The End, Again

            The hunger was a game, a game that Rebecca played every day, and nobody knew about it. She felt the hollowing, grasping feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she welcomed it. When somebody irritated her, she could summon a more focused fury if she concentrated on that gnawing emptiness. It made everything sharp and clear, and filled her with a powerful control.

            But today, the hunger was a disadvantage. She felt the champagne run down the back of her throat and straight into her stomach, the combination of alcohol and sugar making her dizzy. She blinked and wanted to set the glass down, but couldn’t. Today of all days, Rebecca needed it.

            Anything about the situation could have pissed her off, but so far it was the centerpieces. A bunch of white lilies sat in the middle of the table, carefully tied together with turquoise and silver ribbons. This bouquet was sitting in an angular vase filled with rocks. Rebecca ran her finger around the lip of her glass as she glared at it. She took another sip.

            She was sitting in the warehouse-sized reception room of the town’s only church. What must have been hundreds of people were milling around, refusing to stay in their assigned seats. The turquoise and silver theme extended to the entire room in the form of streamers and balloons, decorations that could have been found on sale at the local Diddam’s. There was a raised dais to Rebecca’s right, where the bride and groom were seated. The bride smiled expectantly down at her plate, her right hand holding her fork and poking it at the chicken breast in front of her. Her left hand was grasping the groom’s, whose mouth was in constant motion. The streak of grey that split his otherwise jet black hair seemed to be in agreement with the color scheme, the tapping of his fingers an off-beat nod to the music. Rebecca watched as the sides of his mouth twitched up into an uncomfortable smile every time he made eye contact with someone. He wasn’t looking at the woman to his right.

            Rebecca tore her eyes away from the sight of them. She felt her stomach churn and put out her hand to steady herself against the table. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, in and out. When she opened them, she was greeted by the sight of her untouched entrée. The scent of the roasted chicken wafted up to her, the hint of garlic making her stomach growl. Rebecca felt the characteristic twitch in her hand, and raised her glass to her lips. Taking a big gulp, she stood up from her seat and made her way across the room.

            “Jeremy!” she said, her voice coming out in strained cheerfulness. It was her second warning to slow down on the champagne. Her friend caught the sound of his name and turned towards her. Handsome Jeremy, with the face of a Roman statue and the piercing green eyes of the blackest cat. Rebecca would have gone for him in a heartbeat if she didn’t know that he had come here with his boyfriend.

            “Hey gorgeous,” he said. His left hand gracefully reached out and caught her by the waist. To all appearances, they were friends who were meeting in a casual embrace. Rebecca hoped that nobody could see the way she leaned into him. “What are you up to?”

            She shrugged. “This and that.” Rebecca downed the rest of her drink and set the glass at his table. “Can you believe all of this?” She made a wide circular gesture to indicate the room.

            “Becca,” Jeremy said, his voice dripping with pity.

            “No, I’m serious. All these tacky fucking decorations. And those centerpieces. Who thought those were a good idea?”

            “Sweetie, we’re not doing this.”

            She swayed a little where she stood. He was forced to bear the whole of her weight as he held her up. “Doing what?” She focused her big, blue eyes on her friend. She suddenly felt the guarded irritation emanating off of him. It made her nervous.

            “Trashing the wedding reception just because you’re sad.” Jeremy’s voice was low. “I get it, but it’s beneath you. Besides, I don’t like filling the role of your token gay.”

            Rebecca ran her fingers through his hair in what she thought was a normal way, although his facial expression indicated otherwise. She stopped. “I don’t see the problem with saying things if they’re true,” she mumbled.

            “Yes, you do,” he said. “Please, please, for my sake, try to pull yourself together. No more champagne. Have you eaten anything?”

            “Of course,” she said, but she blushed. She had always struggled with obvious lies.

            “So if I go over to your seat right now, your plate will be empty?”

            She tried to give him an incredulous look. “Empty is a lot to ask.”

            Jeremy sighed. “I’m sorry you think that,” he said. “Look, go back to your place and try to get a couple of bites in. I think my sister is about to give the toast.” He was right. The pale ginger was making her way to the dais where a microphone stand was set up. Rebecca saw the champagne glass and fork in her hand and wanted to vomit. She heard the telltale clink a few moments later.

            “Everybody? A moment, please,” the woman said and smiled a toothy smile. “I’d just like to say a few words about the lovely newlyweds.”

            Rebecca found that she was still standing at Jeremy’s table. She stalked to the back of the room, the words of the toast booming over her. When she got to the doors, she hesitated and then stopped. Everyone would notice if she chose to exit now. She didn’t want to be that person. She diverted her course to the left and turned to lean against the wall.

            It was only then that she realized the groom was watching her. When their eyes met, his lips tried to twitch up into a smile, but he forced them back down. Then a brief expression of anguish peaked through. Then he looked away.

            Rebecca ran her right hand down her hip, feeling the bones just underneath the skin. The black velvet of her dress grazed her fingertips. She wondered what thoughts had been going through his mind as he watched her leave. A mixture of pain and satisfaction ripped through her. She closed her eyes again.

            When she opened them, it was the bride that Rebecca focused on. The curls of her blonde hair rested artfully at the sides of her face. Her white dress hugged the curves of her body, her breasts pushed up into strapless perfection. Her expression was hopeful, and trusting. It should be. It was her wedding day. How could she know there was a stranger standing at the back of the room, wishing against everything that they could trade places. And for a moment, Rebecca could feel the lace underneath her fingers. She could smell the hairspray as her hair was ironed into place. It was a heady fantasy, and Rebecca could feel the tears prick at the back of her eyes as she looked over, as she looked to her left and saw him, was wrapped up in the knowledge that they would be together for the rest of their lives. Her bottom lip trembled, in the fantasy and in real life. She forced herself to push it away. She tapped her head against the wall behind her.

            Jeremy’s sister finished her toast and the crowd raised their glasses, all smiles and congratulations. Rebecca realized that she had left her glass at Jeremy’s table, and, for some reason, this made her feel more out of place than anything else. She watched as the groom gulped down the entirety of his champagne and held his glass out for more. She wanted to be the alcohol in his bloodstream, a source of comfort and destruction. Instead, she settled for being the anorexic at his wedding who had, inexcusably, lost her way.

~

            He pulled her to him as soon as they got into the apartment. He kissed her mouth, her neck, nipped at her collarbone. She closed her eyes and folded her arms around him. Her body felt freed when he lifted the shirt from her shoulders, when he grabbed her hand and led her into his bedroom, when she felt his skin against hers and sat up so she was hovering over him. And then he ran his thumbs along her rib cage and she watched as the light went out of his eyes. His mouth set into a line and his hands fell to his sides.

            “What is it?” Rebecca said, although she knew.

            “I can’t,” Tom said. “I can’t keep doing this. Not when you’re like this.”

            “Like what?” she said, and swallowed down the fear that crept up her throat.

            “Just . . . please just get up,” he said, and she got up and sat to one side. She ran her fingers along his arm in an attempt to comfort or connect with him, but he twitched it away.

            “I don’t understand,” she said.

            His chest started expanding and contracting more rapidly, and she watched as his misty brown eyes looked to the left, looked up at the ceiling. “You haven’t eaten anything yet today, have you?” he said.

            Her stomach dropped, and then growled. “I’m . . . I had a banana this morning,” she said, too hastily.

