by Wesley King
“I don’t, actually.”
“You were having a difficult time,” Dr. Ring said. He was already writing something down. “I read all of the old reports. Daily panic attacks. Mood swings. Depression.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“It was much worse. You are too hard on yourself. You are much more stable now. Not as many wild swings. Fewer episodes. We are going to try to get them down to zero. I am going to sign off on the thirty milligrams of citalopram and thirty milligrams of lithium. It’s an effective combination.”
“And very normal.”
Dr. Ring looked up from his notes. “Excuse me?”
I didn’t meet his eyes. I just stared at the old books. It was all I liked about his office.
“Taking brain pills. It’s very normal. Just like all the other kids at school.”
“Sara, what did I tell you about your obsession with normal?”
I kept my eyes on the books. “To give up on it?” I whispered.
“To redefine the idea,” he said. “What do I always tell you? What was the first thing I said when we started?”
I sighed. “If I want to be someone else at the end of this, then I will be disappointed.”
“Exactly.”
I ran a finger along the back of my hand. I felt it, but I wondered if it felt the same for normal kids. Maybe they felt every pore. Every hair. It was hard to trust anything when you were crazy.
I stopped on my knuckles and remembered the blood. There were still a few little white scars like my mom’s sunspots.
“I would also like to recommend you for group therapy,” Dr. Ring said.
My eyes flicked back to him. “What?”
“You don’t have to talk. But there are other kids like you. You can just listen to them.”
I could already feel my throat drying up. I wanted to cough, but Dr. Ring would write it down. He said my coughing was a nervous tic, something called a habit cough, but it wasn’t official yet, and I didn’t want another label.
“That sounds like a bad idea,” I said.
He smiled. “It will help. Being around other kids might be very cathartic for you. Even if you don’t talk. Trust me. They are every Thursday night.”
“I’m busy Thursdays.”
“Are you really?” he asked skeptically.
I stink at lying. “I could be.”
“And now you are. Let’s talk about this near panic attack. Tell me how it started.”
I stared at the books again for a moment. He always let the silence hold.
“I wish I knew,” I said finally. “I must have done something very wrong.”
I wasn’t talking about today, and he knew that. He knew who I blamed for all of this.
And so he told me for the hundredth time it wasn’t my fault that I was sick.
And for the hundredth time, I pretended to believe him.
NOTE (ABOUT GAMES)
Confused about the Games? Don’t feel bad. I explained it to Dr. Ring, like, seven times. There are three different ones. In order of most common to least common:
1. False Alarm
2. The Lead Ball
3. The Danger Game
False Alarm is a fancy name for panic attacks. To be clear, they are real panic attacks, but the reason I get them is a total lie. Like, my brain tells me I am dying. Of course, I’m not. Not really. And every time when the panic attack is over, I realize it was another false alarm. You’d think I would be ready. But my brain is a wonderful actor and makes me think I am dying every single time. And she does that during breakfast, or when I’m on the toilet, or in class, or in bed, and even when I say, “Can we please do this later?” she makes me play anyway.
The Lead Ball. I got this name from A Christmas Carol. You know those ghosts with the lead balls and manacles? Well, sometimes it feels like I have chains strapped to me. But I still have to go to school, so I just grab the lead ball and drag it for as long as I can. I feel heavy almost all the time, but it gets worse some days. Much worse. Dr. Ring says it is the depressive symptoms.
The Danger Game is my term for schizophrenic episodes. I don’t get them much, only when I am tired. Some people have them all the time. Instead of guessing if I am dying, I have to guess if other people are trying to hurt me. It’s tricky, and I always think they are, and they never do.
Why all the names? I don’t know. I guess I like the idea of them being a Game.
It means that someday, maybe, I might just win.
CHAPTER 3 WEDNESDAY IS WORSE
Ms. Hugger let me eat lunch in the cafeteria on Wednesday. I ask all the time, since that is where the normal kids eat, but we only do it twice a week. She says any more than that would be “putting a strain on” me. Crowds bring out the Danger Game, and that one never ends well.
But ironically, I like watching people. I think I even like people in general, most of the time. I just can’t talk to them because we don’t speak the same language. One of us has to learn.
I bit into my peanut butter and jelly and mayonnaise sandwich (salty, sweet, and tangy!) and watched as three girls walked by: Raya, Liz, and Ashley. They were the same age as me but popular and therefore not crazy on the outside. Ashley saw me watching them and made a face.
“Why do they let Psycho Sara in here? She’s going to kill us,” she whispered except loud enough that I could hear. She had always been a terrible whisperer.
The other kids seemed to say that a lot—that I was dangerous and wanted to hurt them. The idea was a little insulting. Why would my brain want to hurt them? It was busy hurting me.
Ms. Hugger looked up from her cell phone and scowled. “I am going to report that girl.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“It’s not fine.”
Ms. Hugger’s cell phone buzzed, and she glanced down, frowning.
“It’s Sven. I have to step out and take this,” she said. “You all right for a moment?”
I nodded and took another bite of my sandwich.
