Max shrugged. He pulled out his iPod and scrolled through a playlist. “Math’s great and all that, but who grows up and says they want to be a math teacher? Since I was five years old, I’ve been telling the parentals I want to be a rock star. It’s hardly my problem they never listened.” Max reached into his messenger bag and then scribbled in his lyrics notebook. “Idea for a song.”
Knowing better than to interrupt pure genius, Harry started counting backward from one hundred in his head. He tried to focus on the soothing roundness of numbers and not the impulse to kick the seat in front of him.
“Here’s the problem with the older generation, my friend.” Max put his notebook away. “They don’t understand passion. They just want to bring home the bacon. Yada, yada, yada. If I have the commitment to try for a career in music, and if I want to bust my ass trying, surely it’s on my back if I fail. But I’m not—gonna fail.” Max grinned. “Are you going to sing with us next Saturday?” He jabbed Harry with his elbow. “Sammie’ll be impressed. C’mon, man, you have a great voice. Time to get you in the limelight.”
“And what if I tic and send cymbals flying?”
“I’ll walk you across the stage with my arms wrapped around you. People will assume we’re gay. I’d be down with that.”
The plane lurched and Harry hugged his stomach. “It’s all irrelevant if we die in the air.” Had Mom felt this way on the flight from Florida? Had her life flashed before her eyes? Had she thought of him and Dad before she’d passed out? Harry rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Thinking about your mom?”
Harry nodded. “Can’t stop, you know.”
“She going to be okay?”
“I don’t know, man. But I’m going to prove to her—and to Dad—that they can stop worrying about me. They make everything about me all the time. And I get it, I do. I know it’s not easy being the parents of the kid who’s different, but big newsflash: it isn’t all about Harry.”
“Amen, bro.”
“And besides, I’m okay with this shit.”
“I know you are, dude. I’m proud to have a best friend with seriously fucked-up brain wiring. Makes you fucking interesting. Now, some people think love of math and love of punk music both fall under the category of mental illness. Guess that makes me, you know, extra challenged. And the perfect person to share your Boston shenanigans.” Max wiggled his head back and forth with his Frankenstein expression.
The second Klonopin kicked in, snipping the edge off all that worry. It was still there, but tucked away, like a chocolate bar you were saving to gobble after school. Yeah, they were going to have some shenanigans. What could possibly go wrong?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Killer hike across campus to the freshman dorms. At least, it was when you believed you would never, ever be warm again. For the rest of your life. Harry looked up at the snowcapped, old-fashioned streetlamps and perfectly snow-laden trees. He and Max could have fallen through time into some made-for-TV Christmas movie. Although they stuck out like a pair of mutant misfits—the only people in the group of prospective students and parents not dressed in their Sunday best.
The tour guide led them through a decorative gateway that could have been the entrance to Saint John’s crumbling historic mansion. Off to the left, the white spire of a chapel shone against the brilliant blue sky. Did everything here shine?
The campus was beautiful. Well, Harry knew that before he came; he’d done his research. Dad never expected him to have his shit together, but Harry was about to prove him wrong. Very wrong. He’d even taken the afternoon Ritalin pill so he could tone himself down a notch. Plus a Klonopin for the anxiety.
The thing about having anxiety issues was that you had to prepare, head things off at the pass. It was the opposite of the ADHD impulses, which made him super distracted. Sometimes he felt as if two warring ferrets were loose in his brain. Sometimes Tourette’s was the easiest thing he had to deal with.