Chapter 13
At Makayla and Jayden’s that weekend, their parents are having friends over to watch a football game, so Makayla and I hole up in her room instead.
I lie on the floor, working on my rough draft of the long essay for English, and Makayla sits on the bed, working on hers.
I can hear Jayden dimly every so often through the wall, cursing and whooping in turn at his video game.
When he whoops at the same time as a loud cheer from the living room, we both flinch.
“Love a nice screech with my studying playlist,” Makayla says dryly.
“Really elevates the production.” I roll over onto my back, away from the laptop, and stare at the ceiling.
“I’m so glad no one in my family watches football.
” Which is technically true; none of the family members I live with watch it.
Now that I think about it, though, I don’t know if my dad watches football.
He did a few times, when I was younger, but after the divorce, I didn’t see him often enough to know.
I guess I can ask him when I see him next.
What if he’s dead right now? a voice whispers out of nowhere. He got in a car accident and I just don’t know it. I squeeze my eyes shut. Why is my brain like this?
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
I grab my phone. I don’t have to wait until I see Dad; now that we’re talking again, I can just text him and ask. And when he answers, I’ll know he’s OK, and not dead. It’s like a special two for one deal, sponsored by anxiety.
Do you like football? I ask him. A minute goes by, and then he texts back.
I don’t follow it closely, but I watch a game here and there when I’m bored. Why? You getting into it?
God no, I text back, and he laugh reacts. I smile. What are you doing right now?
I’m about to meet up with my AA sponsor, he says. What about you kiddo?
Studying. We have this huge assignment for English class and I’m trying to keep on top of it.
Good, good. Let me know if you need a proofreader.
I heart react to the message. This might be the most normal text interaction we’ve ever had: no snarky comments about Mom, no drunken ranting, no nostalgic reminiscing about my childhood.
It’s the kind of conversation I imagine my friends get to have with their dads all the time.
If he’s willingly seeing his sponsor today, then he really must be taking this sobriety thing seriously.
“Hey, so . . .” Makayla says. She waits, like she wants me to fill in the blank.
I turn away from my phone. “What’s up?”
“I was thinking . . .” She doodles something on the corner of her notebook page. “I might want to start using they/them pronouns. And still use she/her.”
“Makayla!” I sit up. “I love this for you. She/theys are so cool.”
She blushes. “Thanks.”
“How long have you been thinking about this? I know we talked about it a while ago, but . . .” I haven’t thought about our conversation since it happened, but now it comes flooding back.
I should have remembered and checked in with her.
Or maybe not. Maybe that would have made her feel self-conscious.
“I don’t know, since the end of summer? Just watching Jayden’s transition, and knowing you and Anna .
. . it got me thinking.” She twirls one dark curl around her—their finger.
“I feel like a girl some days, and some days I just feel like . . . something else. Undefined. My own thing. I don’t have words for it yet. ”
“That’s totally chill. You don’t have to have words.” I get to my feet and sit on the end of the bed, facing them. “Do you want to change anything else, like try out a different name?”
She shakes her head. “No, I like my name.”
“Oh my god.” I smack my forehead. “You were never our token cis person.”
They half laugh. “Yeah, that was part of it. I knew y’all were joking when you said stuff like that, but after a while it didn’t feel right. But I didn’t know how to correct you because I wasn’t sure why it didn’t feel right. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to be . . .” She trails off and shrugs.
“Oh.” I clasp my hands together in my lap. “Makayla. I’m so sorry.”
She nods, looking down at the page in her lap. “Thanks.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, my thoughts swirling over the muted beat of the music in the background.
It’s like my brain is a canvas and there’s a monkey hurling paint at it.
Or maybe my brain is the monkey hurling paint at me.
