class.
He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m not totally useless, people.” His voice sounds serious, but he looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh.
Ms. Ringgold rests her hand on her hip. “Okay, Jules, Ayla. Who, pray tell, would you pair our new student with?”
They glance at each other. Jules shrugs as Ayla surveys the room. My life hangs in the balance.
“Chatham,” Ayla says.
Ms. Ringgold looks from Derek to Chatham, then at me. “Okay. That could work. In fact, yes, Chatham, you and Emilie work together.”
I can’t tell whether this is better or worse. Maybe the slacker with the sense of humor would have been better. Or even one of the life-sized Barbies. I could’ve done the work for both of us and turned it in without much interaction. But Chatham’s so nice. We’ll be forced to get to know each other, which goes against my number one goal here: keeping my distance.
Chatham leans toward me. When he smiles, little lines form at the corner of his eyes. It’s like his whole face wants in on the action, not just his lips. “Cool. My tutor and now my partner.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Yeah, cool.” I manage to move the muscles in my face, but I’m not sure if I’m grinning or grimacing. My escape plan disintegrates.
Ms. Ringgold and Emily Dickinson are complicating my life. I had this whole elaborate excuse about Mom’s schedule planned out and was going to tell Chatham this afternoon while in the media center that I couldn’t be his tutor. But there’s no way to get out of the Dickinson thing.
Ms. Ringgold jabbers about one of her favorite Dickinson quotes—the one about not living in vain if you can stop at least one heart from breaking. Which is pretty funny considering her research project is causing a pain in my chest right this second.
I doodle in the margin of my paper, trying to brainstorm a getaway strategy. Surely, if I think hard enough, something will come to me.