            His eyes met hers. “Please, please don’t lie to me,” he said.

            “I’m not—well, I guess I sort of am. But I’ll get something as soon as we’re done, I promise.”

            He blinked. “Well, we’re done.”

            She felt the weight of those three words on the palms of her hands. “I don’t understand why you suddenly care now,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You didn’t seem so disgusted by me the first time we slept together.”

            “I’m not . . . disgusted . . . by you. I—it just makes me sad.”

            She raised an eyebrow. “What does?”

            He took a deep breath, and then sighed. “Watching you kill yourself.”

            “I’m not.”

            He reached out his right hand and ran his thumb along her hollow cheekbone. “That’s not what it looks like.”

            She jumped out of bed and walked into his living room. Forcing her shirt over her tiny frame, she turned to see him follow behind her and lean against the doorframe. “I don’t know how to convince you I’m not hurting myself. Not on purpose.”

            “Eat something,” he said. She watched the light play across his pale skin where he stood. “Please, I love you. I don’t want you to do this anymore. You’re perfect, you don’t need to be thin. Please, just eat something.”

            She wanted to explain it all. That it wasn’t about being thin, not really. That the brief, omniscient feeling she had whenever her stomach growled was worth anything. That knowing exactly what she put in her body, and what it was made of, gave her a sense of control that she had never had before. That she knew it was a problem, that it was dangerous, but that she had never been able to stop.

            She thought about eating, and Rebecca’s eyes welled up. She looked down and tried to make the tears go away, but one fell down her right cheek.

            “Becca,” Tom said, “stop it. You don’t have to cry about it. Please. It’s just food.”

            Rebecca shook her head and wanted to shout at him. Instead, it came out as a whisper, “No . . . it’s not.”

            “Yes Becca, it is. It shouldn’t be this hard.”

            She rubbed the side of her shoulder and shrugged. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

            His hands jerked up to his head and he ran them through his hair as though he wanted to pull it out by the roots. “So what do we do?” he asked.

            The feeling left her arms and the nerves started to crawl up her neck. “What do you mean?”

            “I don’t know, I don’t think . . . I don’t think I can be with you like this.”

            She wanted to fall to the ground, but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded her head as best she could and murmured a faint, “Hmmm.” She opened her mouth and started to gasp for air.

            “Please, Becca, it’s not because I don’t love you. I do. More than I’ve ever loved anybody. I just . . . that’s the reason I can’t watch this.” He reached out his arms, but she walked away as though she didn’t see them. They fell to his sides. “Maybe . . . maybe we should take a break.”

            She put her left hand over her face and crossed the room. When she reached the end of it, Rebecca paced back, her hand still covering her eyes.

            “It’s not forever,” Tom said, “I just want you to get well.”

            Rebecca took a deep breath and nodded. She wanted to say something, something that would change his mind and convince him that she was okay. But he knew she wasn’t, just as he knew. She threw her hands out in a half-hearted shrug. Then she walked to the door and let herself out.

~

            Rebecca looked at Tom now, ostensibly the happy newlywed, and wondered if she could have done anything differently. If she could have tried, if she could have checked herself into treatment. Would that have made a difference? Would that have made this clinging phantom go away? It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter now.

            She could do it for herself, but the very thought of that made her laugh and roll her eyes. She didn’t deserve big things, not even recovery, and she knew it.

            People were slowly milling towards the dance floor. The day had turned to night, and the guests were starting to feel the influence of the free-flowing alcohol. That was one thing you could say about the bride. Her father had enough money to pay for an open bar.

            Rebecca wanted another drink, but as soon as she moved from her spot at the back, the floor started to spin. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked up. The bride and groom were facing each other at the center of the dance floor. Inhibitions lost, Tom started to move uncomfortably in place. He hated dancing, but it seemed like his bride was having a good time.

            Realizing she could leave without being noticed, Rebecca opened one of the double doors and slipped out. The cool night air assaulted her as she stepped into the dark, and she took a second to embrace it. It held her, and let her know where she was. She took a couple steps forward and felt her legs shake underneath her. Rebecca was so focused on putting one foot in front of the next, she didn’t hear the door open behind her.

            “Becca,” a voice said, and she stopped.

            “Go back inside,” she answered. “Get back to your wedding.” She turned around.

            “Please don’t leave,” Tom said, taking a few steps toward her. Up close, she could see the lines that covered his face. The grey that had taken root in his hair was more advanced than she had thought. He looked old, so much older than she ever pictured him. A cold despair started to grip her, and she rubbed her arms to keep it at bay.

            She threw her hands out to the side. “What do you want me to do? It’s better that I just leave now. Better for everyone.”

            “Please,” he said, “I never get to see you anymore.”

            The despair fell away. “And whose fault is that?” she said.

            His left hand felt at the back of his neck. “Mine, I guess.”

            She nodded.

            “I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you, though.”

            “I know,” she said. “But you did leave. You wanted me to get better, but here I still am. So I guess you made the right choice.”
            “Don’t say that.”

            “Why not? It’s true.” She turned and started walking in the direction of her car. “Have a nice life,” she called back.

            A moment passed. “She’s pregnant,” he said. “That’s why we got married so quickly.”

            One last look behind her. She met his eyes and said, “I don’t care.”

            Rebecca didn’t know if Tom went back into his wedding. It didn’t matter. She focused on the clicking sound her heels made as she walked away. The emptiness inside her started to expand. It grew in size until it encompassed the entire parking lot. Still, she walked on and didn’t look back. It didn’t matter now. It couldn’t. Her blood continued to pulse and push her forward until she was, gratefully, swallowed by the night.

The Memory Merry-Go-Round

            The hill should be easier to climb by now, but it wasn’t. Every time Sydney reached the top, she was out of breath and drenched in sweat. That smooth burn of recently exercised muscles hit her thighs and made her want slouch back to her car. Instead, she reached up and patted down her short blonde hair. It was just one more day of senior year that she needed to get through. Her heart rate slowly returned to normal as she picked her way across campus.

            The hike up every morning was the price the students of Lakeview Community College paid for their academic choices. A close cluster of buildings set on top of a steep hill, Lakeview was a small island surrounded by massive parking lots. Silver Honda Civics stalked returning students to their cars, the impacted system forcing everyone to get aggressive if they wanted anything: courses, recognition, parking spaces. Everything was up for grabs, and yet still out of reach. The system seemed designed as a reminder to the students of how much farther they might have been able to make it, had the circumstances been different.

            Sydney didn’t have these problems. A high school senior taking classes at a community college as a part of an alternative program, she would be gone from this place soon enough.  As she walked across campus, Sydney made a note of the squat architecture. The buildings clung to one another, as though desperate to prevent their inevitable desertion. She felt sad and ill and started to walk faster.

            She readjusted the shoulder strap of her bag as she approached her side of campus. Here the hill sloped back downward and then onto a flat, deserted stretch of asphalt. A few portable buildings were pushed together in the center of it. The word “portable” had become a joke a while back, as the original plans to replace these buildings with something beautiful and sweeping had been discarded as a result of the economic downturn. If the rest of campus was mildly depressing, this side was even bleaker. It was the useless, the unused, and the forgotten. Sydney made her way down to the closest portable.

