Chapter 9 #2
After about ten minutes of waiting, the library door opens and Ryder walks in. He doesn’t say anything. Just throws himself into the chair across from me, slaps his notebook onto the table, and pulls out his phone.
We sit in silence for a full minute. Two minutes. Three.
“So,” I finally say. “Should we start?”
“With what?” He doesn’t look up from his phone.
“The essay for Ms. Patterson’s class.”
“Right. The essay.” He sets his phone down but doesn’t reach for any of the materials. “What do you want me to do?”
The question reminds me of the last time we were in this room. When he sat at this table, arms crossed, making it clear he wouldn't lift a finger.
“You need to analyze Sophia’s choice,” I say, pressing my fingers to my temple where the pain is worst. “Whether saving the church represents growth or just giving in to obligation.”
“Okay.”
“So... have you thought about it? About what side you want to argue?”
“Not really.”
“Did you read any of the book?”
“Some of it.”
“Which parts?”
“The parts I needed to.”
We’re going in circles. Circles that tell me he doesn’t want to do the work. And I’m so tired, and my head hurts so much, and I just can’t do this anymore.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Just... give me your thesis. What do you think the answer is? Growth or obligation?”
“Obligation,” he mutters.
“Why?”
“Because she’s only doing it for her grandfather.”
“Okay.” I pull his notebook toward me, opening to a blank page. “And what’s your evidence?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who read the book.”
The casual words are so dismissive. Like my time means nothing to him.
“Fine,” I whisper, picking up the pen.
“Fine, what?”
“I’ll just... I’ll write it for you.”
Ryder leans back in his chair. “Seriously?”
“You don’t want to do the work, but clearly this matters to my aunt. So I’ll just write the essay, you can turn it in, and we can both stop wasting each other’s time.”
I start writing, my hand moving across the page even though my vision is blurring from the headache.
Thesis statement.
Supporting evidence.
Analysis of the text.
It feels wrong.
Dishonest.
Exactly the kind of thing my parents would have been disappointed in me for doing.
But my parents are dead.
And I’m here.
And I just want this to be over.
“Paragraph one,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “Sophia’s relationship with her grandfather establishes the foundation of inherited obligation...”
I’m maybe three sentences in when I hear it.
Thunder.
Distant, but unmistakable.
My hand freezes mid-word.
“Keep going,” Ryder says, watching me. “That paragraph actually sounds like something I would write.”
But I can’t keep going.
Another rumble.
Closer this time.
“Alice?”
I look up at the windows. Dark clouds are gathering, thick and heavy.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
“What’s wrong?”
Lightning flickers behind the clouds. Thunder follows immediately after, loud enough to rattle the windows.
The pen falls from my hand. The notebook blurs in front of me. Everything blurs.
A suffocated squeak yelps out of me.
“Alice?” Ryder’s voice seems to come from very far away.
There’s a flash of lightning, and it’s immediately followed by thunder that’s close enough to rattle the windows.
Can’t breathe.
The library spins around me.
I can’t breathe.
I grip the edge of the mahogany table to keep from falling out of my chair. But it doesn’t help because suddenly I’m not in Miranda’s library anymore. Can’t breathe. I’m in the passenger seat of my parents’ catering van, watching storm clouds gather ahead of us on the mountain road.
“I should have gone with them,” I whisper to the storm outside.
Ryder puts his phone down, lowering himself to view me. “Gone with who?”
Oh, lord, I can’t breathe.
“Alice, are you okay?”
“My parents.” The words come out in a rush, like confessing to a crime. “I was supposed to be in the car with them that night. I always helped with catering events, but I stayed home sick. I faked being sick because I didn’t want to go.”
Thunder crashes overhead, and I double over in my chair, pressing my hands to my chest where it feels like my ribs are splintering.
“If I hadn’t put on a show to get out of it, they would’ve left earlier. Dad would have taken the main highway instead of the mountain shortcut. If I was there, maybe I could have done something.”
“Alice.” Ryder’s voice is different now, gentler somehow. “Look at me.”
I try to lift my head, but the movement makes the room spin worse. Every sound distorts like I’m underwater. Air can’t get into my lungs.
“I was supposed to be there,” I gasp. “I was supposed to die with them.”
“You were not.” His words are firm and definitive. “Don’t you ever say you were supposed to die.”
I gasp for another breath, but it doesn’t do any good. My chest constricts. There’s a blockage I can’t break through.
“Alice?”
“Don’t,” I choke. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I deserve.”