She hurried out, and I was suddenly alone in the busy cafeteria—a rare occurrence. Actually, I am almost never alone at school. It’s strange, because I always feel lonely here.
I wasn’t alone for long.
“Talk to her,” a boy said, pushing his friend and laughing.
It was Taj. He was a football player—burly, athletic, and intentionally dim-witted, which is my least favorite type of personality. He was with Tom, who was all of those things but maybe nicer.
He was also best friends with my favorite people-watching target of all. More on that later.
“Leave it,” Tom said.
“She likes you,” Taj replied, winking at me. “Right, Psycho Sara?”
I told you they called me that. I guess it has an alliterative ring. Sometimes I call myself that name when I’m not thinking.
I felt my cheeks go warm. He gave Tom another push.
“C’mon, Tom’s cute, isn’t he?” Taj said, grabbing for Tom’s arm.
Tom yanked it away, flushed crimson now, and Taj sighed.
“Fine, fine. I guess it would be an awkward date.” He wandered over to my table and picked up my sandwich, looking it over. “At least you eat. You are a human, I think. Except … what is that white stuff? Is that mayonnaise with PB and J? Ugh. I take it back.”
“Leave her alone, man,” Tom said. “You’re sick.”
Taj laughed. “Just joking around. I know she’s retarded.”
He put the sandwich down, and I kept my eyes there. I hate that word. They call me that one a lot too. I hate the way it sounds. I hate what it means to them. That I am not like them because I am broken. Because I am most definitely not normal.
And now I also hated that I had mayonnaise on my sandwich because obviously that wasn’t right, and I didn’t know that. Now I wasn’t hungry, and my stomach hurt. I stared at the sandwich, and I hated the girl that had wanted it because she wasn’t right either.
I knew that, of course. I just liked
to pretend some days. Just for lunch.
But I could not say those things to Taj. I couldn’t say anything he would understand.
I am a blue whale, and my songs are only noise to anyone but me.
He hurried away just as Ms. Hugger returned.
“Did he say something to you?” she asked.
“Not really,” I whispered, putting my lunch away. “Just called me a retard, is all.”
“I’m so sorry, Sara,” she said. “I will go talk to Principal Surrin—”
“Can we go back to our classroom now?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Let’s go.”
She led me back to the Crazy Box, and my brain called me a retard the whole way there until I said, “Yes, I know I am. You don’t have to rub it in.”
Then Ms. Hugger closed the door behind us, and I sat down and tried not to cry and failed.
* * *
When I got home, I went to my room and took out my list. It’s written on one of those big spiral notepads with lots of lined pages. The first page had a scribbled title:
Rules for Being Normal
I started it two years ago, and I had been adding to it ever since. I flipped through the pages. There were a lot of them. Some of the rules had been crossed off, which meant I had actually accomplished it, but not many. Not enough.
I went right to the end and added the newest entry.
137. Don’t put mayonnaise on your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Then I went to the beginning and started reading them slowly, to remember. I do that once a day. I knew that if I tried hard enough, if I spent every day reminding myself that I was not normal but maybe I could be, then I had a chance to get better. I could be Normal Sara. I didn’t know what she was like. I don’t even know if she ever existed, even before the broken mirror. But she had to be better than this.
“Fifty-seven. Talk to somebody your age. Fifty-eight. Try to make eye contact with a stranger. Fifty-nine. Don’t go the bathroom to calm down for one entire day. Sixty. Try to be …”
* * *
We have pasta on Wednesday nights. Sometimes my mom would try rotini noodles or a thick Bolognese sauce, but my dad and I always complained. We liked plain noodles and plain sauce and routines. Dad sat on one end of the table, and Mom on the other. I sat between them.
“How was your day?” my mom asked my dad.
I looked at my dad. He was just shoveling his spaghetti down, eyes on the table.
“Fine.”
She took a bite, chewing slowly. “Mine too. It’s been busy at work.”
Nobody said anything. I just ate my spaghetti. Dinner was always quiet lately.
My mom dabbed her face with a napkin. “Sara, are any of the kids … giving you trouble?”
I glanced at her warily. “No.”
“Ms. Hugger emailed me something this evening.”
My dad was watching me now too. “I didn’t see this email.”
“She mentioned an incident where another student might have said something.”
“Ms. Hugger likes to exaggerate,” I said.
“Kids can be rough sometimes,” she said. “They don’t understand … differences.”
“What did they say?” my dad asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
His face was turning red now. “Did they call you names? Did they hurt you?”
He had put his fork down. One hand was squeezing the end of the table.
“It’s nothing, Daddy.”
I tried to grab his hand, but he pulled it away.
“Tell me!” he shouted.
I don’t like when my father is angry. And I do not lie to him. Ever.
“He said I was a retard,” I whispered. My hands came back to my lap to hide there.
“Who?” he said softly.
My mom could see what was coming now. “Let’s just relax. We can talk later—”
“Who?” he demanded. He stood up so fast his chair fell over. “Tell me!”
