out?
âIâm going to check your pulse, Ethan,â my dad says, sitting next to me on my bed. âCan I do that?â
I nod, not ready to speak. My dad places his warm hand up near my neck, two fingers pressing in. His touch startles me, and I pull back.
âNot too hard,â my mother says. âHe needs to breathe.â Sheâs there, too, standing next to my dad, dressed in the black yoga pants and ratty Yale T-shirt she sleeps in sometimes, one hand nervously folding over the other, over and over again.
âMegan,â my father says, his voice soft but firm. The same voice I know he uses with little kids when theyâre scared to have a cavity filled.
The sheets under me are damp with sweat. Iâm cold all of a sudden, and my teeth start to chatter loud enough that Iâm sure my dad can hear.
âGet him another blanket,â my dad directs my mother. When she comes back from the hall closet with one, he tells her, âHis pulse is slowing down. Itâs okay. The worst is over.â
âHe hasnât had one of these in weeks,â my mother says, her brow wrinkled with concern. âWe need to talk to Dr. Greenberg about adjusting his dosage.â
âMaybe,â my dad answers, wrapping me up in the soft green comforter that used to be on the bed in the guest room before my mother redecorated it. He looks me in the eyes and pushes a smile out. One of his signature this-will-only-hurt-for-a-moment-donât-worry smiles. He uses those with the kids who have cavities, too.
âI want to call Dr. Greenberg right now,â says my mother. âMy phone is charging in the kitchen. Let me go get it.â If sheâs not already crying I can tell from the crack in her voice that sheâs pretty close to it.
âItâs the middle of the night, Megan,â my father says.
She turns in the doorway and glares at my dad. âI know itâs the goddamn middle of the night!â she snaps.
I blink and exhale, my breath shaky. âStop,â I manage. âJust ⦠stop. Donât yell. Iâm okay now.â
Now my motherâs crying for real. Big, glossy tears pouring down her face. Sobbing coming from deep in her chest.
âMegan,â my dad says under his breath. âMegan, honeyâ¦â
âOh, Ethan, Iâm sorry,â my mother says, crossing the bedroom floor in her quick, tiny steps and reaching out for me. âOh, sweetheart. My sweet, sweet little boy.â
She hugs me like she might crush me, and I shrug my shoulders at her touch. She senses it and backs up. I press my hands onto my face because I donât want to see her hurt expression. But I really donât want her to touch me right now. I want to disintegrate into a million little pieces and float through the atmosphere. I want to rocket up past the moon and disappear somewhere into the outer bands of the Milky Way.
I want to be somewhere where I donât feel anything.
I think I am a seriously fucked up person. And I will probably never be normal. Even if I want to be.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
When I wake up the next morning, itâs so late itâs almost lunchtime. I fell asleep last night only after I took one of the pills Dr. Greenberg prescribed for my anxiety.
When I go downstairs, my mom tells me sheâs called my tutor to cancel school, telling her Iâm not feeling 100 percent. To be honest, I donât mind Mrs. Leander coming over and tutoring me. Sheâs some retired teacher whoâs probably, like, seventy years old, but sheâs pretty good at teaching me, and she doesnât treat me like Iâm some weirdo but just like Iâm any other kid. One time I overheard her telling my mom that my ânatural intelligenceâ will help me overcome the fact that I didnât go to school for four years. So I couldnât help but like her a little more after that.
But a day off from school means a day