When My Heart Joins the Thousand(11)

“Even so. It’s encouraging that you’ve started getting outside your comfort zone.” For the next twenty seconds, he’s silent. He seems to be thinking about something. At last, he takes a deep breath. “Alvie . . . do you still want to be emancipated as soon as possible?”

Of course that’s what I want. I’ve wanted that from the beginning. Still, a moment passes before I answer, “Yes.”

“I want you to think about it, about what it would mean for you. You’d be an adult, which also means that you’d be responsible for all your own finances. You wouldn’t receive any help from the system.”

I’m not receiving any help from the system now. But I’ve always known that a safety net existed, that if I lost my job and my apartment, I wouldn’t end up on the streets. Even if I was miserable there, the group home meant a roof and regular meals. “Why are you saying this.”

“I talked to Judge Gray recently. She’s prepared to review your case again.”

The words send a jolt through my system. I hadn’t expected it to happen this soon. The plan was for me to keep seeing Dr. Bernhardt until I turned eighteen. What’s changed?

“To be honest,” he continues, “I’d prefer that you stay under supervision for another year. I see no need to rush this. But the decision’s not up to me.”

My mind is empty, white static.

“Alvie? You don’t have to do this, you know. You can wait.”

This is what I wanted. Isn’t it? “I’ll do it.” I take a breath. “When—when is the appointment?”

“One month from now. In the meantime, I can help you prepare. We’ll go over any questions she might ask you. And, obviously, I’ll put in a good word for you. But Judge Gray is the one who’ll make the final call. You’ll have to convince her that you’re capable of living independently, that you’re mentally and emotionally ready for it.”

My hand drifts to my left braid, and my fingers curl around it, pulling. I catch myself and drop my arm to my side.

All I have to do is present the judge with evidence that I’m a functional adult. I pay my bills. I show up to work on time. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?

Dr. Bernhardt seems to be waiting for me to say something else, so I say, “Okay.”

“Right, then.” He takes a sip from his glass of water, which he’s barely touched—why did he ask for it if he wasn’t thirsty? He stands and turns toward the door. “I’ll see you in two weeks so we can start preparing—same time okay?”

I nod. Before he steps out, he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “I’m glad you made a friend.”

The door closes behind him.

Friend. Is that what Stanley is to me?

That night, when I sign on to Google Chat, Stanley isn’t there. I wait a few minutes, then a few minutes longer. Something is wrong. Stanley always signs on at eight o’clock.

An hour goes by. I pace around the apartment. My chest feels tight, as if there are invisible bands around it, constricting a little more with each passing minute. Briefly I consider signing off and never signing back on. After all, I originally started talking to him just to get Dr. Bernhardt off my back, and that’s no longer an issue.

But I’ve grown accustomed to my nightly conversations with Stanley. He’s now a part of my life. I don’t like that I’ve come to anticipate his presence. It feels dangerous.

Finally a message pops up on the screen. Hey. Sorry I’m late.

I should probably act like this isn’t a big deal, like it doesn’t affect me. But I’ve never been good at faking indifference. Where were you?

It’s kind of a long story.

I have time.

The words SFinkel is typing flash across the screen, disappear, appear again. He does this sometimes, as if he’s composing responses and then deleting them.

I broke my fibula in biology class today. Fell against a desk. I realize that sounds completely ridiculous, but I’m a klutz, so this kind of thing has happened to me before. It’s just a hairline fracture, but they kept me at the hospital for hours, and I had to practically start a fight with them to avoid getting X-rays. Anyway, I’m feeling okay now. They gave me Percocet for the pain. Great stuff. Sends you right to la-la land. They put it in a little bag with a smiley face and everything.

I reread the words. You’re not okay, I send.

What?

When you say “okay,” it always means “bad.” When you’re actually okay, you say “great.”

There’s a brief pause. If I may be completely honest, I feel like shit. It’s not even the pain. I just really hate hospitals. Can I call you? I’m a little loopy right now. It’s easier to talk than type.

His typing seems fine. I start to rock back and forth.

Until now, my conversations with Stanley have felt abstract, disconnected from everything else in my life. Even if I know what he looks like, I’ve only interfaced with him from behind the safety of a screen, and he’s never pushed for more. Now he wants something. If I talk to him on the phone, it will change things.

My own breathing echoes through the silence, a little too loud and fast.

Alvie?

You can call me, I send. But I’d prefer to respond through text if that’s acceptable to you.