Page 39 of Goodbye Days

“The head smack at the end was what elevated it. That took it from funny to comedy,” Blake says. “That’s the secret to comedy—you gotta always take the next step.”

“But next time,” Eli says, “try to do it so you don’t actually hurt yourself. It’s funnier when people don’t worry about your physical safety. Nobody wants that guilt.”

“Thanks, dude. That’s good advice,” I say. “Guilt does blow.”

I continue to massage the thickening lump over my right eye. I have a nascent headache from the radiating pain. I can tell it’s going to make my eyebrow swell enough that I’ll be able to see a tiny bit of it in my upper field of vision, driving me crazy. Turns out there’s no real upside to collapsing in front of all your classmates two minutes into the first day of school and boinking your head on the wall. And then my mind is still as I watch a billowing ivory cloud lazily cross the sky. It’s a dog. Then it’s a frog. The ridges of the pickup bed are starting to dig into my spine. I roll onto my side, pull my phone from my pocket, and hold it for a second. I hear, somewhere in the distance, some shuffling; and then the door slams shut and there’s the quick scurrying of feet. Then it’s silent except for the far-off drone of car tires and thrumming pulse of insects in the trees; all the invisible life that surrounds me.

I call Georgia.

“Carver? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“Don’t be mad,” I say as my voice starts to quaver.

“I won’t be, but tell me what’s going on.”

“I had another panic attack.” I can hear Georgia fighting the urge to say I told you so.

“Shit. Are you okay?”

“Um.”

“And of course you called me instead of Mom.”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you? Nurse’s office or what?”

“Parking lot.”

“Okay.”

“Look for a white Nissan pickup. I’m lying in the bed.”

She laughs and immediately catches herself. “Dude. You are having—”

“The shittiest first day of school ever.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes. But I gotta rush; I have work.”

“Fine.”

We hang up and I lie there with my eyes shut, watching the kaleidoscope patterns on the insides of my eyelids. Finally a car pulls up behind the pickup. I still lie there, even when I hear the door open. I can’t take the risk that it’s someone other than Georgia. Lord knows I’ve had enough pratfalls today. I don’t need to be jumping out of pickup beds and having spooked strangers call the cops on me.

I hear footsteps and Georgia’s face appears over the side of the pickup bed, dark like Jesmyn’s was against the brightness. It makes me jump, even though I was expecting her. We stare at each other for a moment.

“Carver,” she says softly, and reaches out to touch the lump on my head.

I wince and gently bat her hand away. “Don’t.”

“How? Well, tell me in the car.”

I sit up and wait for the head rush to clear. I’m completely sapped. I struggle climbing out of the pickup bed. I flop down in Georgia’s car, rest my head against the headrest, and close my eyes. I realize I left my blazer in the pickup bed but I don’t have the energy to return for it.

Georgia sits. “You owe me, dude.”

I open an eye and look at her. “Why are you shitting on me? My friends died.”

“I’m not shitting on you and you can’t keep using your friends as an excuse. I tried to convince you to seek help, but no. Well, guess what.” She whips out her phone, scrolls through her contacts, hits one, and holds the phone to her ear as she starts to drive away.