Lost for Words by Alice Kuipers Page B

out what was wrong with me. The only thing that fit my symptoms of nausea, mad heartbeat, crazy thoughts, difficulty breathing, and feeling frightened is “panic attacks,” which sound like the sort of thing people get who are really messed up. I’m definitely not going to tell anyone about this; I don’t want everyone to think I’m completely insane.
    Trust me to get panic attacks, if that’s what they are. I’m so lame. Everything’s lame. Why can’t I just get a grip? I called Rosa-Leigh, deciding that I needed to stop thinking about all of this. We chatted about what a bitch Abigail isbeing, and Rosa-Leigh moaned about how much homework she has. It was all very normal, and for a moment I forgot all the stuff about panic attacks. Rosa-Leigh said she has a surprise for me on Thursday and I totally have to come to her house. Thank God for her. If there even is a God.
    THURSDAY, MARCH 30 TH
    I’m staying at Rosa-Leigh’s tonight. I wonder what the surprise is….
    FRIDAY, MARCH 31 ST
    Last night was amazing! We got to Rosa-Leigh’s, and all her family was there, including her dad. It’s so fun to have a dad around, especially a dad like hers who is so friendly. He’s short for a man but really broad-shouldered and red-faced, with a huge beard. Even he says he looks like a bear, which is the family joke. He told heaps of stories about Canada and made everyone laugh.
    All her brothers were there, including Joshua, her oldest brother (I worked out which one is which) and who I SWEAR looked at me more than once and held my gaze until I blushed. He was sweet and funny and much better looking than Dan. (Although Dan has such nice eyes. But I have to forget about Dan, anyway.) Joshua even madesure I got enough spaghetti Bolognese, which Mum never makes anymore because we eat only takeaways or leftovers. I miss roast dinners and Mum’s crazy health kicks. It’s like now she can’t even bear us sitting together to eat. Not that I ever want to sit and eat with her. Anyway, the spaghetti Bolognese was the best ever. Rosa-Leigh’s dad made it.
    After dinner Rosa-Leigh’s dad dropped us off somewhere in Camden. She said, “There it is,” pointing to a tattered red door. Above it hung a lamp, very nineteen-forties and cool. We pushed open the door, and it was like going into someone’s house, all these sofas everywhere and beautiful lamps with colored glass that Rosa-Leigh said were Tiffany. I thought Tiffany was the jewelry shop in New York, but I didn’t say anything. I sat on a sofa and looked at the crazy-haired people in the room, all dread-locks and braids, wearing multicolored jumpers and skirts. Stuff Emily would have thought was amazing. Except she wasn’t there and I was.
    The sofa smelled of dust and smoke. It was covered in a flower pattern. Rosa-Leigh smiled and said hi to a couple who were sitting at a nearby table. Then she went to get us drinks. She didn’t get asked for ID like I would have been. I suddenly felt like I always want to feel: like I fit into my own life.
    Rosa-Leigh brought us over gin and tonics. It’s the sort of drink my mum would have. Rosa-Leigh said it was the sort of drink she thought everyone in England had all thetime, which I told her it wasn’t.
    I asked her what this place is. She put her finger to her lips and raised an eyebrow in a wait-and-see gesture.
    Then the lights went low, and over in one corner I saw the microphone in a spotlight. A black guy with the most gorgeous face went up to the mike. I could hardly stop looking at him, not because I fancied him but because he was so classically handsome that he looked like a painting. Then he started to talk. Except he wasn’t talking; he was saying POEMS. He recited this most amazing poem about war and bombs. I shivered as if someone were kissing my neck (which made me fantasize about Dan). It felt like the guy was saying the poem for me. Except he wasn’t saying it like it was a poem; he was saying it like it was