            She just wanted to get into the room and sit down, but the door was still locked when Sydney went up to try the handle. Her right hand dropped to her side and she turned to go sit on the railing that stretched along the ramp leading to the door. Two other students from her program were already gathered nearby, but the overwhelming majority would stagger one after the other into class ten minutes after it started, a waft of sweet-smelling smoke drifting in with them.

            “Syd?”

            Sydney jumped at the sound of her name. She turned. Sincere seeming blue eyes sunken into a round face framed by dirty light brown hair, that might have once resembled a bowl cut, greeted her. Chris. She twitched her facial muscles up into a smile.

            “Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

            Chris ignored her greeting and instead said, “Have you seen Maria around here anywhere?”

            Sydney shook her head. “Nope, just got here. I’m surprised you haven’t seen her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without her.”

            She watched his left hand reach up and run through his hair. Chris was staring at the end of the asphalt and absently chewing his lip with his front teeth. She would be shocked if he had heard a word she said after her negative response.

            Movement at the corner of her eye made Sydney turn her head. Almost simultaneously, she heard Chris let out a sigh of relief, and she resented him. The teachers were on their way over, the requisite line of hangers-on trailing behind. The strangest bunch of people in the entire world, and yet they fit together like a travelling circus. The whole group walked quickly, although the students in the back were clearly making an effort to seem disinterested. When her English teacher caught sight of her and waved, Sydney fought down the feeling that it was now too late to run away. She waved back.

            Sydney watched as her teacher walked up the ramp to unlock the door. His eyes briefly flicked up to where she sat on the railing and he said, “Hey Sydney, how are you doing?”

            She forced a smile onto her face. “Hey Frank, not too bad.” This was a program that encouraged its students to call their teachers by short nicknames. Apparently, they thought it promoted equality and respect, or something. All Sydney ever felt when she called a strange man old enough to be her father by a nickname was slightly uncomfortable. This had been the first disconcerting thing about the alternative program. It had become one of many.

            Sydney waited until about half of the group filed in after Frank before she jumped down and went inside. The oppressive darkness of the room was always what hit her first. The air was still and musty, as they were the only program who ever used this space. Desks were scattered across the floor, some inexplicably overturned. The teacher’s unused desk at the corner and a bookcase at the end of the room were the only gestures towards education. Sydney took her usual desk at the end of a grouping, far enough in to make her look like a part of the class, but still several desks away from the closest person.

            A short, slightly plump boy named Mikey stumbled over her bag and stopped. She looked up at him and a weird flood of confrontational energy moved between them.

            “. . . Sorry,” Mikey finally said, and continued on to his seat at the opposite end of the room. Frank leaned against the broken wooden podium that stood facing the desks and surveyed his students. Nine people looked back at him. He took a moment and seemed to be deliberating over something. Then he took a breath and began.

            “So, The Great Gatsby, how many of you got to the third chapter last night?” Frank’s optimistic tone made Sydney feel embarrassed. She waited a few seconds and then slowly raised her hand. She was the only one.

            Frank took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. “You know guys, this is starting to be ridiculous. I mean, I know we said we wanted this to be an atypical high school environment, but—“

            The door slammed open. In strolled the missing seven students, seemingly unaware that they were interrupting their teacher’s train of thought. Maybe that was part of the respect you lost when you let your students call you by your first name. That usual sweet scent floated in behind them, and one by one they took their seats and leaned back.

            Frank’s mouth was still hanging open from his aborted tirade. The situation was so familiar, and yet it was infinitely more frustrating in this moment. Decisions, decisions, decisions to be made. He took a deep breath with his mouth still open, looked down at the podium he was leaning against, and closed his eyes.

            “As I was saying,” he finally continued, “I don’t know what to do if you guys aren’t even going to try. I mean, what do I have to do to make you learn something?” Awkward silence covered the room. Frank was rarely mad, so nobody knew how to respond to his strained tone. “Do we have to read Gatsby aloud in class, just so I know you’ve at least had the material forced on you? Fine. That’s what we’ll do. Everyone open your books to the first page and let’s read the epigraph. Shelby?”

            The shock of what was happening travelled around the room and was followed by the sound of sixteen books rustling open.

~

            You didn’t get to this program easily. Not that it was academically challenging, you just had to fall pretty far before the school counselors collectively shrugged their shoulders and washed their hands of you. It was something that most students in the area didn’t even know about. Twenty of their companions just disappeared from classes and nobody asked why. It helped that these were the people that nobody thought about anyway. You see that grimy red-haired kid staggering through the hallway and mentally cross him off your list. It just happens.

            But when you got to this place it felt inevitable. Everyone slips off the face of the earth and ends up in the same place. Almost a parody of what “liberal” education looks like, the program encouraged a move away from traditional learning and grades. The students banded together and told themselves they were holding out against the Other. Don’t let me slip back into that mindset. Kill me if I ever sell out. They leaned as far away from the truth as they could before they snapped their necks. Leaning away from the idea that will inevitably catch up to you if you live long enough.

            The Other you’re holding out against doesn’t exist.

~

            Sydney heard the light steps on the ramp and knew who was coming before the door opened. A hand fumbled with the doorknob and then light flooded the room as the door flew back. Sydney heard a slight falter in Frank’s voice as he continued reading from The Great Gatsby. Maddie walked in. Sydney was immediately alerted that something was off when Maddie looked her in the eyes and offered a sincere smile. She watched as the brunette put out her left hand to steady herself against the door frame.

            “Maddie,” Sydney heard herself chirp. “Come sit next to me.”

            Maddie’s smile crept down into one of slow recognition, and she sat in the desk next to Sydney without argument. “What are we doing?” she asked, an expression of genuine wonder on her face. When Maddie leaned in, Sydney was overwhelmed by the smell of cheap tequila. She took a deep breath. Everyone must be staring at them. She looked around.

            But no, everyone was doing their own thing, while Frank tried against all odds to get them to listen. Sydney caught Maddie start to raise her hand out of the corner of her eye, and immediately snatched it down. It was helpful that Frank actively tried not to catch people at things like this, but Sydney’s stomach clenched with nerves as she considered what it would take to hide Maddie’s state from her teachers.

            An extraordinarily long fifteen minutes later and Frank finally let them go for the short break between English and History. As soon as Sydney exited the room, she grabbed Maddie’s arm and led her away from the crowd. When they had reached the edge of the parking lot, she turned around and surveyed the girl in front of her, searching for something recognizable.

Maddie jumped forward and threw her arms around Sydney’s neck. Sydney stiffly returned the hug to keep Maddie steady. When Maddie finally let go, Sydney gently pushed her away and said, “What are you doing? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

~

It was Sydney’s first day in the alternative program, and she was so nervous she couldn’t focus on one train of thought. She couldn’t will herself out of the car and towards the group of people she would be sharing her time with for the next two years. Her dad sat in the driver’s seat and calmly sipped his coffee. Occasionally he would murmur a soft, “Whenever you’re ready,” and reposition himself.

            Twenty minutes went by of Sydney staring out the passenger window and up that hill. Finally, she put a shaking right hand on the handle of the door and opened it slowly. She straightened up, grabbed her bag from where it sat on the floor, and adjusted it into place. “Good luck, honey, you’ll be great,” her father said. She knew there was a polite response to make, but she couldn’t seem to find it. She just nodded her head.

