Liars and Losers Like Us(69)

As we file off stage, Principal Finley thanks everyone for their school spirit and gives a few rules about Prom tomorrow night. Basically: don’t come drunk or high and don’t punch anyone in the face.

Sean says, “Nice shoes.”

I glance down as if I haven’t seen them yet. “Thanks.”

The guys and girls part in a red sea fashion as the double doors of the gym close behind us. I turn to say something to Sean. Something, anything.

Instead Jane steps in front of me, pinning me up against the girl’s locker room door with her ruffles. “You have some nerve, really. Un-be-f*ckin-lievable. First I’m bullied into wearing a different dress, accused of stealing your shoes, and then you humiliate me onstage. Who the hell do you think you are? You’re nobody. You think your reverse psychology speech up there is going to get votes? You’re wrong. Nobody cares about you Brittney. You don’t even have a date. You’re all alone. You are right about one thing though. You’re not a Prom Queen. You are a Prom loser.”

The principal walks out of the doors and Jane spins around.

“Oh hey, Mr. Finley. Great pep rally, right?” Jane smiles, not a drop of venom in sight.





THIRTY-ONE


As soon as I sit up to stretch on Saturday morning, my heart is ticking in my chest like an amped up version of my cat clock. TickTickTickTick. Tiny heartbeats, super close together. If I wasn’t starting to get used to these faster and harder hitting palpitations, I’d think I was having a heart attack. Lying in the fetal position, I repeat over and over for it to go away go away go away. Finally after about five minutes of me talking myself out of dying of nothing, my breathing becomes less shallow and I can move again.

Kicking off my sheets, I release a frustrated growl. What is wrong with me?

Once I pull on a pair of sweat shorts, I pad over to mom’s room. “Mom, you up?”

“Come in,” she answers as I’m already pushing her door open. She rakes her hand through her short spiky hair and closes her ereader. “You’re up early.”

“I know. I was wondering about going to that appointment you made for today. Did you actually cancel it?”

“Nope,” she quirks her eyebrows. “It’s still on. I was going to make one last-ditch effort to convince you and maybe throw in a bribe. I was pretty sure I’d be taking the appointment for myself instead.”

Swishing my foot through the carpet a few times, I try to fight back tears. “I feel like I’m always crying.”

Her arms are out so I jump on her bed and let her pull me in. A few tears trickle down my cheek as I wish there were more words to explain what I’m feeling. She smooths her hand over my hair and says she’ll drive me to meet with the therapist at 9:30.

****

The office behind the waiting room is a little smaller than my bedroom. The walls are a muted gray and the two paintings hung on opposite sides are abstract swishes and swooshes of rich yellows and cool blues.

A short, pale-skinned woman with a bronze-streaked bob extends her hand. “Hi Bree. I’m Donna Jarron. You can call me Donna if you’d like. Please, have a seat.”

I grip her hand for a second and scan the seating options. A floral print loveseat is flush against the wall and a burgundy chair hugs a corner. I hold back a joke about the window being my best bet.

“Thanks,” I say and plant myself on the chair. “I thought couches were just a cliché. I didn’t know shrinks or therapists actually use them.” I keep my tone light as I wipe my damp palms on my jeans.

“Maybe so, but it’s comfortable so I keep it around.” Her smile is brief and I’m worried she’s analyzing me for making jokes already.

There’s a short break of silence as she flips open a small black notebook on the table next to her. She lifts a pen and says, “I’ll be taking notes occasionally during our session, do you mind?”

“No, it’s fine.” I take a small sip from the half-empty water bottle I’d brought in.

“But don’t worry, I’m listening. I’m usually not much of a note taker except for first sessions.”

I say, “it’s fine” again.

As I’m wondering when we’re going to get on with it, she asks why I’m here.

“My mom brought me, so I guess that’s why.” My leather bag that I’d shoved in-between my thigh and the edge of the seat crowds me. I wedge it out and drop it to the floor.

Her smile is genuine. “You might not have wanted to but I’m glad you’re here. Jumping into the unknown is brave. What made you decide to come?”

I dig my palm into my knee to stop it from bobbing up and down. I don’t want her thinking I’m crazy. “Something bad happened a few weeks ago and all of a sudden I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to pass out but instead I just hyperventilated for a while and then I cried and it was over. My mom said it was a panic attack. She said maybe I have some things I should deal with.”

Donna nods her head. “Was this the first time you experienced a panic attack?”

“I guess I get panic-y about stuff. But I’m not really sure what you mean by a panic attack. I thought that was just a word for like, freaking out.”

Donna gives me another one of her soft smiles. She reaches for her notebook and paper, and says, “Tell me what happens when you’re feeling anxious or nervous.”