Things I worried about on the bus: a snapshot of an anxious brain . . .
Is that car slowing down? Is someone going to get out and kidnap me? It is slowing down. What if someone asks for directions? What if – Oh. They’re just dropping someone off. The bus is late. What if it doesn’t arrive? What if I’m late getting to school? Did I turn my straighteners off? What if the bus isn’t running today and no one told me? Where’s the – oh. There’s the bus. Oh crap is that Rowan from Biology? What if he sees me? What if he wants to chat? Hide. OK, he hasn’t seen me. He hasn’t seen me. What if he did see me and now he thinks I’m weird for not saying hi? Did I remember to clean out Rita’s bowl properly? What if she gets sick? One day Rita will die. One day I’ll die. One day everyone will die. What if I die today and everyone sees that my bra has a hole in it? What if the bus crashes? Where are the exits? Why is there an exit on the ceiling? What if that headache Dad has is a brain tumour? Would I live with Mum all the time if Dad died? Why am I thinking about my living arrangements instead of how horrible it would be if Dad died? What’s wrong with me? What if Rhys doesn’t like me? What if he does? What if we get together and we split up? What if we get together and don’t split up and then we’re together forever until we die? One day I’ll die. Did I remember to turn my straighteners off? Yes. Yes. Did I? OK my stop’s coming up. I need to get off in about two minutes. Should I get up now? Will the guy next to me get that I have to get off or will I have to ask him to move? But what if he’s getting off too and I look like a twat? What if worrying kills brain cells? What if I never get to go to uni? What if I do and it’s awful? Should I say thank you to the driver on the way off? OK, get up, move towards the front of the bus. Go, step. Don’t trip over that old man’s stick. Watch out for the stick. Watch out for the – shit. Did anyone notice that? No, no one’s looking at me. But what if they are? OK, doors are opening, GO! I didn’t say thank you to the driver. What if he’s having a bad day and that would have made it better? Am I a bad person?
Yeah but did I actually turn my straighteners off?
By Saturday, I have no idea why I said yes to something as terrifying as a birthday dinner. In a restaurant. With a family I barely know. And the possibly-girlfriend-but-maybe-probably-not of the boy I’m trying not to like.
Excellent decision-making, Steffi. You genius.
But I can’t back out now, mainly because I can’t think of a way to do it without being rude or, at the very least, transparent.
‘I bet he tells you he loves you,’ Tem says, which is both helpful and incredibly unhelpful.
‘Please don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t,’ I say.
‘I won’t if you won’t,’ she replies.
Dad drives me to the Italian restaurant and doesn’t even get annoyed with me when I sit motionless in the front seat for five minutes.
‘Shall we talk through what’s worrying you?’ he asks, patient as a saint.
‘People.’
‘The Gold family, or the staff at the restaurant?’
‘Both.’
‘Because you’ll need to talk to them?’
I nod.
‘The Gold family invited you,’ Dad says. ‘They’ve spent an evening with you before, and they enjoyed your company. They’ve invited you to share an evening with them again. Because they know they will enjoy your company again. And why wouldn’t they? You are a sweet, kind, interesting girl.’
I can’t help thinking that my mother would have kicked me out of the car by now and told me to stop being such a self-obsessed drama queen.
‘I thought that taking medication would stop me feeling like this,’ I confess. My throat is both tight and thick, like a tennis ball has got caught inside it.
Dad is quiet for a moment. ‘Before the medication, I’m not sure you would even have agreed to go, love,’ he says softly. His words surprise me; I hadn’t even thought of that, but he’s right. I probably would have just said no straight off the bat. ‘Think of the staff at the restaurant. They see and speak to hundreds of people every day. To them, you’re just another customer. They won’t even notice you.’
I let out a long, slow breath. ‘They won’t even notice me.’
‘Not even a little bit.’
‘Thanks, Daddy.’
Dad smiles and ruffles my hair. ‘Have a good time, kid. Just call me when you need me to pick you up.’
I get out of the car and wave through the window before he drives off. For a moment I think I see my own anxiety mirrored on his face, but he’s driving away before I can look twice. I can’t imagine Dad getting anxious. He has the quiet confidence I have always depended on. He is solid as a rock.