“Oh, whatever,” Harper replies, rolling her eyes and fluttering her long lashes. “You’re, like, the smartest person I’ve ever met. You get an A on every test you take yet freak out constantly that you’re going to fail. It’s annoying to us B students.”
“I got a B on that calculus test,” I say, a smile inching up my face. Harper fake strangles me from across the front seat console and the smile sticks.
“Oh my God! Let’s call TMZ! Reagan MacMillan got a B once on a test,” Harper replies and gives me a wink. “And by the way, I know for a fact … it was a B plus.”
“Truth,” I say and hop out of the car.
“Later, smarty-pants.”
I close the door and walk up the brick path that leads to my porch, turning my head toward the sky. The days are getting shorter and the sun is starting its daily dip toward the horizon. The white puffy clouds are turning a caramel cream and the blue sky is streaked with orange and gold.
Harper gives the horn a quick honk before driving out of the cul-de-sac and down my street. Fallen red leaves blow backward and dance together as she speeds away. I watch her taillights blink red at the stop sign. She turns the corner and heads to her street on the other side of the country club.
I put my hand on the doorknob, but a noisy motor stops me cold. I turn back around in time to see an unmarked gray van pulling slowly down the main street. It pauses and someone in the driver’s seat looks down our cul-de-sac. I strain my eyes to try to make out the person behind the wheel but the trees are casting shadows and I cannot see their face. I feel an uneasy knot tighten in my stomach. I step back out onto the porch and bounce down my front steps but just as I reach the sidewalk, the tires squeal and the van speeds away.
I shake out my arms, hoping to quell the nerves pulsing between my muscles. I open the heavy wooden front door and walk into the two-story foyer, immediately locking the door behind me. I lean my back up against the smooth wood, suddenly out of breath, my mind racing. Do I tell Mom and Dad about the van? Do I tell them about the janitor? What will they think? What will they say? My paranoia has been so much better. Mom and Dad are finally letting me stay at home by myself without Aunt Sam when they go on missions. They finally trust me to control myself.
When we moved from Philadelphia, every car I didn’t recognize on our street, every person who walked onto our property who I didn’t know, even someone who just looked at me too long would send my heart racing or close up my throat. I was convinced the hitman was still going to find us and that we’d never be safe. But every car, person, or look could be explained away. My brain—I couldn’t trust it. It played tricks on me. I’ve done my best to hide the paranoia and anxiety. My parents think it was just a fluke. A rough patch after the hitman. They don’t know I’m still struggling. That it’s escalated.
This spring, I noticed someone following me. Or at least, I thought he was following me. This was after two false alarms, so I kept it to myself. I put the fear and anxiety in my little box, pushing it into the numbest part of my body. But when Mom and Dad were on a mission, I was mid-makeup routine and suddenly couldn’t breathe. I started sweating and my chest was pounding so hard, I could have sworn you could see it beating through my shirt. I grabbed the cold granite countertop with my clammy hands, my arms and legs trembling. I thought I was having a heart attack or dying or something. I lowered myself down to the icy tiled floor, my back up against my wood cabinets, and sat there, begging my throat to open back up so I could suck in a full breath. Aunt Samantha found me, curled up on the ground, a few minutes later. She laid me down on the floor and put a cold washcloth on my burning forehead, asking me to describe my symptoms.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked, staring up into her warm blue eyes.
“You’re having a panic attack,” she answered very quietly. She sat on the floor next to me, stroking back my dark hair, telling me it would pass and I was going to be okay. Once my legs stopped trembling, she helped me off the floor and insisted I lie in bed.
After two hours of lying side by side, watching over-caffeinated anchors on morning talk shows, I was finally feeling better. I could breathe again.
“What was that all about?” I asked, turning my head to face Sam. She twisted her strong, lean body to face mine, settling her head back down on my extra-fluffy pillows.
“I don’t know,” Sam said, shaking her head slowly. “I’ve never had one but I know they can be really scary.”
“It was,” I replied, my voice quiet. We stared at each other for a few seconds, waiting for the other to speak.
“I know what happened in Philadelphia is weighing on you,” she said, grabbing my arm, rubbing the fabric of my blue shirt between her thumb and index finger. “But you’re safe here.”