Focused
Page 13
When I’m officially done studying, I call Red. The phone only rings three times before it goes to voice mail, like he saw my name and pressed ignore on purpose. I leave a message:
“Hi, it’s me, Clea. I’m sorry I said all that stuff about your family today in front of everyone. That was so stupid. I promise I won’t do anything like that ever again. You don’t have to call me back if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to know.”
I keep my phone next to me for the rest of the night, in case Red calls back. He doesn’t.
WHEN MY ALARM goes off in the morning, I check my phone. There are no missed calls or texts from Red. I know I said he didn’t have to call me back, but I sort of thought he would anyway, because we’ve never had a fight that went into the next day. It’s weird that I’m going to start taking medicine for ADHD, and Red doesn’t even know.
The kitchen is warmer than the rest of the house. Mom has made a feast of my favorite foods—blueberry pancakes, smoothies, scrambled eggs, and crispy hash browns.
“Can we please have this every day?” Henley points to her plate. “It’s fancy like at a hotel. Pretty please?”
“Maybe.” Mom smiles and kisses the top of her head. Then she sits down next to me and rubs my back with her hand as I finish the last of my strawberry-and-banana smoothie. “The medicine is going to start working quickly, and it will last all day. Remember you might not be very hungry, at least for the first few weeks, but it’s important for you to try to eat as much as you can. Your brain needs nutrients to learn.”
I haven’t even taken the pill yet, and I’m already nervous and not that hungry. “I’m scared,” I say softly.
“I know, honey, but try not to worry. It’s going to help,” Mom says. She holds out a glass of orange juice and a small blue capsule. I put the pill on my tongue, take a sip of juice, and swallow. It tastes sweet and hopeful and like everything is going to get better.
By the time I get to school, my mouth is dry, like I’ve been eating peanut butter and cotton. It doesn’t matter how much water I drink. There isn’t enough to unclog my throat, and I’m queasy and carsick from the short ride.
Red isn’t waiting for me at our bench, and I guess it’s not our bench anymore, because he’s never there. He’s on the other side of the courtyard, and even though I’m pretty sure he’s waiting for Dylan and not me, I walk over to him.
Only, as soon as I’m standing next to him, I have no clue what to say. And out of nowhere, he feels far away. Like there’s this giant balloon between us, and I’m realizing for the first time that it’s been there for a while, getting bigger and pushing us farther apart, and now that I know it’s there, all I want to do is pop it so everything can go back to normal and we can be best friends again the way we were before this year. “I’m sorry,” I say again.
“You should be.” He looks at the parking lot and the building and the people in front of us, everywhere but at me.
“I didn’t mean to say all those things out loud or make it harder for you.”
“I get that you feel bad and you didn’t mean to freak out, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s exactly what you did, and you do it all the time.” I’m about to interrupt, because I don’t do it that often, but I bite down on my lip instead. “You blurt things out. And I get that you were trying to defend me, but I didn’t want people to know about the baby, and you knew that. I don’t want to keep reminding everyone that my family is a mess. I need school to be normal, because the rest of my life is really bad.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say. “I won’t do that ever again. I promise.”
“Don’t. It’s just the way you are. You’ve always been like that, and it never mattered before, because nothing in my life was that big of a deal, so if you told people something I didn’t want them to know, I didn’t care that much. But it’s different now—I’m different. And you’re the same.”
My heart is pounding so hard against my chest. I want to scream, because everything Red just said is true. I take a deep breath. “I’m going to be different starting today. Really.”
“How?” he asks, like he definitely doesn’t believe me.
“I started taking medicine for ADHD, so I’m going to be in control from now on. I swear—” I try to think of something important to swear on, because I need him to trust me. Best friends trust each other. “On Henley.”
“Oh.” He sounds surprised, and maybe a little sad that there’s something about me that he doesn’t know, because I didn’t tell him. “When did you start taking medicine?”
“Today,” I say. “My parents and the doctor think it’s definitely going to help.”
“Okay, but I don’t get what blurting stuff out has to do with ADHD,” he says.
“I guess the same part of your brain that controls attention is in charge of emotions, too, and I need extra help not saying everything I’m thinking.”
“I didn’t know that,” he says. “What’s it like so far?”
“I’m really thirsty.” I take a sip from my water bottle. “But I think it might be working, because when you said all that stuff about how I blurt things out, I didn’t interrupt you or anything, and I’m pretty sure that’s not how I usually act.”
“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t think of that, but you’re right.”
“Yeah. It’s definitely working,” I say, because I need that to be true, and not just because of school and chess, but because everything Red said about me before is right and real, and I wish it weren’t. I don’t want to be the kind of friend who makes things harder when they’re already bad. I want to be someone he can trust.
“Just don’t do it anymore, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. I’m not going to act like that ever again.
* * *
When I get to English, I slide into the empty desk in the front row next to Sanam. My stomach is cramping, and my head is pounding. I pick up my water bottle and drink as much as I can.
“Take one and pass it on,” Mr. Lee says and hands me a stack of tests.
