When My Heart Joins the Thousand(34)

There’s a girl his age walking next to him, arm hooked through his. She’s wearing a glossy pink coat, and her blond hair drifts in gauzy puffs around her face, like cotton candy. They’re smiling and talking together, though I can’t make out the words. Stanley says something, and she laughs, her mouth opening wide to reveal rows of tiny white teeth.

They freeze in their tracks. Stanley blinks. “Alvie?”

The girl is small and pretty and has round blue eyes, like a doll’s. She looks me up and down, taking in my oversized T-shirt, ragged-edged skirt, and rumpled stockings, then gives me a tight smile. There’s a miniscule smear of pink lipstick on one of her incisors. “Oh, hello.” Her arm is still linked with his.

He clears his throat and gently tugs the arm free. “This is Dorothy. Dorothy, this is my friend Alvie.”

“Alvie, huh? Like that guy from the movie Annie Hall?”

“It’s not spelled the same,” I mutter. There’s a heavy, sugary smell around her—perfume or shampoo, something artificial. It makes my nose itch.

“Do you like that movie?” she asks. I’m not sure which of us she’s speaking to, but I haven’t seen it, so I don’t say anything.

Stanley takes it upon himself to fill the silence: “It’s one of my favorites.”

She beams. “Mine, too.”

I want Dorothy to go away.

I inch closer to Stanley and grip his arm, so suddenly that he gives a start. Dorothy’s gaze flicks toward my hand, clamped like talons around his biceps. I don’t move. It’s satisfying to watch her too-white smile fade.

She clears her throat. “So, um. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure. See you.”

Her gaze darts toward me, then back to Stanley. She lingers another few seconds, then turns and walks away, back toward the building.

“Alvie.” Stanley’s voice is strained.

I release his arm. “Sorry.” Until that moment, I didn’t realize quite how tightly I was gripping him.

“What’s wrong?”

I cross my arms over my chest. A minute ago, I was eager to talk to him, but now I can’t even remember what I wanted to say. “Are you— I mean, is she—” I swallow. There’s a squeezing sensation in my chest, like strong fingers clamped around my heart.

“She’s in my neurobiology class,” he says, sounding puzzled.

“She was”—I point at his arm—“with you.”

“Oh. That? That’s just—you know.” He gestures toward his cane. “She was being considerate. Ever since I broke my leg, she’s insisted on walking me out. It’s kind of annoying, actually, but I don’t have the heart to tell her to stop.”

The invisible hand stops squeezing my chest, but a strange sensation lingers in the pit of my stomach, an uncomfortable awareness of my own reactions.

“So what brings you here?” he asks. “I mean, I’m glad to see you. I just didn’t expect it.”

I study my shoes. Confusion swirls inside me. I need space to think, to process these feelings. “I just wanted to see you. But I—I can’t stay.”

“Oh.” His brows bunch together. “Well, okay. I’ll talk to you later, I guess.”

I get into the car. As I drive away, my hands tighten on the steering wheel. She’s just a fellow student; Stanley said so, and I believe him. But the hard knot lodged in my gut won’t go away.

I managed to convince myself that Stanley and I were in the same situation—two outcasts on the fringes of society—but that isn’t the case. He has plenty of options, even if he doesn’t realize it. When he was with Dorothy, they both looked so relaxed, so at ease in that way that normal people take for granted.

This sick feeling in my stomach is not jealousy. Nothing so simple. It’s the realization that I will never—can never give him that carefree feeling.

Nothing about me is easy.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


I drive around for a while. I don’t even know where I’m going. My mind drifts, and my body moves on autopilot. When I come back to myself, I’m sitting in the parking lot of my old grade school, a large, institutional-looking beige-brick building with narrow windows.

Why did I come here? I haven’t set foot in this place for years.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I still see the hallways—the olive-green tiles and dull blue lockers. I remember the musty, papery smell, a blend of old carpet and laminated posters and sawdust.

Some of my memories are dim, because I spent much of my time here in a drugged haze. Dr. Evans, my psychiatrist, kept increasing the dosage of my antianxiety medication, but no matter how many pills I took, I could still feel the pressure building inside of me.

“I wish I didn’t need the pills,” I told her once, during our weekly meeting. “I wish I didn’t have to control my feelings all the time.”

“Symptoms,” she replied. “The medication controls your symptoms.”

I left the office feeling as though she had eaten some invisible part of me.

Reflected sunlight strikes the school’s windows, turning them molten gold. My vision goes fuzzy. And suddenly I am ten years old, a small, wiry girl with braided hair, pale skin, and a blank expression. I shuffle down the narrow hallway, watching my blurred reflection in the shiny tiles.