I usually wake up with that feeling at the bottom of my chest. It’s as if I’m blind and there’s something right beside me, and I could get away from it if only I could see. It’s a vague but gnawing idea that’s followed me into fourth period. The more I try to shake it off, the more it consumes me.
I realize I’ve zoned out when I notice my Art teacher, Miss Hooper, standing above me with a yellow paper square that reads: TO DR. WHITLOCK’S OFFICE.
I sigh.
The best part about finally getting into high school was that those meetings with the school psychologist were over. Then I found out the lady from my old middle school is working here now.
“Take your things,” Miss Hooper says, so I grab my backpack and step out into the hall.
“Julian?”
I spin around.
And the moment seems to slow.
It’s as if I’m standing still and the world is whipping past like a car down a dark street. And for just a second, headlights shine right on me. That’s what it’s like—standing frozen in the dark, then seeing him. Adam Blake. Leaning against the brick wall, somehow managing to look relaxed while fidgeting.
For just a second I feel a burst of pure happiness. I’ve always wondered what I’d say if I saw him again. Then it occurs to me that there’s nothing to say, except maybe I’m sorry, and my happiness falls away.
He breaks into a grin. I glance around to find who he’s smiling at, but no one is there.
“It’s me,” he says. “Adam.”
I don’t know why he’s telling me his name. Even if I didn’t already know, I’d know. I’ve only been in this school for a little while, but I’ve heard his name a hundred times, mostly from girls who are in love with him. Their fascination with him is a little confusing. He isn’t neat the way my mom told me a boy should look when she used to brush my hair in the morning. His brown hair is sloppy, as if he tried to comb it in one direction, got bored, and combed it in the other, then switched five more times.
He’s taller than me, but not all that big—nothing like the huge blond boy he’s always with—and I thought girls liked boys who were really tall and strong. He doesn’t even act the way popular guys should act. The boys in my grade walk a certain way, almost stomping as if they’re angry, but Adam speeds everywhere like he’s running late. I’ve seen him trip over his own feet more than once, but he just smiles and keeps going.
That’s another thing. Boys don’t smile a lot. I’m not sure if they’re unhappy or if they’re just pretending to be unhappy. But Adam always looks…kind. And kind and clumsy isn’t cool. But in this school, I guess it is.
As Adam watches me expectantly, the anxiety in my stomach grows. Not knowing what to say is nothing new for me, but not knowing what to say to him feels a million times worse.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he says.
Suddenly he lunges forward, and I leap back. He halts, looking confused, and now I’m really embarrassed. It’s Adam, and if he’s lunging forward with open arms, it’s probably just to hug me. But even so, the embarrassment and pain are all too much.
I see a split second of surprise on his face as I spin around, then I race down the hall, in the opposite direction of Dr. Whitlock’s office.
Once I’m out of Adam’s sight, I slow down so I don’t get stopped by a teacher. I take a deep breath, turning over the crumpled yellow note in my hand. Soon Dr. Whitlock will realize I’m not coming. If she tells Mr. Pearce, he’ll call Russell again, then Russell will want to know what I’ve been doing to get sent to her in the first place.
But if I do go to her office, Dr. Whitlock will stare into my eyes and ask embarrassing questions I can’t answer, and my stomach will hurt. Afterward, she might call Russell just to tell him I’m seeing her again.
I stop, sick with indecision.
There’s no good choice.
And with every passing second, it’s more likely she’s telling Mr. Pearce.
I should turn back, but I can’t seem to force my feet in that direction. At the moment, the certainty of seeing Dr. Whitlock is worse than the possibility of facing Russell. I know I won’t feel that way if it comes to it. I’ll tell myself how stupid I was to risk it. But I guess I am stupid, because I’ve already made up my mind.
I skip the English Hall, because those teachers always stand at their doors like a neighborhood watch, and I head down the Science Hall. The air is thick with a sickening chemical odor, the smell of something being dissected. At the end of the corridor, I turn the corner and freeze. Mr. Pearce is standing there, bent over his crooked cane. Whether he’s angry or just in pain I don’t know.
I duck into the alcove with the water fountains and wait. I count to sixty, then peek around the corner. He looks up, glaring right at me.
I duck back, and now I can hear the clacking of his cane. I press myself against the wall, trying not to wince out loud. Mr. Pearce and his goblin are getting closer. Clack. Clack. CLACK.
Then he limps past me, as if he has no peripheral vision at all.
I wait until he disappears from view before running past the gym into the wide-open lobby in front of the auditorium. I slip inside the theater and let the heavy door fall closed behind me.