“You ready?” she calls down the hall.
I take a deep breath and open my door. I’ve already imagined the conversation. She’ll take one look at me and say “You can’t go to the party like that” and I’ll say “Okay, I guess I’m not going” and she’ll say “Change your clothes” and I’ll return to my room and lie on my bed until she figures out I’m not changing my clothes, that I’m not going to the party. She’ll be disappointed in me. But there will be no point in arguing because by that time, the party will already be half over.
Except when I step into the living room, all she says is, “Great, let’s go.” She picks up the keys and walks out to the driveway.
“Did you see what I’m wearing?” I ask, following her to the car. “I can’t go to the party.”
“Yes, you can, Vicky. You’re going to this party.”
“I can’t.”
Her face softens. “Look, sweetie. I understand it’s been hard since Jenna left, and I blame myself for letting you become so dependent on her. But you can’t hide in your room forever. There are people other than Jenna who I’m sure would love to be your friend. You just need to give yourself the opportunity to meet them. It’s only going to get harder the longer you wait.”
I swallow. “I’m not going.”
She slumps against the car door. I wait for her to double down on her position, give me an ultimatum or something. But she doesn’t. She just sighs.
“Let’s get some pizza, then,” she says, forcing a smile.
“All right.” I pour myself into the car, my body limp with relief that she didn’t turn that into more of an ordeal. It’s not like her to give up so easily.
We back out of the driveway and I turn on the radio. Mom taps the steering wheel and hums along.
After we’re driving for a couple of minutes, I notice we’re not headed in the direction of our favorite pizza shop. “Aren’t we going to Pietro’s?”
“I thought we’d try something new,” she says.
We drive some more, and not toward any shopping center I can think of. “Where is it?”
“Not much farther.”
I start sweating, my body sensing the danger before my brain fully realizes what’s happening, that we are not driving toward any pizza place. We are driving into Marissa DiMarco’s neighborhood.
“Mom. What are you doing?”
“I’m taking you to the party,” she says.
I clutch the edge of my seat, fingernails digging into the fabric. A wave of nausea hits. I try to focus on the horizon, like it’s just a little motion sickness and not my mother trying to throw me to the sharks.
“You have to face your fears, Vicky,” she says calmly. “That’s the only way to overcome them. Just walk in there and smile and say hello. I know you’re shy, but you can do this. It’s not a big deal.”
My mother has been telling people I’m “just shy” my entire life, and maybe that excused a lot of my awkward behavior growing up. But I don’t think it explains whatever’s wrong with me now. This isn’t the same as hiding behind her skirt when I was little or being timid around strangers. This is me feeling like I’m going to die if I have to walk into that house. And I don’t understand why she doesn’t see that.
I inhale a ragged breath. “I’m not doing this, Mom. I can’t.”
She pulls up in front of the DiMarcos’ house. “Then I guess we’re going to sit here in the car for three hours.”
“Oh my God.” I start to hyperventilate.
“Don’t get yourself all worked up,” says Mom.
Other cars are stopping, too. Kids are getting out; they’re walking past our car and toward the house. I bend over as far as I can so they can’t see me.
“God, Vicky. It’s just a party.”
I slowly suck in air, blow it out, suck in air, blow it out. I focus on my breathing, try to block everything else out . . . until Mom shifts the car into gear and tears away from the curb. The blood returns to my head almost immediately. The danger is gone. I wait until she turns the corner before I sit up.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she says. “The way to overcome fear is to just face it.”
Mom turns the next corner, and we’re circling the block, heading right back to Marissa’s house.
“You’re going to this party,” says Mom. “If I have to circle the block all night. This is for your own good. I’m just trying to help.” But she doesn’t realize this is making it all worse. It’s like she’ll do anything not to have to admit there’s something really wrong with me.
I drop my head between my knees again. My ears fill with the vacuum cleaner roar.
Mom stops in front of the house. Taps her fingers on the wheel. I duck lower. Gasp for air.
She pulls away again and rounds the corner. This time I know the danger isn’t over.
“Please take me home,” I whisper between my knees. “I’m not feeling well.”
“It’s all in your head.” She continues to the corner and we’re circling the block again.
I want to shout, “OF COURSE IT’S IN MY HEAD!” I mean, where else would it be? Except it’s not in my head the way my mother means. I’m not imagining things. My heart is, in fact, racing. My skin is sweating, my lungs are gasping, my stomach is twisting. My brain is telling them to do all that, and I’m pretty sure my brain is IN MY HEAD.
We’re almost around the block again. I have to figure out a way to make this stop because people will start noticing the car that keeps pulling up and leaving without dropping anyone off. They’ll recognize my mother. They’ll know I’m in here.
I unbuckle my seat belt as we approach the corner.
“Wait until we—”
“Just drop me here,” I say.
She pulls to a stop, and I throw open my door.
“Vicky—” Mom starts to object, but I’m out. I’m standing on the street. And she’s smiling. “What time should I pick you up?”
“I’ll get a ride.” I slam the car door and step onto the sidewalk and wait for her to drive away. She hesitates, but there are cars behind her. So she turns and drives off. I wait until she’s turned the corner before I spin on my heel and start walking in the opposite direction.
It’s a miracle I’m walking at all. I can’t even feel my legs. I search for a place to hide, because my mother is probably circling the block to check on me. The trees that line the street are large. I could plaster myself to the trunk of one and scoot around to the other side when she drives past. That wouldn’t look ridiculous at all.