30. Maisy
30
MAISY
Maisy, 13; Jensen, 16⒈／⒉
Bored out of my mind, I sway back and forth on the tree swing, ankles loose with the toes of my shoes in the dirt. There used to be grass under the swing, but now there’s a bald spot where my feet drag on the ground.
Jensen pulls up in his mom’s old sedan, which he’s been driving since he got his license in the spring. When he sets foot on the cracked pavement of my driveway, I know something’s wrong and instinctively move toward him.
“Where’s Logan?” he asks, his voice tight. Frantic eyes sweep the surrounding area as he shifts nervously, unable to stand still.
“He’s gone with Vera.”
Logan had a football thing to register for in Austin, so he and Vera will be gone until later this evening. As usual, I’m alone.
Jensen grimaces and yanks his hair. “Fuck.”
The metallic grating of a mailbox being closed captures our attention, and we glance at the neighbor who’s looking our way.
“Come inside,” I tell Jensen.
It’s clear he doesn’t want to be seen in his current state, and he doesn’t argue, following me into the house. The second the door closes, he launches into a self-deprecating tirade.
“I fucked up, Maisy. I failed my English paper. I was already doing bad in that class, and we’re at the end of the grading period. I suck at using words. I can read and shit just fine, but I’m no good at putting my thoughts out there, you know? I’m so fucking stupid. And if I fail, I’ll get benched, and the whole team will hate me because I’m letting them down. And my parents. Oh god!” He retches, and I’ve never seen anyone in such distress. “This is so bad, birdie. Everyone will be mad at me. The coaches. Logan. My family. Fuck! I’m such a fucking loser!”
He’s pacing around and talking so fast. And his poor hair; he keeps yanking it. I do the first thing that comes to mind and slam myself against him, wrapping my arms around his waist. The fierce hug takes him by surprise, and he stops pacing.
“J,” I whisper, squeezing as tight as I can. “I’m here. Take a breath.”
He’s shaking all over, and his shuddering exhale rattles my heart in my rib cage.
“I feel like I’ve got to get out of my skin, but I don’t know what will happen if I do.”
“Explain it to me,” I say.
“My head—It’s—I can’t—” He growls in frustration.
He was speaking fine during his rant, but now he can’t put more than two words together, so I say, “Give me one word. In one word, tell me what’s happening in your head.”
His arms remain pinned to his sides like a statue. Like he might break if he moves a muscle. “Chaos.”
“And what will make the chaos go away? One word.”
He’s quiet for long seconds before he speaks in a strained whisper. “Damage.”
Racking my brain, I search for a way to help him. I’ve heard about those rooms where people smash things, but Vera won’t be pleased if I let Jensen destroy our house. Only one lame idea pops into my head, and hopefully it works.
“Come with me.” I grab his hand and lead him to Logan’s weight bench in the backyard.
My thought process may be flawed because I don’t know what’s happening to him, but I’m hoping he can burn this excess energy by lifting weights, an activity he enjoys. This way, he won’t hurt himself or anyone else.
“I work out every day at school,” he argues.
“This isn’t a workout. There’s no coach and no rules. Pick up the weights and throw them. Or lift as long as you want until you feel better. No counting. Just do whatever you need to let go of the chaos. Do your damage.” Because he looks doubtful, I add, “Or go punch the fence.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, a ghost of a smile, and I’m thankful he’s calming down. He’s not thrumming as violently as before.
Because humor seems to help, I continue with the playful approach. “Or you can lift me. I’m pretty heavy, so you might hurt yourself, but we can give it a try.”
His eyes go wide with fear more than shock. “I could hurt you.”
“You won’t. I trust you.” I do trust him. Deep in my bones, I know with absolute certainty Jensen will never cause me harm.
He assesses me from head to toe, considering the offer I meant as a joke. “How much do you weigh? Ninety pounds?”
“Eighty-five.”
He rolls his eyes, and his shoulders relax. “I could toss you over the fence like a roll of toilet paper.”
“And I could tell everyone you let me paint your nails this summer.”
“Birdie!” He tries to grab me, but I jump out of his reach and run away, laughing. He gives chase. “You swore to never bring that up!”
“I swore not to tell anyone. But if you threaten me, you leave me no choi—aaahhh!” Jensen hooks me around the waist and flips me over his shoulder. “Put me down!” I yell.
“You said I could lift you, brat. Or should I toss you?”
I squeal when he tickles my ribs. “Stop! Okay! Truce! You can lift me, and I’ll keep your love for manicures a secret.”
“It was one manicure. Never again.”
Rather than going for the weight bench, he places me on my feet and lies down in the grass. “Put your hands above my head and do a push-up, then I’ll move you where I need you.”
“We’re really doing this?” I ask, chuckling as I maneuver into a push-up position with my hands on the ground beside his ears. “You better not drop me.”
He grunts when I elbow him in the head. “I won’t drop you.”
Once I’m in position, he holds my hips but doesn’t move.
“I’m ready.” A big smile spreads across my face. I’m elated because we worked through his anxious moment together.
He doesn’t respond, remaining perfectly still. My shirt hangs from my chest and covers his face, so I balance on one arm and reach down to move it so I can see him.
“Ready when you are,” I say.
His eyes are closed, and he drags in a deep, stuttering breath before he whispers, “Thank you, birdie.”
“For what?” Since our playful moment has ended, I sit next to him with my legs crossed.
“For always making me feel better,” he says.
I pick at the blades of grass, breaking them off and flicking them aside. “You make me feel better too. When I’m sad, you always cheer me up. That’s what friends do, right?”
Hands tucked behind his head, he stares at the blue sky. Moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes. I’ve never seen Jensen cry, and the sight of him close to tears causes my own eyes to sting.
“I’m not sad,” he says. “Sometimes I feel…I don’t know. Crazy? Like my brain gets out of control, and I can’t stop the bad thoughts from screaming at me.”
“What kind of bad thoughts?”
“That I’m not good enough. That I’ll never be good enough. I’ll make mistakes and ruin everything. People will be disappointed in me if I’m not perfect.”
“You could never disappoint me, J. I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”
“I think you’re pretty perfect too, birdie.” He falls silent for a minute, deep in thought before his glassy eyes capture mine. “Make me a promise?”
“Anything.”
“Promise you’ll be my friend even when I mess up. Promise you’ll never leave me.”
I lie down beside him in the grass and link our hands together, giving his a firm squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
An hour passes as we lie under the sun, chatting about everything and nothing of importance to keep his mind off his perceived failures. And I vow, here and now, to be a safe place for Jensen whenever he needs to unravel.
That day was the first of many when I helped Jensen deal with his overwhelming mind. He sought me out whenever his head spiraled—his words, not mine—and quickly became reliant upon me. Like I was a safety net or a balm to his unhinged thoughts. Probably not the healthiest friendship between a couple of teens, especially since I also found sanctuary in him when I encountered bad days at school or home.
We cheered each other up, finding tiny pockets of joy in the bleakness. Evidently, that bleakness remained with us during our years apart, and I consider whether our separation was the cause or the effect. Maybe a little of both.