Chapter 11
Idon’t see Hayes much over the next few days.
First, he’s out with the flu. Then he’s buried in makeup assignments and extra practices for the upcoming LHU Homecoming game. We barely exchange more than a few quick words in French class.
Without my best friend around to anchor me, my thoughts spiral, my brain switching to full doomsday mode.
I can’t stop obsessing over my mother’s delusions.
Though I should be spending my evenings prepping for my NYU transfer—polishing my music résumé, recording audition clips, tightening my portfolio—instead, I find myself diving into the internet’s darkest corners, trawling through articles and academic journals on mental illness.
Diagnoses. Case studies. Firsthand accounts.
Trying to find an answer that makes sense.
From what I can piece together, it seems like my mom may have experienced a brief psychotic episode triggered by intense stress or trauma.
A break from reality where the mind short-circuits under pressure.
It can cause hallucinations and delusions, like thinking your long-lost ex is an immortal god from Greek mythology.
If left untreated, the psychosis can progress into something more serious, like schizophrenia or other schizoaffective disorders.
Or worse.
The more I read, the more unsettled I become.
It makes sense that being abandoned with two small children and no support system would trigger a breakdown. I get that. But then other things don’t add up.
Most people with psychosis experience other symptoms too. Personality shifts. Social withdrawal. Sleep disturbances. As far as I can tell, my mother doesn’t have any of that. Sure, she’s whimsical and free-spirited—if not a little flighty—but she’s been that way forever.
And the timeline doesn’t track, either.
It’s not like there’s been a sudden behavioral shift, the way most psychotic breaks seem to happen. If my mother is to be believed, she’s been having these delusions about my father since before I was born. That’s seventeen years, at least.
Isn’t that too long?
Wouldn’t the illness have progressed by now into something more pronounced? More dangerous? Especially with zero treatment?
But if it’s not a psychotic disorder… then what is it?
Between my obsessive research and worrying—and the growing fear I might somehow be genetically wired for the same kind of psychotic break as my mother—I’m not exactly in a party mood when LHU Homecoming rolls around.
I don’t even want to get out of bed, let alone plaster on a fake smile and sit in a packed stadium for hours.
But skipping the game isn’t an option. I’ve never missed any of Hayes’s home games, and Homecoming is the biggest one of the year.
Growing up so close to LHU, I’ve watched our town turn Homecoming into a full-on production for years.
Even though it’s a small college, the hype is huge.
There’s tailgating and a live DJ blasting pop remixes in front of the stadium.
Food trucks. Parties up and down frat row.
And, of course, the parade down Main Street, complete with cheerleaders, marching bands, and the football team strutting around like gods heading off to war.
The whole day feels like one giant town-wide celebration.
A few hours before kickoff, Amber barges into my room without so much as a knock.
She plops down in front of my mirrored closet doors, a brand-new red and gold bodycon dress riding up her thighs, and unzips her makeup bag.
A glitter explosion of foundation sticks, compacts, and lip glosses spills onto the carpet.
“Seriously?” I glare from my bed. “You have your own mirror. Use it.”
“Yeah, but the lighting’s better in here. You’ve got the west-facing windows.”
She says it like it’s some kind of universal truth, but I know better. Amber couldn’t care less about natural light. She has that ridiculous three-way lighted vanity mirror Mom caved and bought her last Christmas. What Amber wants is an audience.
She props her cell phone against the wall and cues up a hair tutorial from Nia Williams—her favorite beauty blogger—and then proceeds to curl her hair while I watch on in mild horror.
The Instagram influencer is even more insufferable than my sister—a too-perfect Florida girl with bleached teeth, zero self-awareness, and an unhealthy obsession with her ever-growing follower count.
Amber, however, follows every step of the tutorial like she’s prepping for brain surgery.
Brows furrowed, lips pouting in focus. It’s honestly kind of impressive how committed she is.
As she curls and sprays, she prattles on nonstop about the latest high school gossip. Who’s hooking up with who, who got dumped, which girls are fighting over which guys. I pretend to care, inserting little head nods where appropriate, but I can’t stop thinking about Mom.
“Ally!” Amber snaps. “Are you even listening?”
I yawn, unbothered, and stretch my legs across the futon.
“Sorry, did you ask me something?”
She groans, loud and dramatic.
“I asked who Hayes is taking to the Alpha Delts party tomorrow.”
