I Wish You All the Best(28)

“And I told you I don’t have the time. Between planning for this dance, studying, and work, I’ve got nothing but weekends, and no one ever does weekends.” Then Meleika leans against Sophie, using her shoulder as a pillow. “If you loved me, you’d tutor me.”

Sophie scoffs. “Yeah, I know next to nothing about biology. Your grades might go down if I tutored you.”

“They’re going to go down anyway!” Meleika groans.

Nathan pushes his tray away, his food left half-finished. “I’ll need one for Algebra, but no one’s put up any listings yet.”

“People are busy, dude,” Sophie says.

“You need a tutor?” I ask, and I’m not sure why. Oh God, I’m not really doing this, am I?

“Yeah, it’s kicking my ass.” Nathan rubs his forehead like just talking about math has given him a headache.

Yep, I am apparently doing this, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop my mouth from moving. “Oh, I mean, I could …”

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow.

I do sort of owe him for showing me around the school and trying to make me feel welcome. “I don’t know how good I am at tutoring, but I can try.” Besides, if he’s good in English, he might be willing to help me too.

“I don’t know if you want to do that,” Sophie says. “He’s a bit of a lost cause.”

Nathan turns back toward her. “Bite me.”

“Just saying,” she sings.

“We’ll meet up this weekend. Okay?” he says.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” I probably nod a bit too enthusiastically, while I try not to think too hard about what I’ve just volunteered to do.



I’m just as nervous about this second session as I was for the first. This time Dr. Taylor actually has something to discuss. We’re going to have to spend the whole hour talking about my panic attack, no more nice introductions or paperwork. This time it’s all about me.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

I want to know what’s wrong with me.

But at the same time, I don’t.

“How are you feeling, Ben?” Dr. Taylor asks me when I take a seat on the couch.

I try to make myself comfortable, probably moving around too much in the process. “Fine, I think.”

“I was happy when you agreed to see me earlier than planned.”

I want to ask her why, but that seems rude.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened over the weekend.”

I open my mouth, but the words are still hard to find.

“It’s okay, Ben, take your time.”

“It was a panic attack … I think.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning for me?” She gets her pen and notepad ready.

I do what she asks. Hannah and Thomas went on a date night, so I was home alone, talking with Mariam. I saw a car in the driveway, and after that the details get a little fuzzy. I remember grabbing the laptop and going to the guest bedroom.

“You can’t remember anything else?”

“I do … sort of. It’s like it’s there, but not.”

Dr. Taylor nods her head. I wonder what that could mean. “Have you ever experienced anything like this before, Ben?”

Never in my life. “No.”

“Would your parents know where Hannah lives?”

“I don’t know.” It seems impossible, but I’d heard them talk about her once or twice. Nothing more than whispering to make sure I couldn’t hear them. I guess it wouldn’t be that hard, especially if Mom Facebook-stalked Hannah like I did.

“Do you really think it was them, in the car?”

I shrug. “It looked like the one Dad drives.” But I guess I can’t prove it was them. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Dr. Taylor actually looks surprised. “Why wouldn’t I believe you, Ben?”

“It seems like you don’t.”

“I’m just trying to get all the information.” Dr. Taylor writes something down quickly, and that guilty feeling settles in my stomach. “Did anything else happen?”

“There was a knock at the door.”

“You didn’t answer, did you? Or see who might be on the other side?”

I shake my head. “I couldn’t. I felt like I was stuck.”

“Can you tell me a little about your relationship with your parents, Ben?”

“What do you want to know?”

“What kind of people are they?”

Oh boy.

“Um … well …” I rub the back of my neck.

“In your own words, not how anyone else sees them.”

“Dad is … difficult.” Especially with Hannah. “Mom isn’t great either. She never says much, not that she has the chance.” It feels weird talking about them like this. Like I’m being disrespectful. It’s not like they don’t deserve it, but I still don’t like the bad taste it leaves in my mouth.

“Can you elaborate a little?”

“How?”

“However you want.”

That seems vague. “They’re just … they’re my parents. I don’t really know what else to say about them.”