            She got up the hill without realizing it, although her legs burned from the effort. Sydney had looked up the location of the portables the night before, but now faced with the task she found she couldn’t remember which way she was supposed to walk. She felt the slow build of fear and turned around to try and get her bearings. Sydney caught sight of a group of students, around her age, walking across campus. She hung back a few seconds and then followed after them.

            The room was buzzing with noise when she opened the door. Two girls spoke with Frank at the front of the room, and so he didn’t notice her right away. She watched as he leaned back slightly and laughed. It was a good laugh. Sydney felt the room start to grow quiet and looked around. Everyone was staring at her. Finally, Frank looked up and saw the object of this rare silence.

            “Oh hi, you must be . . .?” Frank said, without moving towards her.

            She nodded and didn’t know why. “Sydney Peterson,” she said. “I’m new.” She mentally kicked herself for making such an obvious statement.

            Frank smiled. “Good, well, welcome. Take a seat anywhere you’d like. We’ll start in a second.”

            Sydney crept forward and put her hand on the back of the desk at the very edge of the group. She glanced around for anyone who might be inviting her over, but saw no such invitation. She sat down. Then—

            “Sydney?” a voice asked from behind her. Sydney turned. She was met by a girl with long, perfectly straight brown hair and dark brown eyes. Although she held herself with the confidence of someone much older, her face was one that seemed enduringly young. Her smile said you were the most important thing in the world, and even if it was a fakeout, it was a good one. Several moments passed of Sydney studying this girl before she realized they had met before.

            “No way,” she said, slightly under her breath. “Maddie?”

            Maddie smiled and pulled her bag off of the chair next to her. “Come sit next to me,” she said, still smiling.

            Sydney got up and walked to the desk indicated. “I haven’t seen you since, what? The seventh grade?”

            Maddie nodded slowly and said, “And just look where we are now.”

~

            The shock started to wear off after a few minutes of leading an unsteady Maddie through conversation. Sydney began gasping for air, unable to decide what she should do next. Then she saw Isabelle and Bea standing over near the portables. Bea slipped over part of the railing and fell to her knees. Isabelle threw her head back and howled, cackling so loudly that Sydney could hear it from where she stood. Bea reached up and held out a hand for Isabelle to help her up. Isabelle didn’t seem to notice and continued laughing, then stumbled a little to her left. Sydney realized what was going on and felt the anger start to boil in the pit of her stomach. She expected this from them, but that didn’t mean they had to drag Maddie down too.

            The other teacher, Connie, came out of her portable and whistled. It was time for the classes to switch. Not knowing what else to do, Sydney grabbed Maddie by the arm and started to lead her over in that direction. Once again, Maddie threw her arms around Sydney’s neck and hugged her. Sydney just stood there.

            “I missed you so much,” Maddie said suddenly. “Why don’t we ever do anything anymore?”

            Sydney felt her face start to grow red and the pressure behind her eyes start to build. She gently pushed Maddie away and said, “Come on, we have to go inside.”

~

            Her hand was shaking around the shot glass. She readjusted her fingertips to secure them on its cool surface. Maddie waited patiently by her side, nodding encouragingly as she looked on. Sydney closed her eyes, raised the edge of the glass to her mouth and quickly tossed it back. It went down easily, but she took a swig of the pineapple chaser just in case. She barely had time to gauge her surroundings before Maddie tackled her.

            “I’m so proud of you!” she yelled, slurring her words a little. Sydney felt the vodka go straight to her head and laughed the feeling off.

            It was the night of junior prom, but the only ones at the party who’d been there were Sydney and Maddie. The prom was the program’s version of a school dance, infinitely more awkward due to the lack of people available. Still, the decorated banquet room at a local hotel and as much free food as they could eat eventually got everyone in a festive mood. Maddie and Sydney had coordinated their outfits so they, at least, looked like they were from the same party. At the time she was getting ready, putting on a red flapper dress, complete with full fringe and some fake pearl costume jewelry, had felt like the best idea in the entire world. Now that she was at a run-of-the-mill house party with people from her old high school, she was starting to question the night’s decision making.

            “Oh shit,” Maddie said, “I’m getting a call from my mom. Hold on.”

            “Should you really answer?” Sydney asked. “I mean, I can barely understand you at this point. Isn’t your mom going to figure out where you are?”
            Maddie smirked and shrugged, a little too much, and said, “No way, I’ve done this a million times. I can sober up in a second if I have to.” She pressed the accept button on her phone and walked out onto the front porch.

            Sydney looked around. She knew a few of the people at the party, although they weren’t people she’d call friends. Still, she needed someone to talk to. Maddie’s sudden absence made her feel particularly vulnerable. She spotted an ex-friend’s ex-boyfriend on the couch across the room and made her way over.

            They had nothing in common, except for their mutual hatred of that other girl. A conversation that she thought would last for maybe ten minutes stretched into thirty. Sydney yawned and looked up. Maddie was crossing the room into the kitchen with another girl.

            “I’ll just have one more shot so I can still drive home later,” Maddie was saying.
            “Um sweetie, I think you passed the point where that was still an option several drinks ago,” the girl responded.

            Sydney made to get up and go assert some kind of control over the situation. She looked down, and found that the guy’s arm had snaked its way around her shoulders while she wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at her intently. Although she didn’t feel strongly about this guy one way or the other, the attention felt nice. She stretched her legs out so they were draped across his lap and tried to engage herself back into the conversation.

             Another forty-five minutes passed, and Sydney was starting to feel like she was missing something. She kept trying to extract herself from the conversation she was still having, but every attempt was firmly denied. Then she glanced up and saw Maddie. She was leading Eric, one of the guys from their old high school, upstairs, an eager, yet slightly dull smile on her face. Sydney heard her friend’s warning about situations like this, about how she didn’t want to have sex with anyone yet, about the things she didn’t want to regret doing under the influence, and she started to get up.

            “I should do something,” Sydney said. She put her feet on the ground.

            “Like what?” the guy said. “Really there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing you should do.”

            Sydney ran her right hand through her hair and bit into the side of her mouth. The guy grabbed her arm and said, “Seriously, just leave it alone. These things happen all the time.” Sydney reluctantly sat back down.

            The rest of the night was spent watching the guy Sydney had been talking to bike home alone at 3 AM and passing out on the couch while four people she didn’t know watched an old episode of Family Guy next to her.

~

            It was harder to help Maddie fly under the radar with two other drunk girls drawing attention. Isabelle accidentally tipped over in her desk, and this caused Bea to break into hysterical giggling. Sydney moved Maddie over to the back of the room and tried to get her to focus on the activity they were supposed to be working on.

            “Maddie, focus,” she said, although she knew it was useless. She did her best to guide her old friend through the process of scribbling down letters, but there didn’t seem to be a point. This was made so much worse by Maddie’s lack of awareness.

            “Killin’ it,” she said loudly, and grinned up at Sydney. She looked so sweet and proud, and Sydney felt this expression as a stab to the gut.

~

            Their friendship had started on completely different terms. Having grown up in the same church, Maddie and Sydney had been friendly for most of their lives without really knowing each other. Dressed in restrictive sundresses in a variety of pastels, they would wave across the mass of people milling around, collecting food from the Easter service potluck table.

            The last time they had seen each other before entering the program had been at a church camp, sponsored by the youth group they had both grown up in. It was here that they finally spoke, and came to realize that they had a similar humor, a similar style of speaking. Maddie could glance Sydney’s way and suggest something with the slight squint of one eye. It was so easy and comfortable so quickly. It became obvious that they were two people who were destined to be close friends.

