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“You’re still a good decade behind, honey.”
A bell rings, and a group of people enter the diner.
“Let me go get them settled. You two sit wherever you want,” Linda says, before rushing off.
Momma tells me to stay where I’m at—she’s gotta use the restroom. It’s then I notice how red and blotchy her eyes and face are.
“I’ve got him,” the man says, and Momma smiles, nods, and murmurs a thank you before disappearing around the corner toward a back hallway.
The song draws to a close, and a new one kicks on. Some oldies song, like Carl, Dad’s mechanic used to play when we’d change Dad’s oil.
The big hairy man arches a brow, gesturin’ at the pen and placemat, and I smile, nodding.
While Momma’s gone, he tells me his name is Gavin—I tell him he looks like a Logan, and he laughs at that, that low, deep, grumbly laugh.
He tells me he used to be a Marine, that he’s Linda’s husband, and he’s a bartender.
And his favorite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival.
CHAPTER FOUR
AGE 6, SEPTEMBER
I have a bad feeling.
But I always have bad feelings.
Last spring, my parents took me to see the doctor to find out what was wrong with me. I was getting so sick all the time—belly aches and throwing up… It made me miss school more and more.
They took an x-ray and even poked me with a needle, stealing some of my blood, which was stupid of them. It made me puke all over the floor. I always thought you go to the doctor to feel better. Not make it worse.
Dr. Bass, our pediatrician, said everything came back clear. I was a healthy six year old boy, if not a little small for my age. He said it was probably just nerves, and sent us to this lady called a therapist, who I now see once a week. Her name is Mary Ann.
She’s nice, and she likes Spider-Man—the movies though, not the comics; she said she’s never read those—but talking to her is hard. I don’t really have anything to say or complain about. I usually just nod or color as Mommy or Daddy or both talk to her in the other room.
Mary Ann will sometimes come talk to me as I draw—she’ll color with me too sometimes—but other than that I’m not alone with her. She tried once, but I shook my head and hid my face in Mommy’s arm.
She hasn’t tried again since.
Social anxiety.
That’s what they’re calling it now.
Not just me being shy. Not just nerves. It has a name.
Mommy and Daddy said no to medicine for it. I’m not sure why. Aren’t you supposed to take medicine when you’re sick?
I wish I had medicine now. I don’t feel good at all, and school didn’t even start yet.
Izzy and I were driven separately today. Normally, I hang out with her and Waylon before we’re called into the school and I go to my transition class, while they go to their own classroom. But I don’t have either of them now.
Waylon didn’t stay with us last night, so his daddy’s bringing him. They must be running late.
And Izzy, she now has piano lessons first thing in the morning three times a week, instead of the afternoons like she used to, since she’s now in first grade and goes all day. Mommy and Daddy don’t want her to fall behind with school work.
I’d hate to wake up as early as she has to, especially when school is now all-day long—for me too, even though I’m in transition. But she doesn’t complain at all, not about that. She only complains when we get home when Mommy won’t let her go down to our studio to practice until she gets her homework done.
Going all day stinks. I miss summer. I miss kindergarten. I miss preschool even more, because we got to have naps there. I was never sick when I was in preschool.
