Nada. U ok?
Fine. I typed a quick reply and switched my screen to dark. Without pulling up my dress, I sat down on the toilet. It was just me. Lots had happened to me in the last few weeks. And besides, nothing bad had happened. Maybe it was even a good thing. Maybe I’d confronted my fear and just, I didn’t know, blocked it out or something. Like with PTSD. Was that my issue? What sorts of trauma could lead to a brain switch like post-traumatic stress disorder? I’d heard stories of soldiers getting it from war, of children having cases of PTSD when parents were killed, but what about what happened to me?
I still couldn’t say the word. I couldn’t even think it.
Was I … traumatized?
I turned the word over in my mind and thought of the near-catatonic shell of myself that I’d peered at in the mirror, the one who’d been ready to shave off an entire head of perfectly luscious hair. Then I paired that version against who I was before Dearborn: popular, in control, straight As, flirtatious, professional-level best friend. When I put it like that then, yeah, I supposed the word traumatized did seem to fit. Was I stressed, too?
Well, it certainly wasn’t like me to forget to set an alarm. If I had the trauma and the stress and it was post the “Incident,” was it possible that I’d been full-on disordered without even realizing it?
I wiped my hands down my shins. This felt like a positive step. A sign that the old me was just around the corner. Identify a problem. Solve it. That was what the old Cassidy would do and medical problems required medicine. At least until I recovered. And, since my problem wasn’t exactly one I could talk to a doctor about without a dozen questions and a call to my parents—I could already hear Paisley’s singsong voice chiding me about my strolls down easy street—then I would have to self-treat. My breath was coming more steadily now.
Just as much as I felt the old, better version of myself hovering tantalizingly close, I also felt the sad, nasty version haunting me like a ghost. If I wasn’t careful, it would suck me under. I needed to preserve cheerleader, straight A Cassidy stat.
There was one thing that had made me feel the best I’d felt in weeks. If I was the problem, then perhaps it could be the solution. I opened my purse and fished for the small clear bag that contained another couple drops of Sunshine. Maybe if I took a half now and saved half for later that would get me back to the feeling I had the night of the party. And yesterday and—
I pinched a tablet between two fingers, positioned it between my two front teeth, and bit the pill in half. A chalky texture coated my tongue. I quickly swallowed the half-portion down, wishing I could get to a water fountain to wash the taste away.
Sealing the bag, I returned it to my purse. The reaction was slower this time. At first nothing happened. I listened to the flush of toilets and waited. Then, gradually, a warmth built underneath the beds of my fingernails. It spread to my knuckles and up to my elbows until, at last, the glow seeped into my chest and filled the cavity there with a pleasant heat, soft and wonderful, like a mug of hot cocoa on the coldest day of the year.
I slid open the lock and stepped out of the stall. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I noticed that my skin had an attractive rosy tint to it. A faint smile pulled at the corners of my lips. No one would know that I’d thrown my hair up and my outfit together in five minutes flat. No way. I looked fantastic.
A silver-haired woman trundled past me in her floppy Sunday hat and scooted her way into the stall I’d occupied. I waved as she passed.
That was it. I’d been overreacting. About all of it. It was so like me. Type A. Closet perfectionist. Every ounce of worry, which had felt so pressing only moments before, floated off to an unreachable distance.
“There you are.” Paisley strode over to the sink and washed her hands. “I thought we were going to go see a movie last night. Do you not return texts anymore?”
She wore a floral dress with a Peter Pan collar, perfectly tailored to fit her minute stature.
Movie … movie … It sounded vaguely familiar. Paisley fussed with a few stray blond strands, flattening them into her sleek shoulder-length bob.
I couldn’t recall what movie we’d wanted to see or receiving any texts from Paisley, but this time, when confronted with the gap in my memory, the panic wasn’t there. It felt almost funny, as though Paisley and I were in on a joke. “Sorry,” I said cheerily. “Must have given my secretary the night off.”