The video starts, and the room gets quiet. I watch as if I’m having an out-of-body experience, floating above and looking down on my classmates. I brace myself for their laughter. For nudges and stares. But the whole class is strangely still, eyes glued to the screen. By the end, after my narration is over and the quotes by visitors to the Western Wall are scrolling, they are silent. The presentation is over.
I wait nervously for the reaction. A polite smattering of applause, perhaps. A slow clap? I’d settle for a slow clap. What I get instead are sniffles. Several of the girls are reaching into their bags for tissues, and dabbing at their eyes. Adam is not head-desking or face-palming but dragging a sleeve across his nose. I chose the quotes at the end because they moved me, but I get choked up at sappy TV commercials and reruns of Little House on the Prairie. I didn’t expect my classmates to get this emotional. Mr. Braxley starts clapping then, and everyone joins in. I wouldn’t call it uproarious exactly, but definitely enthusiastic. Jeremy Everling even gives me a thumbs-up.
I stroke the diamond sword at my neck. I will never, ever, EVER take it off.
Everyone’s coming up to me and saying “Great job” and it’s nice and positive and everything, but I feel like one of those whirling teacups on the ride at a fair. I’m dizzy and jittery, and I need to get out of here.
The bell rings. Lipton calls for me to wait up but I can’t. I shoot him a pleading glance as I dart into the hall, hoping he’ll understand.
I maneuver through the crowded hallway and head for the bathroom. But then I think of Mrs. Greene. This is my opportunity to talk to her. When I reach her office, the door is open. I practically dive through it and land on the comfy chair. She puts out the “Do Not Disturb” sign, plugs in the twinkly lights, and turns off the overhead fluorescents.
She doesn’t prod me to talk. But I feel like I might burst if I don’t.
“I did it,” I say.
She doesn’t ask what, just listens.
“My presentation for world history,” I continue. “I didn’t think I could. But I did. It was okay.”
She smiles. “That’s great, Vicky. Excellent.”
“I’m sorry to barge in.” I’m still panting.
“It’s okay,” she says. “That’s what I’m here for.”
I nod. Breathe.
Mrs. Greene offers me a cup of water. She has one of those big blue water dispensers.
I take the cup and try not to spill. My hand is shaking. “I don’t know why this happens to me.”
She waits a beat. “We can talk about it when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” I whisper, and we spend the next fifteen minutes talking. Well, I do. She nods mostly, like she understands completely and I am not weird or wrong for feeling the way I do. I tell her all about the presentation, the roaring and buzzing and slow motion . . . everything.
At the end, Mrs. Greene says, “We can set up an appointment to talk some more if you like; discuss why this happens and how you can deal with it.”
And I want to, because a weight has been lifted and I can breathe again. But I also feel dangerously exposed. Like I’ve taken off a bulletproof vest in the middle of a battlefield. I want to pull it back on and hide behind the nearest rock.
She leans forward to rest a hand on my arm. “It will all be completely confidential. Nobody has to know what happens in this room. Just you and me.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I’ll think about it.”
She gives me a pamphlet on social anxiety. A quick flip through it is like reading my résumé. “You can share this with your parents,” she says. “Or not. It might help them understand what you’re going through.”
I try to imagine handing the pamphlet to my mother, watching that awful look appear on her face—the one she swears is concern and not disappointment, but I’m still not sure. I’d much rather give her something that makes her proud and happy, like a photo of me surrounded by friends, or a party invitation.
And what about Vicurious? What happens to her when I start talking about everything and—does telling the truth mean I have to give her up?
I leave at the end of the period, a jumble of conflicting emotions. Hallie Bryce is waiting in the hall to see Mrs. Greene. I hold the door for her. She pauses and turns to me before entering. “What you’re doing is really special, you know.”
I blink at her, because while seeing Mrs. Greene is a huge step for me, I’d hardly call it special.
“On Instagram,” she whispers. “It makes a difference.”
I start to stammer, to deny.
She holds a finger to her lips to quiet me. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
32
SO, HALLIE KNOWS. HOW DOES Hallie know? It brings the roar to my ears, and I want to run right back to Mrs. Greene’s comfy chair. But Hallie is sitting there now. She said she wouldn’t tell, but if she figured it out, will everyone else?
I walk to precalc. I do my work. I hold it together. I help Marvo pick photos of the dog walker, the skateboarder, the car builder.
I see Hallie again at the end of the day, by our lockers.
She says, “Hi,” and I say, “How . . .” Because I need to know.
“Your hands,” she says. “I notice hands.”
I look down at mine, the right one holding my backpack and the left one balled tight at my side, as opposed to Hallie’s, which are positioned as gracefully as if she were dancing.
“You clench your left fist all the time,” she says, then lowers her voice to a whisper. “So does Vicurious.”
“Oh.” I stretch out my fingers.
“I don’t think anyone else will notice,” she says. “I’m kind of a freak that way. Hands, feet. I can tell you who bites their nails and who’s pigeon-toed and who pounds their heels when they walk. It’s one of my many useless skills.”
“You’re the only one who knows,” I say.
“Really?” She lifts her eyebrows.
I nod.
“Wow.” She gets her books from her locker. “You haven’t told Mrs. Greene?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Well, your secret’s safe with me.” She smiles and says, “See you.”
I lift my unclenched hand to give a little wave. “See you.”
I watch her glide down the hall. The girl I was once afraid to say hi to is now keeper of my biggest secret. I’m not sure why, but it feels good for someone to know.
Lipton catches up to me at the end of the day, worried something’s wrong after the way I ran out of class. “Did someone upset you? Did I?”
“What? No.” I squeeze his hand. “I just needed to find a quiet place to catch my breath.”
“Okay.” He smiles. “You know you don’t have to wear the necklace if you don’t like it. I won’t be upset.”
I clutch it to the base of my throat. “Are you kidding? I’m never taking it off.”
He laughs. “You didn’t need it, though. The presentation was so good. I think Braxley was crying.”
“Think he’ll give us a perfect score?”
“I will dance in front of the whole class if he does,” Lipton says, then does jazz hands combined with something slightly resembling the moonwalk and a little hokey-pokey. I’m too busy laughing to be embarrassed, though I do hide my face behind my backpack.
He walks me to the bus line and says, mournfully, “Will you ever get your phone back?”
“Oh! I forgot to tell you, I did! Now I just have to find my charger.”