‘I’ll be right there!’ I turn my hand into a megaphone and bellow down the hall.
‘You know what I hate?’ Dr Reeves asks, glancing at her reflection in the fridge door. With her index finger she strokes the bridge of her nose, flicks the end a few times, then crinkles it up. ‘I hate my nose. It’s huge. Takes up eighty-five per cent of my face. It’s bulbous and I wish I had the guts to get it fixed.’
‘What?’ I try but fail to see the problem. Her nose is small and cute, maybe even a little bit button. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘Aha.’ She points at me; her mouth opens and a gotcha expression pulls at her features. ‘You can’t always look at yourself subjectively. You need to remember that. Trust me when I say just be yourself.’ She walks over to me, exhibits an extreme amount of caution before resting a soft hand on my shoulder. ‘And don’t forget, that number for my cell is still good, any time. Okay?’
As I nod, Luke raps on the door again. I just stand there, staring past the table, over a vase of pink peonies and down the hall, which I swear has doubled in length.
‘You might want to get that,’ Dr Reeves whispers as she leaves out the back.
Dr Reeves’s pep talk is pretty good as sustaining fuel. My bravery is showing no signs of burning out as my butt reboots and I head over to the door.
It’s different talking to the doc at home. I mean, I knew she was smart – her office walls are decorated with academic achievements and her shelves are lined with books she’s written, co-written, or consulted on. But in her office I can never be one hundred per cent there. Half of me is always too busy worrying about being out of the house to listen to her talk. Here, today, I noticed that she has the vivacity of a US president in one of those doomsday movies, talking guys into sacrificing themselves for the greater good. I bet in her spare time she gives motivational speeches at ‘Be a Better You’-type conventions.
Deep breath. The general populace is compassionate goes through my head as I unbolt the lock.
Prove it. My mind mocks me.
‘I’m trying. If you’d just let me figure it out,’ I snap.
‘Norah?’
Crap. I resist the urge to face-plant into the door and promise myself to never again let passion increase the volume of what are supposed to be whispered words.
‘One more second.’
Shoulder roll. Yesterday’s deodorant is forced into action when sweat starts pooling in my armpits.
It’s just one root.
One tiny root that I have to draw. And with that, I open the door.
He’s remembered the DVDs. They’re tucked under his arm.
‘Hi.’ He grins, and I fall down dead.
He looks like the next big thing in boy bands. Planet-size green eyes sparkling beneath thick black lashes. He glances at me, and his smile is full of flirt. Whether that’s intentional, I’m not sure.
He’s wearing product in his hair, the kind that makes his curls look wet. A single unruly ringlet has broken free from the pack and dangles down the middle of his forehead. It would be completely inappropriate to grab hold of the end, pull on it, and let it bounce back like a spring. Right? Of course it would. I twist my hands together so they’re not tempted to stray anyway.
He’s wearing a white tee that clings to his torso like a second skin and an unbuttoned, baggy green shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. And just to add serious insult to injury, he smells like a mouthwatering mix of winter and sweet spices.
Garbage. That’s what I look like in comparison. Ten-day-old garbage that’s been left to fester under a blistering summer sun. I didn’t brush my hair. Didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth, and now I’m piling an unforgivable amount of pressure on a twenty-four-hour-old squirt of rose-scented Stay Dry.
Just smile through it. No. Don’t smile through it.
I lift my hand to my mouth, use it as a shield. What am I thinking? I can’t smile when my teeth aren’t clean. And I drank orange juice, the one liquid besides coffee you can still taste on your breath hours after your first sip.
‘Is this a bad time?’ Luke asks.
I shake my head, try to run the fingers of my free hand through my hair, but they get caught up in knots. What is supposed to be a stealth manoeuvre turns into a brief tug of war that ends with a stinging scalp and a handful of loose hairs. I fight back a wince and scream Ouch internally.
‘Should I come back later?’
‘No!’ I yell.
Waiting for him to show up has already liquefied most of me. If I have to wait for a second showing I might just dissolve entirely. There’s no way my body can survive another wave of anxiety so soon. I’ll just have to fix it. ‘Can you give me another minute? Last one, I swear.’ He doesn’t have a chance to answer before I slam the door in his face.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I realize how rude that must have seemed. He’s been here ten seconds and I’m failing miserably at being normal.