AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She drops her shoulders, sets the mirror on the exam table beside her leg, and sighs. “I’m being crazy, aren’t I?”
That’s not a word I take lightly, and certainly not when we’re talking about mystery ailments. And definitely not with a person so prone to self-diagnosis.
“Not crazy at all. It can feel alarming when things don’t look the way you think they should,” I say. “But from where I sit, your skin looks fantastic.”
Did I just say that? Did she hear it like it was coming from a doctor? Compassionate, but not connected, right? Empathetic, but not emotionally invested, right?
Or did it sound like it was coming from someone who recently noticed how fantastic her skin is?
I swallow and hurry on. “It doesn’t seem like there’s any discoloration now. I believe you saw some shadowing or shading, but I’m not seeing anything to be alarmed about.”
I’m plenty alarmed, but not about her face. Just about what her face might be doing to me.
Get back on track, Mercer. This is not a person. This is a patient.“I’m here to listen to your concerns. You know your body better than anyone else.”
Oh, no. There was no way she couldn’t hear the subtext in that one. I clear my throat, hoping that I can shake loose the tightening that’s happening at the thought.
Moving on. “Are you still worried about it?”
She takes a second to think about her answer.
I try not to do anything unsubtle like gaze at her. Or lick my lips. Or flex my fingers. Or breathe too much.
“I guess I’m not. Thanks, Dr. Mercer.” She swings her legs to the side of the exam table and I slide my chair backward, getting out of her way.
And for the first time, I don’t tell her to call me Grayson.
There is definitely no way I can stay professional if she starts calling me by my name.
2
SAGE
If I walk across campus from the health clinic to the library with my fingers touching the skin under my eyes, kids will think I’m crying. Or trying not to. Good thing I’m past the point in my life where I care what Chamberlain students think I’m doing.
I mean, barely past. But past is past.
And I’m only touching this part of my face because Dr. Mercer told me it’s fine. Nothing’s wrong with it. And I want to remember what “fine” feels like. Sometimes I forget.
And people can stare if they want. They’re doing it anyway. As I stand here on the sidewalk of Chamberlain Academy, the place I came home to when I didn’t want to go home, I remember that I really don’t care about the opinions of the students.
When I was a student here, I cared about all of it. Getting the best grades, having the right clothes, taming my hair into something resembling a style, getting (and holding on to) first chair in the orchestra, hanging around with the right kids. I cared about what everyone else was doing. I wanted to know every story.
Now? Not so much.
I know. It hasn’t been long. I was a student here three years ago—technically two and a half. You may think it’s not even been long enough to make a major attitude change like that, but let me just say that practically everything changed for me in the year I attended college.
Yeah. The year. One.
Not great for the retention records. I know. Believe me, I know. Nobody’s going to put my picture up on an alumni wall of fame.Look at Sage Whitney! Violin prodigy and college dropout. We’re so proud.
Yeah, no.
Here’s the thing: when you get acceptances at Yale and NYU and the Berklee College of Music, you have to get serious about choices. My family lives in Manhattan, so Boston sounded like the right distance away. Besides, all I wanted to do was music, and Berklee is a specialist’s dream. Even though Yale’s music program is prestigious, its focus is mostly classical. I loved the idea of experimental music. The chill vibe at Berklee was a bonus.
So I packed up my violin and moved to Boston. It’s a perfect city with a huge university demographic. So many students attending so many different kinds of schools. Berklee is, as advertised, excellent. The classes and the opportunities were all I could have hoped for, right up until I didn’t hope it anymore.
I can’t explain it (trust me, I’ve tried—every time I speak to my dad, for instance), but from the time I was a toddler until I was nineteen, I loved playing violin. Everything about it made me happy, energized me. My music was a part of me. I didn’t go anywhere without my violin. It was an appendage. My whole identity. I lived and breathed music. I was very good at it, and I worked hard. There was magic involved, I’m pretty sure. It felt electric, and I adored it. And then, all of the sudden, I didn’t.