I don’t do well with shouting. I like the quiet, and shouting makes my brain shout too.
“I don’t know!” I said, my hands over my ears. “I don’t know!”
I didn’t like Taj. But I didn’t want anything to happen to him. My dad had threatened a boy for calling me a freak a few years ago, and he had almost been charged.
“Tell me!” he screamed.
“I don’t know!”
One day Dr. Ring told me emotions were like a tide. They rise higher and higher and it is hard to stop them once they start. But normal people build walls and breakers. When the water comes, it doesn’t destroy anything. I don’t have those. And so when the tide comes, it washes me away.
Now my dad was screaming, “Tell me!” and threatening to go to my school and saying terrible curse words, and my mom was trying to calm him down, and good-bye, Sara Malvern.
The water sprung out of my eyes and nose and I beat the table with my fists until my plate shattered on the floor and my brain said, “Retard, Retard, Retard!” and there was spaghetti everywhere and my mother was shouting and my father was raging and that was our Wednesday night dinner.
NOTE
Maybe you are wondering, “Do you really talk to your brain, Sara? That’s weird because you are your brain.” But the answer is yes, because my brain can be a bully, and sometimes it feels much better to say, “Back off, stupid brain!” than to say, “I don’t like myself,” even if they mean the same thing. If that confuses you, don’t worry. That makes two of us.
CHAPTER 4 FLOWERS AND SAILBOATS
The next day I was home alone after school. Usually my dad is there having a nap, but for the last few months he has been late a lot. Mom yelled at him about it and he said he would try harder, but this was already the second day this week. It was fine. I was twelve now, and crazy or not, I could take care of myself. Sometimes I liked to be alone. Most of the time. Why?
It’s normal to feel lonely when you are by yourself.
I could cough or pace or scream and it wouldn’t bother anyone.
The only person that said mean things to me was me.
But today I was nervous. I had my first group session in a few hours. With other kids.
So, I used the afternoon to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for the tenth time. I like it the best because I get to spend time with non-magic Harry when his life stinks and then discovers that he is actually special and his life is going to rule. It’s just like me except I do have a bedroom and parents. No owl, though, so it’s sort of a wash.
I read a lot. Reading is when my brain goes the most quiet. It doesn’t call me anything or think about my day or make me play Games that I don’t want to. Mom said it was fine to read all night, but that I had to take breaks. So every hour I get up and stretch or jump or do a little dance if my door and the curtains are closed. I have a laptop and a cell phone, but I am not allowed to have internet on them because of some previous incidents.
So I just put on the radio and dance to whatever is on.
I don’t think I am very good. But I do love to dance. We have dances at school once in a while, and I always go. I don’t dance, but I still watch, and dream, and make plans.
One day I will be better. Normal. I will have friends and I will dance. I just had to follow the rules. I had to talk. I had to get rid of the Games. I would be normal. I would.
“Do normal kids have to try to be normal?” my brain asked. That thought settled in. I don’t know if most people feel their thoughts. Some of mine are light, and some of mine are heavy. And when the heavy ones come, they stay and spread out too.
Another Game. It was the Lead Ball, and my body got heavy. I lay back in bed and opened my book and tried to go back to Hogwarts, where a spell could probably fix me.
* * *
Later that evening, at seven o’clock sharp, I found myself sitting on a stiff chair in a circle of kids.
There were four other kids there: three girls including me and one
boy. Not James. I was a little disappointed, which didn’t make any sense. Then again, my brain never makes sense.
“We are welcoming a new member today,” Dr. Ring said. “Her name is Sara.”
There were a few murmured hellos. I think one girl was having a panic attack.
Dr. Ring folded his hands and smiled.
“Sara, we don’t do anything too formal. We just meet and talk about our weeks and any issues that might have popped up. Sometimes we discuss certain themes that I have prepared. It’s all very conversational, just like our individual sessions. Everyone should feel comfortable. This is a nonjudgmental, safe space. Okay?”
Bad start there, but I nodded so everyone would stop looking at me.
Dr. Ring’s office felt small when there were five people inside. It was all bouncing knees and watching eyes. A little ball formed in my throat. That is always a warning sign for False Alarm. It’s like someone is pressing their fingers against my windpipe. I fought the urge to cough or fidget. I didn’t want to embarrass myself on the first day.
“Great,” Dr. Ring said, checking his clipboard. “Would anyone like to start? Mel?”
That was the panic attack girl, but she was busy trying to breathe. I watched as she tried to force it down, smiling with only the edge of her lips, and everyone just waited for her to start. That was different. Normally people laughed or looked uncomfortable or said something mean.
These kids just … waited.
I had never really been around other crazy people. There weren’t any at my school—apart from one, maybe—and it was fascinating to watch anxiety or whatever Mel had work its way through her body. It was like looking in a mirror. Her feet shifted. Her fingers searched for something to hold. Mine started to do the same, and I wanted to chew my nails, but fought it down. The boy was already chewing his, and there wasn’t much left of them. Why was I here?
Was I really as bad as them?