I put one on my desk, turn around, and give the pile to Quinn. I write my name at the top of the page. The test is thick. The flimsy staple can barely hold the pages together. “You have thirty minutes to finish,” Mr. Lee says. “Good luck.”
I do my best to concentrate on the problem in front of me, instead of worrying about all the questions I have to answer before time is up. It feels a little like a switch has been flipped, like all the teeny tiny sounds and smells and movements that would normally pull my attention away have disappeared. But my stomach hurts, like it’s empty. Only it’s not. I ignore the pain. I read the next word—sanguine—and start writing down the definition. Noun: A bloodred color. Adjective: A … I know this. I do. I’m ready. I practiced this one a lot. I try as hard as I can to remember, except between my head and stomach, I feel like I might puke up the big breakfast I ate all over my desk.
The answer will come to me. I just need to move on to the next one for now: Vapid. Adjective: Bland. Offering nothing stimulating. I scribble the definition from memory. Example sentence: Some people love baseball, but I think sports are vapid. The words are making me queasy. I lift my head up, hoping to feel better, but it’s worse. I’m dizzy and nauseous. I look back down at my test. The medicine is helping me focus. It’s working right now. I need to stop making excuses.
By the time Mr. Lee says, “Five more minutes,” I’m still on the first page.
I flip through the test and scan the other words—diminutive, imminent, abate, incredulous, mirth, palliation, semblance, and taciturn. I know all of them. I studied so hard. But I’m never going to get through the rest of the questions in less than five minutes. I go back to the top of the page and try to use sanguine in a sentence. It doesn’t matter that my hand is shaking, like I’m nervous even though I’m not, and that my writing is barely legible. I force myself to at least try to finish.
“That’s time,” Mr. Lee says. “Pencils down.”
Mr. Lee walks around the room and collects our tests. Most of mine is blank. It’s bad. I did everything Ms. Curtis said to do and I took medicine. Everything is supposed to be better now. But I still got distracted and messed up, because my stomach hurt and I’m me. My ADHD wasn’t even a problem. I didn’t get distracted or stuck when I couldn’t remember sanguine. I moved on and kept going. That part felt good. I don’t want to lie to Mr. Lee, and I don’t want to tell him that I didn’t finish in front of everyone in class and that I need more time. They don’t need to know. And I’m pretty sure more time won’t help me anyway. Nothing will.
I try to pay attention and act like I did totally fine, because my problems are supposed to be gone, or at least smaller, now that I can focus. Except school feels exactly the same as always. Impossible.
When I get to math, I hold the balloon in one hand under my desk and take notes with the other, looking up at the board every few seconds. I remind myself to listen and write down what I need to remember. I squeeze, listen, and write over and over, until I fall into a rhythm. I’m so focused on taking notes that I don’t notice the bell ring or everyone start to pack up and leave. When I’m finished copying everything into my notebook, I realize I’m alone, except for Ms. Pumi. I grab my backpack and walk down the mostly deserted hall toward science.
I’m not hungry for lunch, like Mom said, but I have to find a way to eat, because I need energy for chess if I want to win today.
Dylan is at our table again with Red. But this time it doesn’t feel like a bad thing, because when I sit down, he pulls a chess book out of his backpack, slides it over to me, and says, “You can keep it for as long as you want.”
I look down at the cover. “This is perfect. Thanks.” I grin.
He smiles back at me, showing off both dimples. He’s so cute. “Let me know if you want to, um, talk strategies.”
“K.” I nod and look away, trying to act chill and, like, whatever, since I don’t want to make it obvious to anyone, especially not to Dylan or Red, that on the inside I’m jumping up and down because he remembered.
I eat part of my lunch, make it through my next few classes, and by the time I get to chess, my stomach and head both feel better.
I’m playing white, which is good news for me, but I’m paired against Sanam, which is horrible because she’s hard to beat.
The whole time we’re sitting across from each other, waiting for practice to start, I want to tell Sanam that I think I failed my English test and that I probably won’t be allowed to come to chess after today, unless I can find some magical way to fix my grade. But I don’t say anything. Not now. I need to block it out and focus on playing my best.
I’m back in the chess tunnel, where it’s quiet and safe. By the time we get to the endgame, Sanam moves her black king up one square on the diagonal, giving me a clear path to promotion. My pawn is only a few squares away from turning into a big, powerful queen! It’s not the huge risk Dylan was talking about, but winning will help me turn things around. I’ll be one step closer to proving to Mr. Lee that I belong in the advanced group at camp—if I still get to go to camp.
I take a sip of water and look around the board, laser focused in search of enemy pawns. Sanam has one on a5, but it can’t move backward to capture me, so I’m good. This is it. I’ve got this. I’m about to crush this game and win! I slide my piece up one square and tap the clock.
Sanam picks up her king and moves it right back to where it came from, knocking out my soon-to-be-promoted pawn.
NO! UGH! What’s wrong with me? I know the king can move in any direction. I was so focused on the stupid pawns that I completely forgot to notice everything else that was happening around me. And now all I want to do is rewind, look at the whole board, and make a different choice so I can win.
