Begin Again(36)

Now four, according to my phone, which I’ve also been using to text him. I try not to wince. This isn’t not my fault. This, and everything else that’s gone haywire on campus these past twenty-four hours.

See, yesterday Professor Hutchison nearly had a fit when not one, not two, but three different students fully conked out during statistics. Shay told me her English professor let class out early because he, direct quote, was “going to fall asleep standing up.” And Milo was so tired that after dinner at his parents’ place, he decided to spend the night there.

He was already asleep when I got a text from Sean and discovered that in my plan to un-zombify Milo, I’d flown too close to the sun—Sean had forgotten to look at the labels I put on the fully decaffeinated Eternal Darkness blend, and in doing so, accidentally decaffeinated half the student body. Including one very sleepy, unsuspecting Milo Flynn.

Which leads us to this moment now.

“Isn’t there like, a backup or something?” I ask Shay. “Someone who can go on if Milo can’t?”

She presses her finger and thumb to her eyelids, rubbing them hard enough to bruise. “He was supposed to find someone for that, but of course he never did.”

“Well,” I say, “you already know all the information for today’s broadcast like the back of your hand. Can’t you go on?”

Shay pauses, only so she can frown. “I mean . . .”

I sit up a little straighter in the swivel chair by the computer, clutching my tea. “Actually, this could be another great opportunity to explore a potential major,” I realize. “I could totally see you as like, a professional podcaster. You have a great voice, the sense of humor—”

“Why don’t you do it?” Shay counters.

Embarrassingly enough, I choke on my own spit. “That’d be silly, I only got here a few weeks ago,” I say after I collect myself.

“Weeks you’ve spent answering a bunch of listener questions over email.” Shay gestures at the microphone. “Today is ‘Call-in Friday’ anyway. Judging from last week’s, you’d just be doing the same thing, except out loud.”

I shake my head, feeling sweat sting at the line of my temple, itch under my arms. “I, uh . . .” I clear my throat. “I’m bad at doing stuff on the fly. I . . . I need a script. I need to practice.”

“So do it like a conversation. Like you’re leading Werewolf at the dorm, or you’re just talking to me,” says Shay, tapping the backside of the chair. “You sure don’t need a script when you’re telling me what you think I should do.”

I let out a laugh so breathy that it feels like my throat’s being squished. “Shay, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Shay asks.

“Because . . .”

I don’t even notice the ache as much these days, because it’s been a constant. But in this moment it’s changing shape again. Hardening. Reminding me of the early days after my mom died, when for a while, it felt like the only feeling at all.

The first time I publicly humiliated myself was a few weeks after my mom died, at a school assembly about road safety. I was one of the student crossing guard helpers and was all set to do a skit with Connor about bike helmets. But he clicked the strap on his chin and waited for me to say my line, and I looked out at all the other kids—saw them all watching me in a way they never had before, with some mix of intrigue and pity—and I felt like a stranger to my own self. Like I wasn’t the same girl I was in their eyes, or mine, either. I choked.

It’s not like I gave up after that. For a while, I’d actively volunteer for the morning announcements or to help host the school talent show. It was like some kind of amateur exposure therapy—I thought I could shake the fear if I just confronted it. Instead the fear just shook back, harder than I could take. I’d never feel nervous in the lead-up, but then I’d feel people’s eyes on me and the words that used to come so easily would dry up on the spot.

All these years I’d spent as “the brave one”—the years I spent mapping out these dreams about big platforms, talking on stages, and flying into television studios—and without any warning, all of the nerve that drove it was simply gone.

It was Connor who convinced me to go easy on myself. To find other ways to channel what I wanted to do. “What if you did something behind the scenes instead?” he said. “If you were doing stuff and nobody knew it was you, would it scare you then?”

It was the seed that grew into “Bed of Roses.” Into the quiet acceptance that there were some parts of my dreams that were going to change when I changed, too. And an even quieter relief that I wouldn’t have to worry about my mom’s legacy anymore, because I was taking myself out of it before I could do anything to hurt it.

And that’s just it. The kind of fear I feel about this—it’s not because of some dumb assembly skit. Not because of a potential talent show blip. It’s . . .

“Because of your mom?”

Only then do I realize my eyes drifted toward the wall again. I snap them back onto Shay’s fast enough to give my retinas whiplash.

“Andie,” Shay says quietly. “I’ve caught you staring at that picture more times than I can count. Didn’t take too much to Google Amy Janson and make the connection. You’re here because your mom was the first-ever Knight.”