Oh, god.
He mutters something to Dewey and then he’s coming down the bleachers, and I’m all frowny and awkward trying to figure out what to say to him. What? Yes, I know that Micah is in love with me. Of course I know. I will be in love with him someday too. That’s obvious. We’re predestined. But can’t that wait? Can’t I just kiss my sweaty scary angel boy in the meantime?
Oh. He wasn’t even coming for me. He’s leaving the gym.
I look around to make sure no one’s watching, and then I follow. “Micah,” I call, and I finally catch him a few hallways down, grabbing on to his shirttail and pulling him to a stop. He doesn’t turn around.
“I can’t believe you actually came,” I say to his back.
He shrugs. “Dewey wanted to. Same reason you did, probably. Find some stupid wrestler to hook up with.”
I swell. “I’m not hooking up with Ander. I have a plan! We’re perfect.”
He laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. “Not the word I’d use.”
“Yeah? What word would you use? Awkward? Oh, wait. That’s you.”
Too far? Too far.
“Oh, I don’t know.” He totally does. “How about shitty, like everyone you’ve ever gone out with? Conceited? Shallow?”
My mouth falls open. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you really going to pull that shit? You want to talk about shallow, Micah? Why are you here with Dewey? It’s not like you actually like him. It’s not like you two are even decent people to each other most of the time. You came with Dewey because you know he’s in love with you, and you need that, don’t you? You’re so desperate to feel wanted that—”
My throat closes. I blink, rapidly, but what’s the point? Micah probably felt my tears before I did.
He walks away, and I let him go.
after
DECEMBER 2
It was Dewey that found me. He came over to use my Xbox and I wasn’t there. I guess he took me to the hospital, where they said things like nervous breakdown on top of selective retrograde amnesia. They ask me over and over again what I was doing, and I don’t know. I don’t, I don’t know.
Dad took me out of school and put me in therapy. I was supposed to go to therapy anyway, but I told him I could manage. I didn’t need to. We couldn’t afford it. We still can’t, really, but Dad is insistent, which he rarely is.
I don’t know how many times I tell him that I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I don’t know what I was doing. It doesn’t matter. I went to piss yesterday and caught my dad counting my pills.
I don’t get it. Why me?
Why the fuck is this happening to me?
It’s Tuesday, so we’re going to therapy again. Whatever is playing on the radio is shit, but I don’t change it. My dad drives with his shoulders up to his ears, but he doesn’t change it either. I guess it’s better than driving in silence. We don’t really remember how to talk to each other.
“How’s the online school going?” he tries at one point.
“Shitty,” I say. “Not that that’s any different than ever.”
On the first day, Dewey skipped school with me. We ordered pizza and played Metatron for fifteen hours straight. I woke up with a piece of pizza on my chest and a penis drawn on my upper lip. I picked up my controller again and died another sixty-seven times. I started jumping off bridges around level seventeen. There were too many bridges.
Dad gives a strained laugh. “That bad, huh?”
I shrug, and count the trees as they go by.
I get to ten, but that can’t be right.
“You started over a few times,” my dad says.
I guess I must have.
Dad walks me into the building and past the receptionist and hands me over to Dr. Taser, whose name is actually Taaser and pronounced something like “tosser.” I pretend not to remember when she tries to remind me.
“Micah!” she says as I walk in. She looks like antiseptic and smells like too much perfume. My dad stands in the doorway and they talk in low voices about me, and I sit on the couch.
“He’s struggling today,” I hear my dad say. “It’s been a hard week.”
They notice me watching. My dad leaves, and Dr. Taser closes the door.
“Do you need anything, Micah?” she asks. Her teeth are too white. “Water? Coffee?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“All right, then,” she says. She’s still smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a smile. “So tell me about—”
“My week was fine,” I say. I count the ceiling tiles while I talk. Twenty down, thirteen across. I think. “I like my new online classes. Yes, I think it helps me relax to not be in public education eight hours a day. Yes, I know that my dad wants to be there for me more but can’t. Yes, I know you think Dewey is a great friend. Yes, I know where I am. Yes, I know I will be okay.”
She flounders. That was supposed to take the entire hour. This is my third session, but she’s predictable as hell. How do you feel today? How do you feel right now? How do you fucking feel?