I look back down at my hands. I’m too embarrassed to look at his face when I’m telling him this, so I begin shredding my napkin into small bits.
“It’s been happening more and more lately. It’s like I psych myself out of doing what I want to do. My breathing gets all weird and I feel like I’m having a heart attack.” I stop, Charlie’s face flashing through my mind.
“I clearly just need to get over myself. I don’t have anything to complain about. I’m healthy. I wanted this internship. I beat other people to get it. And I’m going to Harvard, and everything is good. It’s really good. . . .” My voice trails off. I’ve missed the first two days. What if I can’t go back? My heart speeds up, pumping blood faster and harder, like it needs to get as much life as it can to the very tips of me.
I’ve run out of napkin to rip, leaving only a small pile of sad confetti on the table.
“If the internship makes you feel like crap, don’t do it,” Finn says.
I look up at him then, feeling my stomach tighten. “It’s not that easy.”
“Do you need it for Harvard?”
“Well, I’m sure it helped with my application.”
“But you can be a doctor without it?”
I nod.
“Screw the internship, then. If it makes you feel bad, don’t do it.”
My mind scrambles, panicking at the mere suggestion. “But I need the stipend—I need the money for the fall.”
“There are tons of other summer jobs out there—my friend Carla’s looking for an assistant at her pottery studio right now, in fact. I’m sure she’d hire you.”
I try to imagine telling Mom and Dad I’m quitting the internship, the groan of disappointment from Dad, the look of concern on Mom’s face.
No, no, no.
On cue, my eyelid twitches.
“I can’t do that to my parents,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s okay to tell them you don’t want to do it.”
“But I do want to do it. I want to do it because I want to be a doctor,” I reply. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to be, as long as I remember.”
“Is it?”
“What else would I be?”
He looks at me. “Anything. Everything.”
“Again, it’s not that easy,” I say. “Not at all. You don’t know. I’m going back to the internship tomorrow. I’ll figure something out—it’ll be fine.”
“All right,” Finn says, holding up both hands in surrender. “Forget I said anything. It’s none of my business anyway.”
Right then, Mabel comes back in with our grilled cheese sandwiches and fries. She takes in the pile of ripped napkin bits in front of me and gives me a dirty look, dropping our plates on the table.
Finn immediately digs in.
I tell myself it isn’t as easy as he says. He doesn’t know the half of it. But that’s not his fault.
I focus on my grilled cheese, take a bite, the orange-yellow cheese oozing out. I’m pretty sure I’m going to break out tomorrow, but I don’t care. It tastes good.
“What’s with all the messages you’re leaving around town?” I finally ask.
“I just like street art, I guess. I like how it can surprise you.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s cool.”
We’re both quiet then, but weirdly enough, this time it’s not awkward.
And as I watch the band of dolls move, I realize I don’t want to leave.
Mabel comes in and drops a check on the table without asking us if we want more.
“Oh, crap, my wallet,” I say, but Finn’s hand darts out, grabbing the bill before I can.
“It’s on me.”
“But I wanted to treat you, for picking me up,” I say.
“I got it,” he says more insistently.
“At least let me pay you back later?”
His face goes red and he shakes his head, and I realize I just did something wrong even though I’m not sure what it was.
“Well, thanks. For everything,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says, relaxing.
He nods, returns to eating his French fries. I study his sharp chin, the way blond hair is escaping from his short ponytail, how his wrists are thin but his arms look strong.
Anything.
Everything.
Inside me, something moves. Something made of feathers and thin bones, something made of sky.
Just recognizing it immediately makes it disappear.
But I can still feel the traces of it lingering, everything in my body reaching to get it back.
Eighteen
RIGHT BEFORE I DECIDED I wanted to be a doctor, I told my dad I wished Charlie was dead.
Of course, I didn’t mean it, not really.
It was back when Grandma and Grandpa Rose were staying with us, but for some reason I no longer remember, that night they couldn’t watch me. So Dad picked me up after school.
From the get-go, things weren’t going so great.
Dad had just moved from his freelance writing gig to a full-time copywriting job, and from what I could discern, he hated it. “Another soul-killing day,” he mumbled when I asked him how he was doing.
Meanwhile, my stomach was growling so much it hurt. I had skipped lunch because I hated the soggy fish sticks that were on the day’s menu. Mom always packed my lunch on fish stick days, but Grandma Rose didn’t know that.
Em split her banana and her oatmeal raisin cookie with me, and Matty let me eat some of his Doritos, but by the time Dad picked me up, I was convinced I was starving to death. I didn’t want to be brave and good. I wanted to go through the McDonald’s drive-through. Dad said we didn’t have time if we wanted to beat rush-hour traffic.
But then we merged onto I-71, only to see an endless line of red brake lights in front of us. Dad cursed loudly, turning up the radio to get the traffic report.
By the time we passed the mangled cars and the sirens on the side of the highway, forty-five barely-inching-forward minutes had passed.
“I don’t feel good,” I said from the backseat as we got closer. I kicked his seat.
He didn’t reply, turning right on Reading Road instead of going the way that took us by the mural on Calhoun.
“Wait!” I said. “You have to go that way! I want to see the painting on the wall!”
“This way works too,” Dad said.
“But it’s not the right way!” I kicked the back of the seat, my red gym shoes making a solid hit.
He didn’t respond.
I watched boring buildings pass by and kicked the back of his seat again.
“I don’t feel good.”
Again, no response.
My red shoes took on a life of their own, kicking the seat, like they weren’t even attached to me.
“I’m hungry,” I said, louder this time, as he pulled into the parking garage, jerking the car to a stop. “Can we get something to eat?”
“Visiting hours are almost over,” Dad said, getting out of the car and holding the door open for me. I climbed out of the backseat and started following him to the entrance. “We can get food on the way home.”
“I don’t want to wait that long. I’m hungry now,” I said, my gym shoes kicking at a parking barrier, scuffing the rubber edges, and I almost tripped. I steadied myself and ran to catch up with him. “Dad, please,” I said, tugging at the edge of his jacket.
“I said later, okay? We only have a half hour to see your brother.”
He kept walking, and I stopped in my tracks, my eyes filling with hot tears.
“But I’m hungry!” I shouted.
Dad turned around. “Not now, Parker. I need you to work with me here. I had a really long day at work, and I’m hungry too, but I need you to be grown-up right now.”
“I’m tired of being grown-up!” I yelled, and then I tried to think of the most horrible thing I could say. “I wish Charlie was dead!”
Dad didn’t even pause for a second, his work shoes clicking hard against the concrete of the parking garage before he leaned down, grabbing my arm.
His face was so mad, so scary, that it stopped all my tears instantly.
“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You are being selfish. Do you hear me?” His hands hurt against my arm, and I knew it was serious because even though Dad got frustrated sometimes, he had never laid a hand on me or Charlie. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Dad was crying then.
My heart tightened up inside me, like a tiny hard fist, and I nodded, and Dad let go of my arm.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“That’s not enough! You can’t say those things. Ever. Okay?”