            Except nothing had come after that. They lost touch and ended up at two different high schools. Sydney didn’t think of Maddie again (other than when telling the odd story from that summer) until her first day in the alternative program. And here they picked up right where they had left off, as if four years hadn’t intervened. This time they were closer, this time they shared the same sense of hollow loss that came with leaving traditional high school. That harsh, sardonic edge to their witty commentary came naturally, born of a shared experience of rejection. Still, it seemed to everyone that they held each other up, and that life would be bigger and more exciting after they graduated from the program.

            Except.

            There was one day in early August of their senior year when Maddie didn’t show up for class. And then another. And then four more. Sydney desperately tried to contact her friend, but was met with silence or the answering machine. Then Maddie finally showed up, walking next to Frank in the direction of the portables. Frank’s face was shadowy and Sydney could tell by the way Maddie nervously pinched at her sleeve that something was wrong.

            When Frank got to the group of students congregated at the portables, he look around for a second before saying, “Let’s all meet in Connie’s room today. There’s something we need to talk about.”

            Sydney could tell by the way some people looked at each other, that they knew what this was about. She felt stupid that she didn’t. She fell in step beside Maddie, but didn’t say anything. She would know what was wrong soon enough.

            When everyone had filed in after Frank, he started to speak. “So as many of you may have heard, Eric Harris passed away last Monday. While we’re usually instructed to continue on in times of tragedy such as this,” he glanced in Maddie’s direction, “it has come to my attention that many of you knew him. I thought it might be good for us to talk about this as a community, so that nobody feels alone. Does anyone have something they’d like to share about Eric?”

            Many hands shot up, but to Sydney’s surprise, Maddie’s wasn’t one of them. She’d assumed that Maddie would be the most involved, as it had clearly been partially her idea. However, as Frank called on people and they started to share, Maddie seemed to grow tenser where she sat. Finally, she stood up from her seat, mumbled something about having to go to the bathroom, and left. Sydney waited five minutes before following after her.

            She found her friend standing around the corner of the last portable, smoking and staring at the ground. Sydney came over and stood next to her, leaning against the railing for a few moments before saying, “What’s going on?”

            Maddie swallowed and looked down. “It’s not helping,” she said.

            Sydney studied her face and said, “What?”
            “This ‘town hall’ discussion, or whatever Frank thinks he’s doing. At first I thought it was a good idea, but it’s just pissing me off.”

            Sydney waited for more of an explanation, but when it became clear that one wasn’t coming, she asked, “Why?”

            “None of them really knew him, and yet they’re acting like his death had a huge impact on their lives. Practicing tragedy. It must be nice.”

            “Did you really know Eric?” Sydney asked, trying to keep the note of incredulity out of her voice. She shouldn’t be surprised by information like this.

            Maddie nodded. “We worked together,” she said, tapping the end of her cigarette against the railing. “I got to know him pretty well over the last two years. I don’t know.” She stopped and looked up at the sky. “It didn’t feel right to go in after he . . . I missed a few of my shifts. I got fired from my job.”

            “I’m sorry,” Sydney said.

            Maddie shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, “I just can’t seem to wrap my head around it. One day someone’s here, joking about the way the manager’s ears move when he’s angry, and then he’s just . . . gone from the world.”

            Sydney nodded, but she didn’t know what to say. She tried, “Yeah death is . . .” but whatever profound idea she had had died on her lips.

            Maddie threw her cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “Whatever, I don’t want to talk about it. This was a bad idea. I just want to stop thinking about it.” She got up and walked out toward the parking lot. Sydney watched her go.

~

            At the end of class, everyone filed up to Connie’s desk to turn in the activity they had been working on in pairs. Sydney turned in she and Maddie’s and did her best to slink away. The whole day left a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she wouldn’t be able to escape fast enough.

            She wanted out. She wanted out and she wanted away. She wanted to leave this campus and never have to come back. And yet, she knew she had to show up the next day. And the day after that, until she graduated and that would be it.

            All the program had become to her was a painful theater piece of how people throw their lives away. Everything slowly escalated, from being high in class, to daring each other to drop acid and get away with it. This tiny world supported itself and crushed its inhabitants. Frank and Connie forced themselves to turn a blind eye because they knew that, after the program, there wasn’t anywhere else to go. They were all sinking together. And Maddie was in the middle of it.

            With a growing drug habit, a refusal to give up anything that might help her escape reality, and an inability to accept that there was something better waiting for her after she turned eighteen, Maddie had slowly stopped turning up for class. When she did, she was out of her mind on something. Watching it was brutal, and this had meant the dissolution of everything Sydney and Maddie had been to one another. It was the end, and it was being painfully dragged out.

            Sydney had to keep her mind on what would be. On the fact that in two months she would walk across a stage and away from all of this. That would be it, no more program, no more stupid nicknames for teachers, no more accepting each other’s faults no matter how much they hurt. A new beginning.

            And yet, she had the sinking feeling that this wouldn’t feel over, even then. That after she had crossed that stage, she would still see the image of her friend walking away whenever she closed her eyes. Of that dull smile Maddie had had on her face when she led Eric upstairs. Of their matching flapper dresses. Of them sitting on the beach, talking about fashion and boys at church camp when they were twelve. These things would always exist for Sydney.

            She reached the end of campus and carefully picked her way back down the hill towards the parking lot.

Free Fall

            It starts with a thought. That thought is: what would happen right now if I had a panic attack? You’re not anywhere special, or maybe you are, but that’s not the point. The point is the inconvenience, the humiliation, and the fear that you would suffer if anyone knew what was going on in your head. And because you thought that you might have one, you do, or you almost do. Shortness of breath, ringing in the ears, that sharp clarity that you know only you can feel. Everyone around you carries on as if nothing is happening, and your world is coming to an end. Your lungs are collapsing and you have to be dying, there’s no other explanation. Your hand tentatively grasps for a phone. Should you call 911? This has happened before, this dying, and yet you’re still alive. Maybe it’s real this time. It feels so damn real.

            The air inside the post office feels dead, and the ceilings are disconcertingly high. It’s one of those nineteenth century buildings that now mainly functions as an angle in the city skyline, longing for the days when visiting it was more than just an irritating chore people have to do once in a while. The floors have been carelessly swept recently, with the hard-to-reach areas abandoned to their dusty fate.

The only life is a line of people, waiting for their turn in front of the tiny window. The frustration and impatience are palpable, although no one says a word.  The woman with the bleached-blonde bob in front of me raps the counter with her fingernails and sighs every few minutes. Her fitted black pants and flowing red top make her seem fashionable and sophisticated, unworthy of such a common task. There is a wad of pink bubblegum stuck to the bottom of her shoe, a glaring flaw that she must be unaware of.

I accidentally turned around and made eye contact with the man in line behind me when he arrived, and now I can feel his body language shift as he works up the nerve to talk to me. This trip was supposed to be quick, but it’s never quick. Why is there a perpetual line at the post office? The man being helped at the window steps away. His right hand runs through his hair and he steps lightly out of the building. Lucky.

            Everyone takes a step forward as the man at the front of the line moves into place, a box tucked under his left arm. The woman in front of me sighs again. I wonder where she has to be, or if anywhere would be a better option than here right now. I get that. The post office has a way of making you feel like your time is more important than everyone else’s.

