“So you all knew.” I hug my middle, chest constricting with a tidal wave of something that’s too big to be contained. I look at my brother. “Exactly how long have you been keeping this from me?”
“For a few weeks.” Dad grimaces and the glint of guilt in his eye is almost enough to forgive this. Almost. “Warren came over and explained the circumstances surrounding the need for Reynolds’ return. You know we’ve kept a friendly relationship with the McAllister’s for years now. And it’s just...” Dad sighs. “Well, it’s seemed like you’ve been doing so much better.”
I try desperately to swallow around the lump of betrayal lodged in my throat. “None of that explains why no one told me about it.”
Mom circles around the island. “We wanted you to have a great first day of school, and we wanted to make sure Reyn was actually going to come home and enroll before saddling you with it all. There were a few things still up in the air about his re-enrollment.”
“You were wrong.” The tears finally fall, leaving hot tracks down my face. “You should have given me the chance to prepare myself for—”
My mom walks up and rests her hand on my shoulder. I jerk away. “Tell me what you’re feeling? Are you only upset with us or are you worried about being back at school with Reyn? Do you need to talk to Dr. Cordell?”
My therapist. Jesus. “God, no. I’m just…” I’m holding in a sob. I press a hand into my chest, the thumping vibration of my heart so hard and fast that it feels like I’ve run a mile.
Dad coaxes, “What? Surprised? Annoyed? Freaked?”
“I’m sick!” I wail, grabbing the fabric covering my chest into a tight fist. “I’m sick of you not telling me stuff, I’m sick of being trapped here all the time, and I’m sick of you asking me how I feel and then never fucking listening!”
“Vandy Emilia Hall!” my mom shouts, eyes wide with shock. I’ve never once cussed in front of them before. Even Emory is gaping at me. “That language is unacceptable!”
I fling my arms out, helpless. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you with the feelings that you specifically fucking asked for.”
My mom’s eyes flash in anger. “One more time, Vandy, so help me...”
“What?” My laugh comes out slightly maniacal. “Are you going to ground me? That’ll be rich. Maybe I won’t be able to leave the house, or have friends, or talk to boys, or go to parties, or wear make-up. Oh, my mistake. Can’t ground me from something you’ve never allowed me to have.”
“Hey!” My dad steps forward, brows pulled together in anger. “That’s enough. Maybe we made the wrong move not telling you about Reynolds, but you talk to us like the adult you want to be treated as. Apologize to your mother.”
My ribs feel like they’re strangling my lungs, and I can’t even properly appreciate the irony in my parents wanting me to act like an adult when they treat me like a child.
I say, “I’m sorry,” because I have to get away. “If you’d told me, then I could have—I could have just—”
It doesn’t matter.
Emory’s stricken eyes watch as I pass him, hobbling my way up the stairs.
What I want to say is that, if I’d known, I could have found out who to be around Reynolds McAllister. The last time I saw him I was whole, body and soul. I’m not that person now. I’m just this mangled, nervous mess of wanting and not-having. I’m the shattered glass and the crushed metal. I’m the long expanse of asphalt and the pungent spatter of gasoline. I should have had time to become something more than the meager sum of that night’s parts. Because that’s the kind of person who could have seen Reynolds and not felt like a broken thirteen-year-old all over again. That person could have been brave. Fearless.
That’s obviously never going to be in the cards for me.
My blaze of glory would probably be a lot more effective if I could run, kick, or stomp my feet. Instead, I drag my defective leg behind me and do the best I can. I do manage a wall-rattling, vengeful door slam when I get to the room.
It doesn’t help the way my lungs feel like they’re being crushed. I just can’t breathe. I keep gulping in air, but it’s like everything is constricting me—my shirt, my skin, my bones. I frantically unbutton my shirt, no longer pressed and fresh like it’d been this morning, but eventually just grab the two sides and rip it open, flinging it away. I kick off my loafers and peel off the stupid knee-high socks that are required as part of the school uniform, despite the fact it’s still in the eighties outside. Then I shimmy out of the uncomfortable wool skirt, stepping out of it bunched on the floor.
Crossing the room, I walk over to the bedside table, illuminated brightly from a ray of sunshine coming through the arched window beside it, and open the drawer. Inside is a tiny ring box. It’s only one of many boxes hidden around this room that are filled with pills. I know I don’t even need them anymore. Well, no more than the rationed allotment in the bathroom, just to get me by on a physical dependence level. But I like to know they’re there, especially on a day like today. It’s comforting just knowing. If things get bad enough—if I just can’t take it anymore—then relief is only forty minutes away.
It helps.
I look at them and that overwhelming feeling of being crushed slowly starts to abate. I gasp in a short breath and release it slowly, counting them out in my head, palm pressed to my chest, feeling the choppy rise and fall.
This is life, I tell myself. This breath, this heartbeat, this is me being alive. I chant it like an affirmation inside my head, each exhale taking with it that debilitating panic until I finally stand there, drained and aching.
I trail my fingers over the uneven skin that slashes from just below my belly button around to my lower back. It’s thick and gnarled, and the skin surrounding it is strangely numb. I turn my face to the ray of sunshine, eyes closed as I soak it in, exhausted and worn. Instantly, the guilt sets in. I should apologize to my mom and dad, to Emory. They don’t know. They don’t understand what it’s like for me, weaning myself from the medication. That’s all.
I open my eyes and Reynolds McAllister stands opposite of me.
He’s still sweaty from his run, staring across the empty space between our houses from his own bedroom window—the one that’s been dark for three years. His green eyes hold mine, and he’s just as still and rigid as he was before, out in the street. It’s different this time, nothing of significance passing between us, just a flat, cold stare.
It’s not until his eyes drop that it comes to me in a rush that I’m half-dressed and staring at the boy responsible for all of this.