Sanam and I shake hands. But neither of us says good game, because it wasn’t. I lost and she won, because I was distracted. The only good part is that we don’t have to pretend everything is fine when it’s not.
Mr. Lee stops me on my way out of practice. “Can you come by tomorrow before first period? I’d like to check in with you about your test.”
I think about asking if we can talk now, but I don’t want anyone else to hear what Mr. Lee is going to say to me and I guess I don’t actually want to hear my grade, because as soon as he says it out loud or writes it down on the top of my test, it will be real, so I nod and walk down the hall into the bathroom.
When the bell rings, everyone rushes out to dismissal. I wait a few minutes until the hallway is quiet and almost empty before I walk outside into the crisp air.
Red is sitting on our bench in the courtyard, waiting for me. “Sorry. My mom’s late—again,” he says. “It’s her new thing.”
“That’s annoying,” I say. “We should totally watch that Bobby Fischer movie on Friday.” It’s the first thing that pops into my head.
“Can’t. I have plans.”
“Really? What are you doing?” I ask.
“Going downtown after school with Quinn and a bunch of other chess peeps. I don’t know what time that will be over, so …” He says it like it’s no big deal that he made a whole group plan without me.
“Since when do you hang out with Quinn?”
“It’s like a pre-tournament thing for the top twelve. She organized it. I didn’t think you’d want to come, since you’re, um, not anymore.”
“I do.” My words taste as desperate as they sound.
“Oh. Really? I mean, I guess you can, if you want to. It’s a free country.”
My neck feels hot, and I really hope I’m not turning red, because I don’t want him to know how much it hurts. Everything I’m feeling and thinking is spinning around inside me like a tornado, threatening to come pouring out. And I can’t let that happen. “So, are we not doing movie night anymore?” I try to sound chill and totally relaxed, like it’s cool with me either way.
“It’s kind of tired. Don’t you think?”
“Not really,” I say.
“Well, I do, so yeah, I think we shouldn’t do it anymore.” I keep waiting for him to realize how mean he sounds and take it back, but he doesn’t. And it feels like I’m the only one who even cares if we’re best friends.
“What’s your problem?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says.
“That’s such a lie. Just tell me.”
“Why? So you can go around blurting it out to everyone in the entire school? No thanks, I’m good.”
“I won’t. I swear.”
“I just don’t believe you,” he says. “You can’t be different.”
“But you said—”
“I changed my mind. I’m done. I can’t deal with this anymore.”
“You can’t do that!” I shout before I can stop myself.
“Great meds. They’re really working. Oh, wait, nope. You’re already freaking out again.”
“I’m not! Just give me one more chance. You have to!”
“Stop. You’re embarrassing, and I’m sorry if that’s mean or the wrong thing to say or whatever, but people don’t just forget, Clea. They talk about you when you aren’t there. Everyone thinks you’re the reason we never play human chess in practice anymore. And I always make excuses for you, but I’m done. I can’t deal with it.” Before I have a chance to say anything else, Red’s mom pulls up. He turns around and walks away from me.
I follow him to the car, because it’s not like I have a choice. His mom is driving me home. I climb into the backseat and force myself to smile at Mrs. Levine. Then I look down at my glittery gold sneakers until we get to my house.
Mom and Henley aren’t home yet. Hilda doesn’t run over and start barking at me. I look around for her, but she isn’t anywhere, so she must be with them, which is weird. I grab a snack, go up to my room, and start my homework. I use Ms. Curtis’s strategies, because even t
hough part of me feels like giving up, I know doing well in school is the only way I’m going to be able to stay on the team.
I’m about halfway done with history when there’s a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I say, even though I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not even Henley.
Mom walks in and sits down next to me on my bed. “How did everything go today? With the medication?”
I shrug. “Not great.”
“Tell me. What happened?”
“I felt different.” I fidget with sand-filled balloon in my hands. “But it didn’t actually help me in school. I had a stomachache during my English test, and I couldn’t focus at all.”
“I’m sorry.” Mom rubs my shoulder. “Was your stomach upset all day?”
“Not really. Just in the morning.”
She nods and makes a face like she feels sad for me. “Dr. Gold said that could happen at first.”
“Seriously? The medicine I took to help me focus gave me a stomachache that made it impossible for me to focus? That’s so stupid.”
“I know it’s frustrating. I’ll call Dr. Gold to see if there’s anything we can do to help with the discomfort. If it happens again tomorrow, please go to the nurse and have her call me,” Mom says. “It’s going to take time for you to get used to the medicine.”
“How long?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.”
“Great,” I say back.
“Try to be patient. It will be okay.”
“How?” My voice comes out too loud. “Things are supposed to be different, and I basically handed in a blank test and I yelled at Red. So, everything is exactly the same.”
“We’ll work out the right plan. I promise.”
I don’t believe her. Only I don’t say that, because talking about how things are going to get better, when everything keeps getting worse, isn’t helping. It makes me think that maybe Red is right and I can’t change. And I’m afraid that no matter what I do or how hard I try I can’t be a better friend to him or anyone and that school is always going to be like this for me.