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Chapter Sixteen
Dependency Depends on Me
Kodiak
Age 13
LAVENDER AND RIVERgot cell phones for their eleventh birthday. I didn’t get one until I turned twelve, but Lavender is a girl, and her parents worry about her a lot. They wanted her to be able to contact the people in her support network, so they gave in and got them both one.
It’s supposed to help with her independence.
It also means we can text each other.
Which is good, because sometimes she needs me and not everyone understands. It makes me anxious when I can’t be there to calm her down. I know what it’s like to be trapped in my head, unable to get away from all the spinning negativity. Once I’m in the spiral, it’s hard to get out.
On the way to hockey practice, my phone pings, so I flip it over and check the screen. It’s Lavender.
I used to have a photo of her attached to her contact. It was her at Queenie’s, our therapist, working on one of her pieces of art. Her hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing a dress she made. Her expression was fierce with concentration.
I changed it to an infinity symbol and switched her name to a boy’s because I don’t want my parents to know how much we message each other. I don’t think they’d like it, since it’s every day. I erase all the messages after we’re done chatting, because my mom and dad check my phone sometimes and go through all my conversations with friends. Most of the time, I talk about hockey and school, but with Lavender it’s different. We talk about other stuff, and I won’t betray her trust, because she confides in me.
She tells me how sometimes River makes things hard for her. Or how everyone is so protective. I’m protective too, but Lavender doesn’t seem to mind as much with me.
When she first got her phone and my dad saw how much we were messaging, he sat me down and talked to me about how Lavender is still mostly a little girl, and I’m a teenager, and I’m starting to grow up, but she’s not there yet. I didn’t want to hear it, even though I know he’s right.
Lavender and I have always been close, and I don’t want anyone to take her away from me, so I promised him it wasn’t ever likethat. I told my dad she’s like my little sister, only she doesn’t annoy me like Aspen.
I understand why he’s worried, though. Sometimes at hockey practice, the older boys who play before us talk about their girlfriends and the stuff they do.
Maverick kissed Abby Saunders at a party last month, and her braces cut his lip. But he still said he’d do it again anyway.
I’m too focused on hockey to deal with girls right now. Lavender is the only girl I like hanging around with, and she’s the only one who really gets me, just like I get her. I don’t understand most girls. Or most people. I don’t like having to pretend I’m interested in what someone is saying, and most of the time people like to fill the silence with nonsense.
Lavender doesn’t have a lot to say when we’re in big crowds, but when we’re alone, or with people she’s comfortable with, like her cousins, she’s animated and fun and funny and introspective.
My mom says she’s going to be a knockout when she’s older and finds her confidence. Secretly, I don’t know if I want that to happen, because then she might not need me anymore.
Lavender is what my mom calls an old soul. She sees people for what they are, and she feels everything really intensely. I think it’s why she has such bad anxiety attacks—the kind that make it impossible for her to get words out, because the fear chokes her.
I know how to make that better. Not even Queenie is as good at calming her down as I am. Or River. And if I’m honest, I like that Lavender relies on me. I like that she needs me, that I’m the only person who can fix things for her when she’s out of control. It makes me feel likeI’mactually in control, because most of the time my head is a big, jumbled, uncomfortable mess.
The only time I really get any peace is when I’m on the ice, or when I’m helping Lavender. Occasionally my sleep is peaceful, but lately I’ve been waking up from dreams that make me feel bad, even though I don’t have control over my thoughts when I’m unconscious. I never tell Queenie about them. Or anyone. I know they’re wrong, so I keep them to myself.
Sometimes my sessions with Queenie overlap with Lavender’s by a few minutes, and I get to see what she’s been working on. Mostly I’m early because the possibility of being late stresses me out, but it also gives me a glimpse inside Lavender’s head, which is a fascinating place. She’s brilliant; not in the same academic way I am, but she understands the world on a different level.
I understand logic and math and reason. She understands people and feelings and emotions. I don’t know which one of us is more tortured because of it.
My mom tells me we perseverate. I’ve learned it’s a nice way of saying we’re obsessive and overthink everything. The hard part about being a genius is knowing all the fundamentals but not being able to talk to anyone about anything mundane without sounding like an asshole.
My mom sounds sweet and kind and genuine. I sound like I hate everyone. Because mostly I do. I like Maverick because he gets me, and we both love hockey. I like my dad because we share the same passion, and he pushes me to be better. I love my mom because our brains are the same, and she feels the same level of guilt I do when I’m not entertained by people. And I revere Lavender because she’s all the things I’m not. She’s sensitive and aware, kind and sweet, and she’s soft and compassionate. But she’s also a warrior.
She knows how to exist in this world without always having to be part of it. Sure, she falls apart, but if she didn’t, I wouldn’t have the same role in her life, so I live for those moments when she needs me.
I glance over at my dad, but he’s focused on driving. I key in my passcode and tap the message. Lavender knows my hockey practice schedule since I play with Maverick.
Lavender: ru at the arena yet
Kodiak: Heading to practice, sup?