“Alice, stop.”
“You stop! You hate me.”
“I don’t…” Ryder stops himself, like he was about to say something he didn’t mean. “Are you… Are you having a panic attack?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Okay. Okay, um...” His voice is unsettled. “Has this happened before?”
I swear there’s something coiled around my neck. “Mm-hmm.”
“My mom taught me something about steadying your breath. It’s four counts, right? Four counts in—hold for four—four counts out?”
Another rumble of thunder makes me flinch, and my breathing is about sixteen in, and one out.
“Geez, Alice. You’re afraid of thunder?”
My fingernails dig into my palm, biting harder than the crystal vase ever did.
How dare he! How dare he make fun of me! I’m the one who lost her parents. I’m the one forced to talk about literature with a stupid boy who couldn’t give a damn about it.
Ugh. I hate him. I hate him. I hate—
“You know what’s really weird about recording studios?”
What?
“The acoustics are completely different from live performances,” Ryder continues, leaning forward in his chair. “Like, in a studio, the microphone picks up everything. Every breath. Every tiny sound your fingers make on the guitar strings.”
What is he talking about? Why is he talking?
“I sneezed once during a take, and the producer made us start over. He was like, ‘That’ll be audible on the final track.’ Like, apparently the label wouldn’t find my allergies professional.”
Why is he rambling?
My chest rises and falls.
I’m breathing.
Four counts in.
Holy crap. I’m breathing. His stupid rambling is helping.
“And the food in studios is always terrible,” Ryder continues. “Like, you’d think with all the money they spend on equipment, they could afford something better than stale donuts and coffee that tastes like…”
Food. Studios. Catering.
Mom and Dad’s catered events. The wedding cake in the back of the van, smeared across the twisted metal. The Henderson wedding that never got their food because my parents died delivering it.
My breathing grows shallow as the panic claws its way back up my throat.
“But anyway, the weirdest part is the cables,” he says, quickly pivoting. “There are so many cables in a recording studio that there’s actually a guy whose only job is cable management.”
Cables?
“Like, that’s his entire career; making sure the right cables go to the right equipment.”
Seriously? Is he talking about cables right now?
“I unplugged a few things, my first time in the studio, and the engineer looked at me like I’d just burned down his house.”
Breathe. Just breathe.
“And don’t get me started on the mixing boards,” Ryder continues. “Some producers guard them like nuclear codes.”
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
“There’s this one guy who literally puts tape around his workstation with ‘do not touch’ written on it. Like, dude, just because we’re in high school doesn’t mean we’re not professionals.”
My breathing slows down. The ridiculous story cuts through my panic.
Ryder tilts his head. “You normal again?”
My breath hitches. Normal? Why would he say that to me? Why is he always such a nasty piece of—
“I had a two-hour meeting about my social media presence,” Ryder blurts. “They want authentic posts, but every post needs pre-approval from three different people. I don’t even want to post at all, so tell me how I’m supposed to be authentic?”
I blow out a breath and watch the tremors in my hands subside.
“They even have opinions about my hair and how I dress.” He blows out a breath. “Like if I change my style, whatever fans we have might revolt.”
I realize I’m actually listening. “Because of your hairstyle? Even if your music doesn’t change?”
Ryder smirks. “Ridiculous, ain’t it?”
Four counts in. Hold for four. Focus on how ridiculous this sounds. Four counts out.
“Anyway, it’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back.”
A soft laugh pours out of me, and somehow I'm smiling.
Wow, it’s gone.
The panic is gone.
With one long breath out, I notice the storm outside has moved past us. The thunder is a distant rumble, lacking the flinch-inducing roars.
I slouch in my chair, relieved the knots in my chest are untying. “Thank you.”
Ryder shifts in his seat. “Who? Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“For what?”
“For talking. For distracting me.”
Ryder frowns, straightening his collar, clearly uncomfortable with my gratitude. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, it made me feel less crazy. I can actually breathe now.”
“Panic attacks suck. I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.”
“Even someone who destroyed your equipment?”
He’s quiet, studying my face like he’s figuring something out. “Even then,” he says finally. “But this doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything.”
I swallow hard, shifting back in my chair. “I didn’t think it did.”
“Good. Just making sure we’re clear.” Ryder gestures at his notebook in front of me. “Do you think you can keep it together to keep going with that?”
“Oh.” I look down at my handwriting on his page and pick up the pen. “Right.”
He snaps his fingers at me. “On second thought, gimme that pen.”
“Huh?”