Either way, the words are coming fast, one over another like a cacophony: You’re a bad friend you don’t deserve Makayla they don’t want to be friends with you anymore they’re going to ditch you they hate you—
“Have you told anyone else yet?” I ask. The words from my mouth sound far away, the ones in my head clamoring above them, images joining them now in flashes: Makayla’s face angry, Makayla turning away, I’m in the hallway at school screaming after her and everyone’s watching her leave me because I’m selfish and I never noticed—
“Yeah, I told Jayden a few days ago, and I’m gonna Face-Time Anna later,” they say. “I’ll tell my parents at some point. I don’t think I’m going to do a big coming out. The people who get it get it, you know?”
“Totally.” I nod vigorously. “Hey, I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
She gives me a thumbs-up and I exit the room, forcing myself to walk at a normal pace down the hall, past Jayden’s closed door, and into their bathroom.
I close the door and sit on the white tile floor, pulling my legs up and resting my forehead on my knees, staring into the space between my thighs and my chest. All your friends are going to leave you they hate you you’re a bad friend that’s not REAL! IT’S NOT HAPPENING.
THAT’S NOT REAL. IT’S NOT HAPPENING.
THAT’S NOT REAL. IT’S NOT HAPPENING.
How can I even think this way when Makayla just fucking came out to me? They came out to me and all I can think about is my own reaction, my own fear.
I’m so fucking selfish.
I’m relieved when our study session ends and Shar picks me up.
The longer I was with Makayla, the harder it was to act like I was fine.
When I came back from the bathroom, they didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong, but my thoughts didn’t stop.
I’d stare at my laptop, and a thought would pop up, and I’d whack it down, and another would take its place.
I closed my laptop with exactly two more sentences written, bringing my draft total to one of the six pages I need.
But as we drive away, the anxiety stays with me.
I rest my head against the car seat, closing my eyes.
I’m exhausted, but the voices are a dull roar, a buzzing itch in my skull, in my whole body.
I need to ask Makayla if everything’s OK, I need to, before this feeling spins out of control, but I don’t want to make their coming out about me.
In my pocket, I grip my phone, fighting the urge.
Shar pulls up outside the house twenty minutes later and I follow her up the walk without a word, heading for my bedroom. I close the door behind me and lean against it, sliding all the way down to the floor.
My phone is in my hand and I’m typing. I have to stop, I can’t send this text, but I’m still typing and then my thumb is over the button and I send it, I sent it, it’s there on the screen, Makayla’s profile picture smiling at me and the three dots appear, she’s responding, she saw what I wrote and it’s over, it’s all over, all my friends will know what a pathetic, needy freak I am, and—
Yeah of course we’re OK! she says.
I clutch the phone to my chest and sob silently into my knees. She doesn’t hate me. She doesn’t hate me. She doesn’t hate me.
Or is she just saying that?
Stop. I tell myself.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I repeat the mantra for what feels like forever, until my brain finally goes quiet.
I wake up in the morning feeling drained.
Thoughts pulse in my mind, nothing clear, just shapes circling below the surface, waiting to strike.
My group turns in our history project, but I just watch them as they high-five.
At lunch, I eat my food quietly, listening to my friends talk, and when I come home, I sit at the table and stare at my homework like it’s written in another language.
I copy the answers out of the back of the book for math, not bothering to even try to show my work.
My rough draft for English sits untouched on my laptop.
I’m afraid. Afraid to move too fast, afraid to try too hard, afraid whatever I do will wake the thoughts up again and this time I won’t be able to stop them.
Dad texts me that night. How’s it going?
OK, I say.
Just OK?
I’m just feeling kind of anxious, I type, then stare at the words for a second. Confiding my feelings in Dad is not something I’ve ever done, but I did talk to him about Forrest on our hike, and that turned out all right. Helpful, even. I send the message, and wait for his response.
About anything in particular? he asks.
I don’t even know where to start with an answer to that one, or if there is an answer at all, one that would make sense to my dad, anyway. It’s more of a general feeling, I say.
That’s a tough one, he says.
Yeah, I say, and all of a sudden I wish he was here, hugging me. Do you want to go hiking again soon?
I sure do! he says. I know we talked about doing Olympic National Park next. How about Sunday?
I say yes without a second thought. Being surrounded by trees, as far away from my life and my thoughts as possible, sounds like exactly what I need this weekend.