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I shake him off. “Don’t touch me.”
“How are you doing? You don’t answer any texts or calls.”
“Take a hint then.”
“I’m not going to back off, knowing
the state you’re in,” Wade says. He rubs his eyes. “I knew Theo, too—for longer than you—but okay. You’re not being fair treating me like I fucking held Theo’s head underwater and—”
I turn left and run. If I don’t run, this hallway will become a crime scene. He shouts his apology for that unbelievably dick-headed thing he just said, but I keep going. Wade has never been good with words, but now I can’t get this visual out of my head of you, out in the ocean, being drowned by the person you trusted the most before I came around.
I’m getting the hell out of here—off this floor, out of this building. I almost trip going down the stairs, and I half-wish I did and broke my neck. I’m sorry; that’s not okay to say. You know I would never give up on life like that, especially knowing yours was stolen. I would never just press a button and power myself down.
I run to my locker.
Remembering my combination is hard, but my fingers turn the dial and do their thing. I grab my coat and slam the locker shut, charging to a side entrance. The dean is coming down the stairs.
“No running, Griffin!”
I don’t stop. I rush past her and push open the door. She calls for me, chasing after me with no jacket or sweater, but I lose her quickly. I run through the street, almost slipping because of the slush, and I run into the train station and text my dad to let him know I’m coming home and never going back to that place.
This all happened because someone was sitting on my left.
We’re all gathered in the living room, discussing what went down at school. Jackson is sitting to my right, as it should be, and my parents are sitting across from us on the chairs they dragged over from the dining-room table. Everyone has calmed down, myself included. I wasn’t surprised to learn from Jackson that my mom was freaking out after she got the call from my dad telling him I ditched.
“You’re staying home from school tomorrow with me,” my mom says. She’s trying to make eye contact with me, but I continue staring at the TV, even though it’s off. “You’re too vulnerable in that environment right now.”
“I don’t want to go back next week either,” I say. I’m done pretending anything I do in class actually matters for my future. I could ace all my classes like you did and complete all my homework assignments and still find myself the victim of a random and fatal accident. If you knew you were going to die young, would you have spent as much time studying, Theo? I’d bet two dollars you would have, actually. But we’re different. I can’t even sit on someone’s right without having a panic attack.
“Okay. We can see how you’re feeling on Monday,” Mom says.
Dad nods. He looks worried, not that I can blame him. “We understand how hard it is being somewhere where you spent so much time with Theo,” he says. He’s right, but school isn’t the only place where I spent so much time with you. He turns to my mom. “Maybe next semester we can get Griff transferred to another school. Fresh start.”
“This isn’t some out of sight, out of mind thing,” I say. “It’s Theo.”
Jackson nods. “Transferring is too easy. I’ve thought about it too, but it feels wrong. Like I’m trying to forget him.”
My parents look at each other. They’ve always had a way of wordlessly consulting. They’re honestly both good cops. The closest my dad has ever come to playing bad cop was when he shrugged Jackson off after meeting him, but now it’s my mom’s turn. “Jackson, would you mind if we speak to Griffin alone for a second? We need to talk to him about something sensitive.”
“Whatever you’re going to tell me I’m just going to tell him,” I say.
“It’s okay,” Jackson says. “It’s a family meeting, I get it. Sorry.” He gets up and heads straight into my room, closing the door behind him.
“That wasn’t called for,” I say.
Mom looks at me. “We’ve been very accommodating, but I’m honestly not sure if Jackson’s being here is what’s best for you right now,” she says. “You’re going through a huge loss—”
“Jackson is the only one who understands,” I interrupt.
“—and it might be time for Jackson to go home to give you a more stable environment. More importantly, we need you to see a real therapist.” She stands and takes Jackson’s seat, your seat, beside me. My parents rarely falter on this left versus right business, thankfully; you never did, either. “If Jackson’s presence is affecting your compulsions, it’s a problem. Regardless, you need to see a therapist and psychiatrist soon.”
I can’t tell them that I’ll be fine, that there’s really nothing wrong with me. I hate even recognizing myself as wrong. But I also doubt words and exposure therapy will make the compulsions stop. I think it’ll be the opposite, like seeing a psychiatrist will only drag the compulsions more into focus. The real problem is that my parents are too normal to understand this.
“You can’t make me,” I say. And I know I have them there. There’s no way they can punish me any more than I already punish myself.
“Therapy isn’t a bad thing, or anything to be ashamed of,” Mom says. She reaches for me.
“Then you go.” I shake her hand away and go to my room. If she wants to go see a “mental health professional” and report back on how I’m supposed to be doing according to the seven stages of grief or whatever bullshit they’ll feed her, she can be my guest. I don’t need that in my life any more than I do Wade’s telling me everything about you I already know.
