Monday morning my run is rough. My head’s not in it and my body can’t seem to find its rhythm. I aim for the rush, but it never comes. I had a lousy night’s sleep, and it doesn’t help that the last time I ran, it was with Jackson. As my feet hit the pavement, chasing the dawn, a million thoughts buzz around in my brain like wasps: Jackson’s eyes; the shells who looked like him; the people in the other lobbies that only he and I can see. The fact that he’s a telepath who spoke to me inside my head and, according to Luka, so are the Drau.
Lots of questions, no answers.
The day doesn’t get better from there. In English, Carly doesn’t speak to me, but sends me the most heartfelt accusatory looks. It’s the first time that I’m actually glad we only have one class together because her you-have-mortally-injured-me glances are more than I could bear for an entire day. I didn’t do anything wrong. So why do I feel like I did?
All my other friends shoot furtive looks my way, trying not to take sides and blatantly dying to ask what’s going on.
“See you at lunch, Miki,” Kelley says after the bell goes. Her expression is both hopeful and wary, like she thinks lunch in the caf will either cause a massive implosion or fix the mess.
I shake my head. “I promised Maylene that I’d tutor her at lunch for the Spanish quiz. I’m meeting her in the library.”
“Oh, okay. See you later, then.” I think she sounds relieved. Maybe she figured the implosion was the more likely of the two options.
Dee offers a wave, and Carly leaves with a last soulful glance.
After school, I wait at Luka’s locker. He never shows, but it isn’t until I’ve wasted almost half an hour that I remember he has track. I head for our spot under the giant oak, thinking maybe I’ll corner Carly and just try to talk to her, but no one’s there. I’m batting a big, fat zero.
Then I head to the bookstore. Usually Carly and I go together so I can pick up the latest manga and she can grab a few fashion and scrapbooking magazines. We used to scrapbook together, but ever since Mom died, I can’t bear to put those memories on pages with pretty decorations. I walk in feeling melancholy. It’s not like I’ve never been to a bookstore alone, but with the huge wall between Carly and me right now, I feel like I’m missing a piece of myself as I walk through the front door. Disappointment surges when I check the shelf and find only older editions of my favorite manga.
“Excuse me,” I say to the girl at the counter. “Do you have the latest edition of Bleach?”
“Sold out,” she says after she checks the computer. “I can order it for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, disappointment tugging at me. I was hoping the new book would be the highlight of my not-so-great day.
I get home to realize it was garbage day, my week to carry out the bag, and I forgot. Dad will not be pleased. I’m not pleased. I never forget things, and the fact that I did leaves me feeling morose and edgy. I try to tell myself it’s only garbage, that it isn’t the end of the world, that I didn’t fail at something monumental.
I freeze, thinking about the way I feel at the moment. It’s like the gray fog is hanging on my limbs, dragging them down, and at the edge of my thoughts is the worry that I’m failing, that I’m not good enough, that I’m not in control. This is the worst it’s been in a long time, bad enough that I revert to some positive self-talk, a staple in the arsenal Dr. Andrews helped me build. This day just keeps getting better.
With a sigh, I trudge up the driveway. Mrs. Gertner steps out of the house next door. “Miki,” she says, beaming at me.
“Hi, Mrs. Gertner. How are you?” Mistake. Big mistake. I know it the second the open-ended question leaves my mouth. But it’s too late. It’s out there now.
“Not so good,” she says. “I haven’t been able to sit properly for a week. That doctor said I’d be fine right away. But he’s wrong. I did everything he said. I sat in an Epsom salts bath and I put my medicine on like he told me. But it’s terrible. Just terrible.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but I know I don’t want to ask. Then my attention falters. There it is, that weird prickling sensation that tells me I’m being watched. I try to look sympathetic as I nod at Mrs. Gertner while surreptitiously scanning the street.
Mrs. Gertner asks me a question, but I don’t hear the words. I just nod at her and make an agreeable noise and she’s off and running again.
I’m dying to turn and check behind me, almost certain he’s standing there watching me. But Mrs. Gertner just keeps on going. For the next half an hour, she gives me minute details of her hemorrhoid surgery, putting the rotting cherry on top of my rancid ice-cream sundae of a day.
I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. But I still remember when I was little and Mrs. Gertner used to come out with cookies for Carly and me when we were playing out front. Every time I lost a tooth, she gave me a dollar. Every birthday until I was twelve, she gave me a little present wrapped in pretty paper with a big bow. So I don’t have the heart to make some excuse and duck away. Instead, I listen to every gory detail. The only thing that saves me is when her watch beeps, telling her it’s time for her medication.
