Tease(59)

And then I feel the buzz, the low hum of panic that’s always there now. On really bad days I don’t even remember after it starts, not right away, because the buzz feels a lot like excitement. Sometimes it’s the same feeling I used to get on any day I was going to see Dylan. If I wake up when it’s still dark out, I can actually start to feel happy, because my whole body thinks it’s winter and time to pick out a cute outfit because I have a boyfriend and things to do and maybe we’ll—

No.

And it comes rushing back.

The buzz has almost always turned into a full-blown alarm by the time I’m getting out of the shower. I give myself about twenty minutes between waking up and leaving the house, just enough to pull my wet hair up in a bun and throw on some mascara, grab a Pop-Tart, and throw my bag in the backseat of my car while the boys run out of the house. The panic pushes me forward, or maybe I’m trying to outrun it. Either way, I don’t pause. If I stopped for a second, I’d throw up. And then I wouldn’t ever be able to move again.

Today I have a strawberry toaster cake, still in the aluminum wrapper, clamped between my teeth, and my wet hair is still resting on my shoulders, getting my shirt wet. Of course I wore the gray T-shirt, it’ll be all splotchy now. I picked it because it was nondescript, like everything I wear these days—something to be forgotten in. Dumping my bag on the driveway next to my car, I hurriedly pull my hair back and rub at my shoulders, hoping the shirt dries before I get to school.

“Front seat!” Alex yells, as always, careening out of the house with his own crappy breakfast.

And as always—these days, this school year—Tommy is strolling out behind him, going, “Whatever.” He’s too cool for the front now.

Alex bounces on the seat as we drive the fifteen minutes to his school. He still talks about what’s going on that day, which today is some project about American government that I remember doing with the same sixth grade teacher.

We drop off Alex first, now that Tommy’s in junior high. He jumps out, slamming the door behind him, and I glance at the rearview mirror. “Don’t you want to move up?” I ask Tommy. We’re still idling in the crowded Pleasant Hill driveway, my hand hovering over the gearshift just in case. “I feel like a chauffeur with you in the back all the time,” I tell him.

“Nope,” he says, and I sigh. “You sound like Mom,” he adds under his breath.

“What? I can’t hear you back there,” I say loudly, trying to turn it all into a joke. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll be at your destination in just a moment.” My attempt at a British accent is extra lame, and it doesn’t cheer either of us up.

It’s only another five minutes to the junior high, and then Tommy’s out of the car, meeting his new friend Liam at the low wall in front of their school. I pause to wave, but they don’t look back at me. Liam’s wearing yet another hugely oversize T-shirt with baggy jeans and giant sneakers. The rest of Tommy’s school is pretty preppy, and they’re not allowed to wear baseball caps or anything, but Liam has one on, a crisp White Sox hat that I’m pretty sure he just thinks looks tough. I watch them shuffle into the building like a couple of baby thugs and try not to worry about my brother.

But the other anxiety, the Big Fear, comes back like a wave then, washing over me as I put the car back into drive and crawl toward Elmwood. When it was Dylan making me nervous, there’d be a moment when I finally saw him, and the awful buzz would turn into a happy pulse. Like tuning an old radio from static to music. But now I’m stuck. It’s just static.

From the student parking lot at Elmwood all the way to my locker, no one even looks at me. The static fills my head, my stomach cold and hot and tense. Down the hall I see Carmichael, but I can’t tell if he sees me.

The one person who didn’t hate me, and I pushed him away. I think of how Hamlet treated Ophelia so badly and then she was dead, gone, like Emma, like everyone I used to have in my life. I see Beth talking to Megan Corley and I have to bite my lip. I’m going to throw up. We’ve been back at school almost three weeks, but it’s not getting easier. Next week—in six days, actually—I go before the judge. I see Jacob and Brielle. I say I harassed Emma Putnam. I accept the charges.

I apologize.

Carmichael is walking toward me now, but only because he needs to get to the classroom on this end of the hall. But still, there he is, a few feet closer, and I move forward like there’s a magnetic pull coming from his flannel shirt.

“Hey, Carmichael,” I say. From the corner of my eye I see Megan’s head whip around, but I can’t worry about that now.

Carmichael meets my eyes but he doesn’t smile. He looks like he did at the beginning of the summer, like I’m a stranger.

“I just—” Someone bumps into me, shoving their way into homeroom. I don’t know if it’s on purpose or not, but it shuts me up. The impact literally snaps my mouth closed, and that’s good, because it gives me one more second to think before I say something stupid. I don’t even know what I was going to say, but when I catch my breath I manage a quick “I’m really sorry.”

“What for?” Carmichael says. Not exactly cold, but not warm either. Tepid.

“For—you know, for everything on Saturday. For making you give me a ride. I—I really appreciate it.”