I grab my duvet, trip downstairs in the same drunken way a Slinky does when it picks up speed, take the last step twice, and crash on to the couch.
I’m not awake, not quite asleep, when there’s a swift, sharp knock at the door and I almost fly through the ceiling. But instead of the usual Who could that be?, my head goes straight to How do I look?
That’s new.
And a little unnerving.
I don’t need a mirror to know I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. To know my blue eyes have turned bloodshot and are undoubtedly framed by big, black bags. I feel like I’m wearing a hat, which usually means my hair is so piled up on top of my head, it’s possible a couple of crows are already nesting in it.
My body weighs a ton. Moving is like hurling a lorry across the carpet. I’m sluggish, shoulders hunched, heading towards the window at the sort of pace you might expect from an overweight snail and scoring friction burns on the soles of my feet. I wonder if Luke is persistent. If I don’t answer today, will he come back tomorrow? Will he keep sending notes? What if he starts asking around school about me? What if he thinks I’m horrible, just being rude, ignoring his knock for no good reason? I shudder. This is the least welcome worry, but it’s the biggest and loudest, trickling into my brain and seeking out space like water. I’m not horrible or rude. It’s just complicated.
I tiptoe to the window, take a peek from behind the curtain. I’m hoping I can manipulate my neck to an angle where I can see the porch without putting my face through the glass. Turns out, I don’t need to. There’s a car parked out front. A sleek, silver sports car with a red soft-top roof.
Thank God. It’s not Luke knocking; it’s Dr Reeves.
Wait.
What? I do a double take of the car. I completely forgot she was coming today.
I never forget about therapy.
Never.
This is brand-new too.
And even more unnerving.
The doc knocks again, and I’m forced to abandon reflection. I make a dash for the hall.
‘Norah.’ Dr Reeves startles when I whip open the door. The gust it creates sends her hair into a brown-fire frenzy. I snatch her wrist, pull her inside before any Lukes can jump out to say hi.
‘Morning,’ I say, out of breath and straightening my shirt. The doc’s eyes narrow and her head tilts a little to the left.
‘Everything okay?’ she asks. My eyes home in on her mouth. Or, more specifically, on the clump of hair clinging to her lip gloss.
‘Everything is fine.’ I nod until my neck feels like it might snap. Her lips are a burnt-orange colour. She doesn’t wear this shade at the office. My fingers curl into fists and I pop a knuckle. I really need her to brush that hair away before it finds its way into her mouth.
‘Norah, where’s your head at?’
‘Huh?’ My eyes stay focused on her rogue tresses. Would it be rude to mention it? It probably would be, so I won’t. But there is so much gross stuff lurking in hair, on hair. She might want to know. She must be able to feel it.
‘Norah.’ The doctor snaps her fingers a bunch of times, and I adjust my eyeline to meet her concerned gaze. ‘Where’s your head?’
‘Nowhere.’ My knees turn in, touch, and I feel like I just got busted doing something I shouldn’t. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth but doesn’t say a word.
Unfortunately for me, Dr Reeves didn’t turn stupid in her sleep. She allows the silence to stretch, questions me with her stare instead.
‘Everywhere,’ I admit. ‘I can’t focus.’ My eye starts to twitch. It tickles until I give it a scratch. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what a breakdown feels like. ‘And you have some hair stuck to your lip.’
‘Better?’ she asks, swiping it away.
I nod, feeling way more awkward than she ever has, ever will.
‘I’m trying this new stuff,’ she tells me, pressing her lips together and making a schmack sound with her mouth. ‘The colour is Autumn Mist. The consistency is glue. I think the best place for it is in the trash. Anyway . . .’ She smiles softly. ‘I know there is more on your mind than a slight make-up mishap. Spill.’
We make our way into the kitchen, her heels clip-clop-ping across the floor.
She makes a cup of coffee, the instant kind that sits in an unopened jar in the condiment cabinet. Then we both take a seat at the breakfast bar.
It all feels a bit tense, me on one side of the counter, her on the other. The space around us has somehow morphed into the shady interior of a police interrogation room.
‘Talk to me. Talk to me as a friend,’ she urges.
‘There’s this boy,’ I say, voice shaking, words so dense they struggle to slide beyond my lips. The doc raises her eyebrows. Shock. That’s fair. Nobody is more shocked by this development than me.
‘He lives next door. I resolved to avoid him, but our paths kept crossing, and now I’m not so sure I want to . . . avoid him.’