Under Rose-Tainted Skies(24)

They – the geeks that deal in brain stuff – call what I have an invisible illness, but I often wonder if they’re really looking. Beyond the science stuff. It doesn’t bleed or swell, itch or crack, but I see it, right there on my face. It’s like decay, this icky green colour, as if my life were being filmed through a grey filter. I lack light, am an entire surface area that the sun can’t touch.

Luke can’t come back tomorrow.

I’ve done a total 180. This is not uncommon. Especially when I’m given some time to think, to blink away the rose-coloured tint from my eyes.

I force a smile, think of Luke, think of cheesy ballads and toe-curling poetry. It was nice for a second. He made the crazy feel small enough to stamp on, but that’s not enough. That is a fleeting feeling, easy to latch on to from behind a locked door. Unfortunately, I’m realistic. And I’m no James Bond. Eventually, he will want to step beyond the door or, worse, he’ll want me to step beyond it. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe Queen Amy will meet all his expectations, and then maybe he will forget about the weird girl that writes on windows and sits by her front door at the crack of dawn for no other reason than to watch the sky. If he comes back, if I let him in, as hard as I try, I won’t be able to hide all the madness from him.

My body drops down on to my bed, the frame squeaks, and I wonder for a second if it’s going to collapse. It holds out, and I pat my mattress like it’s done me a favour.

My head is a ball of wool after it’s been mauled by a kitten.

On the backs of my eyelids, every time I blink, I see me telling Luke about my weird rituals, my routines, my intense thought processes, and then I watch him recoil like I have the plague or some sort of tropical disease that no one can pronounce. Uncertainty and caution is how you’re supposed to respond to things you don’t understand.

After some intense internal debate, I decide that his recoiling is something I think I could manage. But then there’s the laughing. I mean, he can laugh. I laugh. My mind is ridiculous. The way it works. Like on the days I wake up and can’t touch things with my hands because I happened upon news of a measles outbreak in the deepest, darkest regions of Outer Mongolia. Those are the days I have to use my feet to open doors and pick things up off the floor. It’s humour that you’ll never really be able to appreciate until you’ve spent an hour chasing a pen across the floor with pincer toes. But it is funny, the if-I-don’t-laugh-I’ll-cry kind of funny. It’s the cruel laughing, the vicious-playground stuff I won’t – can’t – cope with. Like, what if he mocks me? I can imagine it, vividly, in glorious technicolour, like the way it happens in films, with all the pointing and name-calling to boot. If that were to happen, I think maybe all my pieces would come unstuck and I’d be broken beyond repair.





Idon’t know when night turns into day. My room is still a fortress, light banished, all cracks concealed. I’m one Elizabethan gown away from being that princess trapped in a forgotten tower. There’s something about the dark space that reeks of smug. It reminds me for the ten-thousandth time that letting my heart direct my head has amounted to an almost total loss of control. Or, in average-teenager terms, I left my room last night, and now Luke is coming by to loan me movies I’m not even sure I want to watch. I make a mental note: this is not a mistake I will make twice. Next time, I stick with the routine.

I grab my duvet, trip downstairs in the same drunken way a Slinky does when it picks up speed, take the last step twice, and crash on to the couch.

I’m not awake, not quite asleep, when there’s a swift, sharp knock at the door and I almost fly through the ceiling. But instead of the usual Who could that be?, my head goes straight to How do I look?

That’s new.

And a little unnerving.

I don’t need a mirror to know I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. To know my blue eyes have turned bloodshot and are undoubtedly framed by big, black bags. I feel like I’m wearing a hat, which usually means my hair is so piled up on top of my head, it’s possible a couple of crows are already nesting in it.

My body weighs a ton. Moving is like hurling a lorry across the carpet. I’m sluggish, shoulders hunched, heading towards the window at the sort of pace you might expect from an overweight snail and scoring friction burns on the soles of my feet. I wonder if Luke is persistent. If I don’t answer today, will he come back tomorrow? Will he keep sending notes? What if he starts asking around school about me? What if he thinks I’m horrible, just being rude, ignoring his knock for no good reason? I shudder. This is the least welcome worry, but it’s the biggest and loudest, trickling into my brain and seeking out space like water. I’m not horrible or rude. It’s just complicated.

I tiptoe to the window, take a peek from behind the curtain. I’m hoping I can manipulate my neck to an angle where I can see the porch without putting my face through the glass. Turns out, I don’t need to. There’s a car parked out front. A sleek, silver sports car with a red soft-top roof.

Thank God. It’s not Luke knocking; it’s Dr Reeves.

Wait.

What? I do a double take of the car. I completely forgot she was coming today.

I never forget about therapy.

Never.

This is brand-new too.

And even more unnerving.

The doc knocks again, and I’m forced to abandon reflection. I make a dash for the hall.