Grabbing my one shining chance, I mumble, “Hope you feel better soon,” and bolt. On my front porch, I pull back in the shadows and take my time looking up and down the street. The certainty that I’m being watched sinks its tiny hooks into me, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t see who’s doing the watching.
Lots of questions, no answers.
The day doesn’t get better from there. In English, Carly doesn’t speak to me, but sends me the most heartfelt accusatory looks. It’s the first time that I’m actually glad we only have one class together because her you-have-mortally-injured-me glances are more than I could bear for an entire day. I didn’t do anything wrong. So why do I feel like I did?
All my other friends shoot furtive looks my way, trying not to take sides and blatantly dying to ask what’s going on.
“See you at lunch, Miki,” Kelley says after the bell goes. Her expression is both hopeful and wary, like she thinks lunch in the caf will either cause a massive implosion or fix the mess.
I shake my head. “I promised Maylene that I’d tutor her at lunch for the Spanish quiz. I’m meeting her in the library.”
“Oh, okay. See you later, then.” I think she sounds relieved. Maybe she figured the implosion was the more likely of the two options.
Dee offers a wave, and Carly leaves with a last soulful glance.
After school, I wait at Luka’s locker. He never shows, but it isn’t until I’ve wasted almost half an hour that I remember he has track. I head for our spot under the giant oak, thinking maybe I’ll corner Carly and just try to talk to her, but no one’s there. I’m batting a big, fat zero.
Then I head to the bookstore. Usually Carly and I go together so I can pick up the latest manga and she can grab a few fashion and scrapbooking magazines. We used to scrapbook together, but ever since Mom died, I can’t bear to put those memories on pages with pretty decorations. I walk in feeling melancholy. It’s not like I’ve never been to a bookstore alone, but with the huge wall between Carly and me right now, I feel like I’m missing a piece of myself as I walk through the front door. Disappointment surges when I check the shelf and find only older editions of my favorite manga.
“Excuse me,” I say to the girl at the counter. “Do you have the latest edition of Bleach?”
“Sold out,” she says after she checks the computer. “I can order it for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, disappointment tugging at me. I was hoping the new book would be the highlight of my not-so-great day.
I get home to realize it was garbage day, my week to carry out the bag, and I forgot. Dad will not be pleased. I’m not pleased. I never forget things, and the fact that I did leaves me feeling morose and edgy. I try to tell myself it’s only garbage, that it isn’t the end of the world, that I didn’t fail at something monumental.
I freeze, thinking about the way I feel at the moment. It’s like the gray fog is hanging on my limbs, dragging them down, and at the edge of my thoughts is the worry that I’m failing, that I’m not good enough, that I’m not in control. This is the worst it’s been in a long time, bad enough that I revert to some positive self-talk, a staple in the arsenal Dr. Andrews helped me build. This day just keeps getting better.
With a sigh, I trudge up the driveway. Mrs. Gertner steps out of the house next door. “Miki,” she says, beaming at me.
“Hi, Mrs. Gertner. How are you?” Mistake. Big mistake. I know it the second the open-ended question leaves my mouth. But it’s too late. It’s out there now.
“Not so good,” she says. “I haven’t been able to sit properly for a week. That doctor said I’d be fine right away. But he’s wrong. I did everything he said. I sat in an Epsom salts bath and I put my medicine on like he told me. But it’s terrible. Just terrible.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but I know I don’t want to ask. Then my attention falters. There it is, that weird prickling sensation that tells me I’m being watched. I try to look sympathetic as I nod at Mrs. Gertner while surreptitiously scanning the street.
Mrs. Gertner asks me a question, but I don’t hear the words. I just nod at her and make an agreeable noise and she’s off and running again.
I’m dying to turn and check behind me, almost certain he’s standing there watching me. But Mrs. Gertner just keeps on going. For the next half an hour, she gives me minute details of her hemorrhoid surgery, putting the rotting cherry on top of my rancid ice-cream sundae of a day.
I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. But I still remember when I was little and Mrs. Gertner used to come out with cookies for Carly and me when we were playing out front. Every time I lost a tooth, she gave me a dollar. Every birthday until I was twelve, she gave me a little present wrapped in pretty paper with a big bow. So I don’t have the heart to make some excuse and duck away. Instead, I listen to every gory detail. The only thing that saves me is when her watch beeps, telling her it’s time for her medication.
Grabbing my one shining chance, I mumble, “Hope you feel better soon,” and bolt. On my front porch, I pull back in the shadows and take my time looking up and down the street. The certainty that I’m being watched sinks its tiny hooks into me, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t see who’s doing the watching.