            It’s the worst when there’s nothing else to do but think. My brain does well with activity, not with moments idling by, asking for trouble. As the minutes stretch on, the trigger inevitably arises and I’m back to fighting my own mind again. What if you had a panic attack right now? And the shift is immediate.

            The telltale shiver runs down my spine and I involuntarily reach out with my left hand to support myself against the counter. Stop, this isn’t happening. I just want to mail my package and get out of here. Deep breath. I place my box on the counter and stretch my arms up over my head. If I can convince my body that I’m relaxed, maybe my brain will follow. The woman in front of me turns around and gives me a dirty look. I shrug in answer. She can’t know what’s going on with me, but it feels like a judgment of my mental instability anyway.

            The man at the window steps away. That was too quick. I can hear him muttering to himself as he walks to the exit, box still in hand. That’s fine. The blonde woman flips her hair out of her eyes and steps forward. This is good, I can make it one more. I flex my fingers and take a deep breath. But it’s a shallow breath. I can’t manage a deep breath. Don’t panic, your body isn’t breaking down. Don’t think about it.

            I desperately search the walls for something, any inane thing to distract me from the alarms going off in my brain. Shipping costs. Fine. How many e’s are in this line about international shipping? One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. Five e’s. It helps a little, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough. Oh God, what if it’s not enough? I need to lie down, but I can’t imagine doing that here.

            “Man, what is this line, right?” I turn around. The guy standing behind me finally made his move. This was the line he’s been working on for the last ten minutes. Normally, I would mess with him a little, but in these circumstances I can only manage a weak smile. I force myself to study his appearance. Average height, small brown eyes set in a round face. His expression reads both eager and nervous. He wears a loose green t-shirt, maybe to hide the fact that his body is so skinny. I wonder if he’s self-conscious about this. If it’s something he has tried to casually hide since the boys around him started bulking up. A drop of sweat gleams on his forehead before slowly rolling down his cheek and dripping off his chin. His arms are covered light brown hair, and it glints ever so slightly when he moves. I study the effect, then I look up. Our eyes meet, and I realize staring at him might be weird, but it’s the details that make me feel calm. I rap my fingers on the counter again and nod, as though in acknowledgment of his question.

            I turn back around, and see the woman at the counter is gathering her things. The fear that I might not make it these final seconds is overwhelming. I waited here all this time, for what? I focus my eyes straight ahead. The man behind me sighs and I see him shift uncomfortably out of the corner of my eye. This small distraction is enough to break the building panic. I watch the woman collect herself and leave, her bob bouncing ever so slightly as she walks. The worker behind the glass looks up at me, her mouth set in a bored line.

            “Next,” she says, and I step forward.

~

            It’s these moments when nothing is happening, that everything happens to me. Walking home, speaking to my family, doing some small task to keep myself occupied, these things I can handle. It’s the moments when I have space to think that I think myself into a hole.

            It takes me about twenty minutes to walk home from the post office, and I enjoy it. It’s a little too hot outside, but I enjoy the healthy alive feeling of sweat dripping down my back. The breeze pushes at my face gently, keeping the hair out of my eyes. I walk quickly to keep my heart rate up and I appreciate how easily regular breathing comes.

            I reach home and, although I’m tired from the eminent attack earlier, I feel all right. My home is my parent’s house, a small purple building, agapanthus planted nearby by a lazy landscaper. When I get inside, the sweat that felt so normal before suddenly feels oppressive and dirty. Pieces of my hair stick to my face, and I desperately work to move them back. My mother is sitting at the kitchen table across the room, and looks up when I walk in.

            “Hey,” she says tentatively.

            “Hey,” I respond. “I sent that package to Margaret.”

            “Good,” she says, nodding slightly. “Good for you.” She must think that the expression on her face reads simple enthusiasm, but I see the concerned squint of her eyes and I know that she’s looking for signs of something else. I recognize this. I saw it the first time we met after I dropped out of school.

~

            My shaky hand opens the car door, and I try to get out. My legs feel the strain of the move, of the blind panic that drove me here. I stand up and push the door closed as hard as I can. It makes an unsatisfying click. I straighten the straps of my shirt and look around. The parking garage is strangely comforting in its fullness. I fix my eyes on the exit and make my way towards it.

            I see her small figure emerge from baggage claim and relief floods through me. She searches the crowd, spotting me after a few moments.  Her lips curl up into a tiny smile and I want to cry. As I get closer, I see that she looks at me with different eyes. She squints ever so slightly, as if trying to get a clear view of what’s wrong with me. I am a different person from the one she left behind, and this information is jarring to me. I put my arms around her and try to summon my original enthusiasm. Still, my brain screams, still, you’re technically sick now. Of course things will be different.

            The searching look remains in my mom’s smile. She’s waiting for a glimpse of the old me, when the old me seems like a relative I used to know when I was younger.

            “You remember that we have Elle’s graduation party tonight, right?” she says, and I snap back to the present.

            I do not. “Of course,” I reply. “What time is that again?”
            “It’s at five, so we should leave here at 4:45.”
            “Sounds good,” I say, and go to my room.

~

            Coming back to live in your old room after you’ve moved out and tried to be an adult is odd and vaguely sickening. My walls are covered with old movie posters, sixteen-year-old me thinking that references to Rear Window and Casablanca would make me look more interesting to the casual observer. Pictures of my teenage self with my high school friends are tacked at random intervals, portraying a night as much wilder than it actually was. These things feel hollow now. Now that I know what I’m capable of, what my brain’s capable of, they feel like another part of the disguise. They scream, “I’m still normal!” while I struggle to go to sleep without being overtaken by panic.

            The turquoise dress I wear is from before I went away to school, and as such it’s loose around my waist. I did the best I could with my makeup, but my face still looks tired and sad and without direction. I emerge from my room at 4:47.

            My mother sighs. It’s these moments that show me the similarities people always seem to find between us. Her curly black hair is a grey-streaked echo of mine, her tanned skin a weathered version of what’s pulled tight over my body. She hates being late more than anything, and even though this is a casual party and there’s no reason for us to get there at 5, my slight lateness makes her feel stressed. She doesn’t say anything about it. Instead she says, “Ready?” Tired smile, squinty eyes, and I nod in response.

            Elle is my cousin, and she graduated from high school two weeks ago. We arrive at her crooked yellow house just as a couple is being let inside. Elle sees me from the doorway and I see her expression change ever so slightly. Then a pained smile takes over her face, and she waves eagerly.

            “Hi, thanks for coming!” she says, but we are still too far away so it’s awkward.

            Several moments pass and my mom and I finally reach the doorway. “Of course, congratulations!” my mother says, and I smile as if in agreement.

            “Yes, high school,” I say, grasping for something sweet and intelligent to say, “um, big, um, achievement.”

            I don’t look particularly welcoming, but Elle pulls me in for a hug anyway. Elle is one of those people that always seems pulled together, no matter what. Her brown hair is pulled back into a tight bun, with a few strands scattered around her face to suggest that actually she’s pretty carefree. The shade of her green dress perfectly matches her eyes, which beam brightly and give you the feeling that you’re always being observed. “How are you doing?” she asks loudly in what I’m assuming was supposed to be a whisper. Everyone has known the fact of my panic disorder for years, but my dropping out of school seems to have suggested that it’s suddenly something they need to be very concerned about.

