Under Rose-Tainted Skies(17)
It’s a good talk, a little wordy, a lot off-topic. But when the advice comes, it’s easy, obvious. Like always. And, like always, by the end of it, I’m wishing I could have slowed my mind down sooner and processed this like a normal person. That’s the dream.
‘One last thing before you go,’ Mom says. ‘A boy asked you out?’
I look over at the trash can, envision the crumpled piece of paper turning to rot in yesterday’s garbage.
I don’t know.
There was no time to analyse that. But there should have been. There should have been excitement. Excitement should have been bigger than fear. I wonder how many of my former friends would have been freaking out over being invited somewhere by a boy instead of sinking in possible party-apocalypse scenarios. Depression blows on the back of my neck, and I feel cold to my core.
It can’t come in.
I force a smile and clear the clump of sadness from my throat. ‘I mean, technically, yes. But it’s a party, with lots of people. So does that technically mean he’s asked out everyone he sent an invite to? There are many subcategories to consider.’
‘Wow. Dating has subcategories these days?’
‘Of course. God, Mom, sometimes it’s like you’re a dinosaur and we don’t even watch TV.’ She laughs. Really laughs. It’s hard not to notice that she enjoys the normal snippets of conversation we share. So few and far between, they really stand out.
I spend the rest of the day trying to finish an English paper.
Yeah, right.
The flashing cursor on my blank page blinks at me with a sense of urgency. I’m supposed to be dissecting the morals and motives of Lady Macbeth, but my brain is too stewed to translate Shakespeare.
I’m forever an overachiever . . . unless there is something else to think about. You can chart my bad months by checking out my report cards. Like the semester Mom thought we were going to have to move and my grades slipped.
I’d love to see out my homeschool career with a 4.0. It sounds odd, cruel even to suggest, but shining in one of the recesses of my mind is the idea that being intelligent will force people to see past my crazy parts. Maybe even make them obsolete. I don’t know. That’s probably dumb, but no one remembers Charles Darwin as the guy who suffered from panic attacks. Ludwig van Beethoven isn’t the bipolar composer, he’s the composer who was bipolar. I’m sure it’s not as simple as all that. I just want to have proof that I can think straight, that I am more than the girl who believes that odd numbers will cause a catastrophe.
Unfortunately, right now studying is about as likely as skipping to the store.
Instead, I hack at my keyboard until my restless mind composes a passable tune before I drag my butt off to bed.
Ilie awake worrying about the party all night, like it’s some crazed serial killer terrorizing our small suburban neighbourhood.
Anxiety has anchored itself to my stomach and sits like concrete on top of the cheese sandwich I ate twelve hours ago. From my waist down to my knees, everything has been twisted tight. It’s all the pain of getting your period without actually getting your period.
My mattress is made of bricks, and my sheets keep snaking up around my body. I’m almost certain they’re trying to strangle me.
At six-thirty, I stop trying to sleep and drag my frustrated bones out of bed. I wrap my duvet around my shoulders and head to the front door. Sometimes, seeing beyond the confines of these four walls is a necessary evil. For me, this means spending a lot of time sitting in the hall watching the world wake up through an open front door.
The morning smells like cut grass and honeysuckle. I ball up in a cocoon as the rising sun paints the sky various shades of pink, yellow, and purple.
The clock is just kissing 7.00 when an olive-green Volkswagen camper turns into Triangle Crescent. It crawls along the kerb, pauses for the briefest of seconds in front of each house on the other side of the road.
My mental camera is quick and candid.
I only have to look at it for a second, and every tiny detail about the foreign vehicle is embedded in my brain. From the license plate number to the burnt-orange rust eating away at the rear-wheel arch. It cruises around the dead-end bend and back up the road, this time surveying the houses on our side.
The man driving has a thick brown beard and a mop of dark curly hair. There are tons of stickers covering one of the side windows. Souvenir stickers. The kind that are shaped like famous landmarks. I recognize the Empire State Building and Disney’s princess palace.
The guy sees me, stops, and rolls down his window. He’s all smiles as I slide back on my butt, ready to retreat and slam the door shut, when someone shouts, ‘Dad!’
It’s Luke.
He’s standing by the boxwood bush, body on display, waving both arms in the air like he’s trying to park a plane. I look away, bite my bottom lip as the camper parks next door.
I didn’t know Luke had a dad. That’s dumb. I mean, obviously I knew Luke had a dad, I just didn’t realize he was still around.
They collide in the middle of the driveway and wrap each other in a solid embrace. It’s the kind of hug that makes me think I’m witnessing a reunion. I don’t mean to stare, but my no-touch rule is craving attention, and I’m trying to remember what it feels like to hold someone without worrying what kind of disease you could catch.
I’ve arrived at Ebola. I’m so busy considering the science of spreading that I miss the moment the pair break apart. I don’t have time to snatch my senses and look away before Luke sees me staring.