“How should I know? Ask him yourself.”
“I can’t do that.” She scowls, scandalized. “I’d look totally clingy. We’re not, like, officially back together—yet,” she says, slicking on her shiniest pink lip gloss while checking her reflection. “But if he shows up with someone else, I swear I’ll lose it.”
I narrow my eyes, watching her spritz her hair until she gleams like a pageant queen. Then she fastens an oversized gold bow to the top of her head to match her dress.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “You’re the one who dumped him. I thought being ‘free’ senior year was the whole point.”
“I blame temporary insanity.” She sighs, all tragic. “He’s Hayden Vassilios, Ally. What girl wouldn’t want him back?”
She’s not wrong.
But her on-again, off-again saga with my best friend isn’t something I’m eager to unpack.
“Can we please not talk about Hayes?”
“But now that he’s single, everyone’s circling. The cheer team. The dance girls. Practically all of sorority row. I was an idiot to let him go.” Her voice trembles, teetering toward panic. “You’d tell me, right? If Hayes was seeing someone? You’re the only one I can trust.”
She looks up, mascara wand shaking in her hand, all wide-eyed and raw.
A sudden rush of protectiveness hits me, sharp and unwanted.
Even if she’s a complete asshole most of the time, I’m still her big sister.
It’s my job to protect her… isn’t it? Especially when she’s like this. Insecure. Vulnerable. Almost… sweet.
For a moment, she reminds me of the old Amber.
When we were younger, before junior high and everything changed, my sister and I used to be close.
We’d ride our bikes down by the boardwalk, doing little jumps and wheelies.
Go kneeboarding together, catching waves in the ocean.
Dress up as matching Disney Princesses and put on talent shows for Mom in the living room.
I’d sing. Amber would dance. She even took karate with me and Hayes.
She was pretty good at it, too, but then some cute boy at competition told her girls shouldn’t fight.
She quit the very next day and signed up for cheer camp instead.
I suppose it would be nice to get along again, like we used to. If things go as planned, I’ll be in New York next year and then I’ll hardly ever see her. Maybe we shouldn’t waste whatever time we still have left together.
And I guess it’s not her fault that everyone adores her.
Even the guys like Hayes, the ones you’d think would go for someone less cookie-cutter. Someone with layers. With depth. Originality. Someone like… well… me.
“Sorry, Ambs. If I knew, I’d tell you,” I say, managing an actual smile. “But Hay and I have barely talked this week.”
She shoots me a look, all smug amusement.
“Ahhh… so that’s why you’ve been such a bitch. You and Hayes are fighting, huh?”
I sit up straighter.
“We are not fighting.”
“Uh huh. Sure.”
“You’re so annoying.” I chuck a contraband Hershey’s bar at her from the stash I keep hidden from my mom behind my bed.
She snatches it midair, completely unfazed, and sets it aside with a look of pure disgust.
“Say what you want, but you always go full emo when things are off with you two. You’ve got a seriously unhealthy attachment to a guy you swear is just a friend.
” She pauses a beat, her gaze sharpening as she studies my face, like she’s sizing me up.
“Then again, I’ve always thought you had a thing for him. ”
“Good thing no one asked you.”
I grab a hair tie and stalk toward the mirror, scowling at my reflection. I basically resemble a sleep-deprived raccoon. Smudged eyeliner, dark circles, and a tangled mess in the back of my hair that looks borderline aggressive.
“You can’t go to the game looking like that,” Amber tsks, shaking her head. “Sit—I’ll fix you.”
She goes to work, her acrylic nails sharper than they look. I wince as she tugs them through the snarls near my scalp, but the pain is brief.
When she’s done, she beams at her handiwork and tells me to close my eyes as she douses me in hairspray.
“Ta da!” she says, spinning me toward the mirror.
I blink at my reflection. The knot on the back of my head is gone, replaced by two long, elaborate fishtail braids. My hair actually looks… incredible.
“You know,” she says, her voice catching a little as she studies my reflection, “when I was little, I used to wish I looked just like you.”
“Seriously?”
She nods, her soft blue eyes crinkling as she reaches up to brush my widow’s peak with surprising gentleness. “You’re like Snow White come to life. All pale and mysterious and fairy-tale.”
For the first time in weeks, the anger I’ve been clinging to loosens its grip. Just a little. In its place, something warmer slips in before I have the chance to brace against it.