            “I’m fine,” I say, and shift my weight so she knows it’s time for this hug to be over. She pulls back.

            The living room has been covered with all the trappings of the humble family party. Pink streamers decorate the large windows that look out onto the backyard, twisted a few times so that they seem festive. Clusters of balloons are placed around the room, saying cheerful things like, “Congrats Grad!” and “You did it!” A fold up table covered in a tacky paper tablecloth sits against the wall. Bowls filled with pretzels and chips of various kinds sit on top of it, as well as a photo album featuring pictures of Elle growing up. I make my way towards the table, careful not to make eye contact with anyone already in the room.

            I manage to grab a handful of pretzels before I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and see my uncle Matt standing behind me. A large man with the face of a child, Uncle Matt doesn’t attempt to hide the look of pity that greets me.

            “Hi kiddo,” he says, and he too wraps his arms around me. “How’re you doing?”

            “I’m fine,” I say, and slowly raise my arms so that the embrace will feel mutual.

            “I’ve been meaning to call you,” he says. Everyone means to call me, and yet it is only at events like these that I hear about it. “What do you have going on?”

            “Oh, you know,” I shrug, “a little of this, a little of that. Hanging out, working on recovery. Not a lot, but it’s fine.”

            He nods as though I’ve just said something profound. “Do you know what you’re going to do about school yet?”

            This question punches me in the stomach, and I wish people would stop asking it. “Not just yet, I’m trying to figure everything out before I make a big decision like that.”

            He reaches out and grabs my right arm. I guess it’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but instead it feels like he’s holding onto me for balance. “As you should be,” he says. “As you should be.”

            He’s looking me in the eye and I know I’m supposed to make some sort of response, but I can’t seem to find it. I do my best to form a small smile and say a lame, “Yep.” He blinks. I rap my fingers on the table. I nod as though I don’t realize it won’t fill the silence.

            “Well I should . . .” I say, and point at some random point across the room.

            “Yeah, catch up with you in a little bit?” he asks.

            “Sure, sounds good,” I say and I turn and walk across the room. It’s been six months and I still don’t know how to handle these kinds of conversations. For some reason being asked about my future plans makes me freeze and want to curl up in a tiny ball.

            My mom has been cornered by two other women and is excitedly talking and nodding her head. The door to the backyard is open so I choose to exit the room rather than try to mingle with someone else. It is still pretty early in the party and the backyard is completely empty. I walk over to a chair and sit down, attempting to recline and appear at ease with the situation.

            It would be so much easier to deal with groups like this if everyone didn’t know what was going on with me. Everyone wants to help, and family feels especially obligated to do something, but all they can do is make sympathetic faces and ask what I need.

            Seven months ago I was dreaming of this place, of being away from school, outside of all the distractions and triggers I was facing. Here I am, and I can’t function in a group of people that I’ve known my whole life. It’s disappointing.

            I can’t shake this restless feeling, so I stand back up and walk to the edge of the yard and back again. But it’s harder not to panic when I’m alone. I feel the telltale tingling in my arms. I have to be around people. I head back inside.

            The amount of people in the house has tripled since I came in, and they seem to be forming a loose circle around Elle’s dad. I join the back of the crowd.

            “Thank you all for coming to celebrate our little girl’s achievement,” he says. “As you all know, Elle graduated from high school two weeks ago, and we wanted to take some time to acknowledge how proud we are of her.” He gestures to Elle and she appropriately blushes and makes an embarrassed wave. “Before you leave, make sure to write a message in the scrapbook we’ve set up on the table over there. We need to give Elle as much love as we can before she leaves us for Washington.” Her dad contorts his face into a false grimace of pain and sticks out his bottom lip. Elle laughs and runs forward to give him a side hug. Everyone smiles at this display of familial affection, and the group disperses a little as people return to their conversations.

            I think of my own graduation party and feel sick. I have the urge to turn around and rip the streamers off the windows, but Elle doesn’t deserve that. Just because my college experience ended in a total meltdown and me leaving college, doesn’t mean that will happen to her. It probably won’t. She’ll probably go away and have one of those magical experiences that can only be captured through a series of photo albums on Facebook. Successfully balancing studying and partying with figuring out how to be a real adult so far from home. That should have been mine, too.

~

            The first few months of college were everything I’d hoped they would be. Finally, I was being challenged academically, finally I had the independence that I always craved. No one around me knew about my panic disorder, nobody had the experience of sitting in a class that I ran out of in tears. A true fresh start.

            Except, fresh starts don’t really exist. Little did I know, I was still dragging around my baggage and collecting more. So when I started to feel that sinking feeling of fear and disconnection, I was less prepared than I should have been.

            It was my last class of the week, one that I enjoyed. Contemporary American Literature? I think that’s what it was. In any case, I was sitting in my usual spot, comfortably in the middle of the room, waiting for class to start. Students filed in a few at a time. Suddenly, my professor burst through the door. He carried a stack of paper and slapped it down on the desk at the front of the room. My stomach dropped. I understood what this meant.

            “Pop quiz, put everything away,” he announced with pleasure.

            It was odd, because I was caught up on all the reading. I had been fairly successful in that class, and had no reason to be worried. I’d always tested well, and there was nothing significant about this event to draw special concern. And yet I felt it. That dropping feeling in my stomach morphed into something else. Ringing in my ears, constriction in my chest. The class groaned and put their stuff away. I gripped the desk with both hands and tried to focus on what the professor was saying, but it was so hollow.

            I tried to focus on my breathing, and not what was going on in my brain. Inhale, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . 7. Exhale, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . Inhale, no, damn it, that wasn’t right. I should have practiced 7-11 breathing more, but I had been doing so well. I was hoping I wouldn’t need it anymore.

            The guy in front of me passed back the pile of quizzes, and I took it with shaking fingers. I grabbed one and turned to pass the pile to the girl behind me. I looked her in the eyes to see if she was feeling what I was, but all I saw was bored irritation. Inhale, exhale, I turned back around and looked down at the paper on my desk.

            I tried to focus on what the words said, but all I could think about was how difficult it was getting to breathe. The sentences blurred together, and I closed my eyes. That made the dizziness worse, so I opened them again. And then it was too late.

            You’re dying, my brain screamed, and that was it. I grabbed both sides of the desk again and rested my forehead on it. Gasping for air, I tried to tell myself that this was my brain pulling the fire alarm when everything was all right, but it wasn’t enough. Small convulsions started running through my body and I attempted to stifle them. Somewhere far outside of the place I was in, I felt someone tap on my shoulder.

            “Are you okay?” It was my professor. He said it in a loud whisper, and when I looked up I read concern in the furrow of his brow. I stared at the way his glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, how up close you could tell that he used product to style his crunchy brown hair. I tried to say something reassuring, but instead another tremor ran through my body. “It’s just a quiz, there’s no reason to be worried about it.” My mouth fell open, another wave of panic was growing inside of me. It was going to crush me, and I needed to get out.

            I took a ragged breath, reached down for my bag and said, “Sorry,” in a soft voice. Then I fixed my eyes on the floor as I ran out of the room. There was no space to be embarrassed. My vision narrowed as I hurried down the hall. Then, out in the bright sun, I winced and felt dizzy again. No, need to keep going. I pushed forward in the direction of my dorm as the world around me felt like it was rocking back and forth. Focus on planting your feet on the ground and you can make it. As I walked, the panic died down a little. My breathing started to become regular again. And instead of the crushing fear, what I mostly felt was an all-absorbing exhaustion. The sun was beating down on me, but I felt a chill run through me and I shivered.

