Chapter Thirty-Four
Kassidy
#17—Face biggest fear
“I can’t do it, Mom. I’m sorry.” My lips tremble, and I press them tightly together, hoping the simple act will make them stop. It doesn’t. Tears prick the back of my eyes, the panic kicking up inside of me. I feel it whipping around my insides like a pile of leaves when the wind hits it.
“Okay, calm down.” She runs her hands down both my arms, and I’m grateful she’s acting like herself. The mom I’ve always known, not the strange sixteen-year-old who’s taken over her body lately. “It’s all right, honey. You don’t have to. But if you change your mind, I’ve made some chicken noodle soup for him.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. A normal person would bring the guy she’s dating chicken noodle soup when he’s sick. What is wrong with me?
Trembling, I hurry down the hallway and slip into my room. Once inside, I take a couple of deep breaths. It smells like vanilla and old books, the same way it has since I was a child. The familiarity wraps around me like a warm blanket.
My backpack is open on my bed. Archer’s chemistry packet is in there, along with the grade we got on our last lab. He’s already missed two days of school, and I should bring him his work. But I can’t, for reasons that no one understands but me.
When I plunk down on the bed, it creaks beneath me. My gaze drops to my English notebook. Flipping the cover, I open it to the warm-up I worked on two days ago. With the pad of my index finger I trace the word “fear,” which I had written in block letters on the top of the page. It’s a word I’ve become well acquainted with. I battle it every day. And most days, I lose. The ache of defeat spreads through my chest like an infection.
I’m tired of it.
So tired.
Reading back through my paper, all of the old feelings rush to the surface. I keep waiting for it to feel like an old wound, scabbed over, itching as it heals. But it’s not. It’s still fresh, open, and oozing as if it happened yesterday.
Slamming the notebook closed, I pick up my phone. Rarely do I open my Facebook app, but today I do. Scrolling it, I look to see if Archer posted anything. He hasn’t. Not in two days. He must be really sick.
Familiar panic takes root, and I try to shove it down. Before exiting the app, I catch a glimpse of the picture of Archer and me when we painted. Both of our smiles are so wide and cheery. My heart pinches.
Sighing, I exit the app and stand up. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I march down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“I’ll do it.” It comes out in one word—Illdoit.
“Are you sure?” Mom’s eyebrows knit together. I hate that I’ve made her worry like this. It’s time to get past my fear. Maybe the only way to do that is to face it. To look it in the eye and stand my ground.
Blowing a stream of air past my lips, I force myself to nod. It’s amazing the effort it takes to do something I usually do without any thought at all.
“Oookay.” Mom opens the fridge while continuing to eye me funny. “Do you maybe want me to go with you?”
I shake my head.
“’Cause if so, I’m game.” She slips back into the teenager.
I groan. “Mom.”
“Okay, not the time. I get it.”
“It’s actually never the time,” I clarify, feeling annoyed.
Mom’s chicken noodle soup never fails. It’s been the number one remedy in our house for colds and flus as long as I can remember. I pray it has the same effect on Archer.
…
I’ve been sitting in front of Archer’s house for twenty minutes, and I’m no closer to going in than when I arrived. I stare up at his house from where I parked at the curb. The yard is filled with green grass and lined with bright flowers. The door is painted red, the trim blue. But I don’t see any of that. All I see are:
Germs.
Illness.
Danger.
I imagine yellow “caution” tape lining the perimeter.
Hot and cold flashes rip up my spine. Reaching toward the Tupperware container of chicken noodle soup that sits on the passenger seat, I swallow hard. The smell of broth wafts under my nose. Steam rises along the clear lid. I wrap my shaky hands around the container, warmth coating my palms.
As I raise it off the seat, Archer’s words echo through my head.
“I thought you were different.”
I am different, but not for the reasons he thinks. I’m a freak. A hypochondriac. A girl locked in her own mind, paralyzed by fear.
Taking a deep breath, I set the soup in my lap. Then I bend down, stretching out my arm to reach Archer’s chemistry homework that fell from the seat. After plucking it up with my fingers, I tuck the soup in the crook of my arm and step out of the car.
With clipped strides, I make my way to the front door. Memories assault me with each step. A sheen of sweat coats my skin. My chest is tight, my stomach rolling. I feel like I’m the one who’s sick. By the time I reach the door, I’m close to hurling.
There’s no way I can go inside like this.
Besides, who’s to say that Archer even wants to see me? We’ve barely spoken since our fight at the track meet. Perhaps a visit from me would make thing worse.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I step up to his front door. Then I quickly bend down and deposit the soup and chemistry homework on the porch.
It’s a lame move.
A cowardly move.
But I never said I was brave.
Backing away from the door, I hurry to my car and speed down the street.