            As I made my way back to my dorm, I passed Mark, a friend I had known in high school. I did my best to put on a normal face as though I weren’t in the middle of a personal crisis. “Hey Mark,” I said. “How are you doing?”
            Apparently I didn’t do a great job of playing off the strain I was feeling, because he ignored my attempt at nonchalance and said, “Are you okay?”

            All I could do was nod vacantly and try to focus on the way his hair moved in the wind. He had always been a wide kid in high school, but his broad shoulders were starting to look good on him. “I’m just heading back to my dorm room,” I said. I turned and started to walk again, only to feel the strain break. I burst into tears.

            Within a matter of months, I was forced to take a medical leave of absence. However, it only took me a few weeks to realize things were going this way.  Whenever I felt trapped, whenever I couldn’t think of the right thing to say or a friend changed our plans at the last minute, I was triggered. I would spend the next two days huddled in a ball, alternately crying and forcing the last piece of toast in my cabinet down my dry throat. When panic attacks come few and far between, it’s easy to convince yourself that you can push forward and recover. It’s less easy to do this when basic functioning becomes a challenge.

~

            Elle is surrounded by a group of adults, ostensibly congratulating her again on getting into a good school. I try to slip away across the room to where my mother is talking to her sister. She glances up, meets my eyes and frowns. She knows I want to go, but she wants to spend this time with our extended family. I get that. Well, I might get it more if I had siblings, but I understand the basic sentiment. I shrug and walk towards a corner of the room.

            Leaning against the wall, I observe the way my family interacts with one another. Uncle Matt has apparently gotten into something alcoholic. He has gotten louder as the night has gone on, and is now swaying back and forth haphazardly. I keep hearing his bellowing laughter from across the room, and finally a family friend approaches him and seems to say something serious. Matt just laughs even louder, puts a hand on either shoulder, and appears to be blowing in his face. In spite of myself, I give a low laugh.

            Distracted, I don’t see Elle approach me. By the time I catch her, she’s too close for me to slip away.

            “Hey girllllll!” Elle says.

            Her enthusiasm throws me off, but it also amuses me and makes me feel like I can handle her. “Hey . . . sweetie,” I say back, and Elle’s smile flickers ever so slightly as she notes my hesitation, but it doesn’t make her pause for long.

            “Listen,” she says, “I was really sorry to hear about what happened.” Maybe something in my face reads confusion, because she adds, “You know . . . with school.”

            What she thought was confusion was probably an expression of mildly surprised annoyance. I’m never really confused when someone wants to talk to me about what happened with school. People always confront me about that, as though it will be a new topic of discussion for me. Or maybe they don’t know what else to say.

            “Thanks Elle, I appreciate it.”

            Elle nods absently and then says, “It’s just . . .”
            “What? What do you want to talk about?”

            She looks at me, as though she’s considering something. Then she asks, “Do you really not mind talking about it?”
            “Talking about what?” But of course, I know.

            “It’s just that . . . I’m kind of worried about going away to school, especially after, you know, what happened to you,” she sees me wince when she mentions this, but continues. “I just wanted to ask you . . . is there something you could have done differently? Is there something you would change if you could do it again?”
            “Change something . . . ? I don’t really understand what you mean,” But I have the sinking feeling that I understand exactly what she is getting at.

            “I mean, there must have been something you could do. People don’t just drop out of college.”

            I narrow my eyes and widen them, searching for something to say. My mouth drops open and I avoid looking directly at Elle.

            “I don’t mean to sound rude,” Elle adds quickly. “I’m just . . . curious, I guess.”

            “Elle . . . there’s nothing I could have done differently, other than be born with a different brain. Sometimes things just happen to you.”

            In spite of her assertion that she’s not trying to be rude, Elle makes a face like she doesn’t believe that’s true. Her mouth twists as she chokes down the words she thinks would hurt my feelings. “I mean, but things don’t just happen . . .”

            “Sometimes they do. I don’t know what you’re looking for me to say to you. If there was something I could have done, I would have done it. But sometimes things just happen to you, and you react to them. That’s life. Welcome to young adulthood.”

            Elle swallows hard, and I feel a little guilty that I’m telling her this at her graduation party. Then she says, “I don’t know if I really believe that, I don’t know if I really think there was nothing you could do,” and I stop feeling guilty.

            “Do you really think that I prefer living here?” I say, and I hear the edge in my voice. I ignore it. “Do you think I wanted to move back home after moving away?”

            Elle starts back at the sudden change in my demeanor. “No of course not, I was just trying to say that—“

            “That, what? That I could have just tried harder and everything would have been okay? That’s not how it fucking works, okay?” I can feel people look at me as I get louder, and as I swear at the guest of honor.
            Elle nervously pats her bun and looks away. She says, “Alright, calm down, you don’t have to be dramatic, I was just trying to make a point.”

            “It’s not your point to make, Elle. I hope to God that what happened to me doesn’t happen to you. I hope you don’t end up living back at home, trying to explain to idiots why you can’t just get better.”

            The words fly out of my mouth, and I barely comprehend them before I can’t take them back. I shift back and forth on my feet and try to find something to say that will diffuse the situation. That will make me feel better, and that will explain to Elle, and everyone else that is now observing, why I would ever say such a thing. I can’t, and I know it.

            Elle stares at her feet, her face completely red. She looks as though she still wants to say something but I shake my head. We stare at each other in disbelief. I turn and walk towards the front door. Without checking to see if my mother is watching and seeing where I’m going, I walk through the door and out into the night.

            This is the kind of experience that would normally set me off into panic. And yet, I don’t feel what I said weighing down on me in that way. I’ve been thinking these things for months, and part of me is glad that they finally found their way out. Maybe not in this particular way, but it happened.

            I walk down the sidewalk randomly, not paying attention to where I’m going. I know this neighborhood too well to get lost in it, and my thoughts are elsewhere. My thoughts are back at the day I left school.

~

            I walked slowly to my dorm room. I had just spoken to an adviser, and was officially on a leave of absence. I had twenty-four hours to leave the premises, but I was prepared for that. My car was packed. I was going straight to the airport to pick up my mother. We would make the long trek back together.

            I got to my room, and looked around at it for the last time. If I ever came back, things would be different. I would be different, the people in my life would have moved on. All of my stuff was gone, and it made the cracks in the wall and the ceiling look much more obvious. I grabbed my last bag, made eye contact with Margaret, my roommate. Wordlessly, we walked out together.

            We got to the car and I loaded my bag into the passenger seat. I barely turned before Margaret threw her arms around me and hugged me. We stood there for a second and she said, “Figure out whatever you need to, and then come back. There are plenty of people here who love you, and will be waiting.”

            And at that moment, I couldn’t say anything, because I had no idea when things would start to be okay again. So I just nodded and she hugged me harder. Then we separated and I walked around to the driver’s side of my car.

            “Text me when you get home,” she said, and I nodded. Then I opened the car door and climbed in.

            I sat there for a moment. I no longer felt like I was in free fall, like I was still accelerating towards the ground. I put my hands on the steering wheel and gripped it hard. I took a deep breath, turned the car on, and drove away.