by Wesley King
“Bye, James,” I whispered, but only when he was long gone.
* * *
“I have to say, I didn’t expect the ocean theme.”
Erin was lying on my bed, looking around the room. I wasn’t really sure what to do, so I was just sitting at my desk, following her gaze. I had never had anyone in there before, other than my parents. She had been studying the room for at least five minutes, and I was nervous.
“I was thinking black. Maybe like a Metallica poster. You’re so quiet and grim.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared at me. She was wearing pink and yellow pajamas, and her hair was in big pigtails. “Maybe I was wrong. Are you sure you don’t talk?”
I shook my head, which didn’t really answer the question. To be honest, I wasn’t really sure. I had never had a friend.
She nodded as if I had said something. “Selective mutism. I read up on it yesterday. It’s all right. We’re besties now, but we are moving fast. You have to get comfortable and so forth. It’s a process. Well, where to start. My last name is Stewart. Boring, right? We moved here a year ago and I think we’re staying for a bit; my dad is in the army, remember? My brother sucks—”
“Sara?” my mom said, poking in. “I brought some cheese and crackers.”
Erin rolled over and propped herself on her elbows. “Mrs. Malvern, you are the best. Does Sara talk to you? No … so rude. Don’t tell me.” She turned back to me. “Sorry, bestie. Total privacy violation. I read up on it. Should we watch something? Let’s pig out and watch Netflix.”
My mom looked at her, then at me, barely holding back a laugh.
“Sara is having a busy day,” she said. “First that boy in the park, and now a girls’ night.”
I gave her my strictest that was confidential stare, but she was already leaving.
“Cancel the Netflix,” Erin said, jumping up and closing the door behind her. “Tell me everything. Or, you know, nod while I interrogate you. Boy. How cute? Nod once for very, twice for crazy cute. No. Let’s start with his name. I need to build a profile. Nod once for Aaron.”
“His name is James,” I murmured.
I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was the fact there are a lot of boys’ names and we could have sat there for three days. Maybe I decided crazies were exempt from my no-talking rule, or that friends were an exception, or that I might as well knock off another rule. Number ten: Talk to somebody new. Actually, I think I knocked off, like, three. It was a good start, but my throat was dry again.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she walked over and gave me a hug.
“You trust me,” she said, face buried in my shoulder. “Now, James.”
As she pulled away, her sweater rode up, revealing her hip. It was deeply bruised, mottled brown and green and black at the heart. The sweater fell over it again, hiding the view.
I opened my mouth, but closed it again. What did she say? A privacy violation. Right.
She still did most of the talking, but I talked too. We sat there for hours. I never asked about the bruise. Since I had never had a friend, I played it safe. I had to go to the bathroom to breathe a couple of times, and twice I started coughing when I didn’t really need to, but Erin didn’t seem to care. She just flipped through her phone while I went to the bathroom and launched right back into conversation the very second I was back. I had vaguely hoped she went to James’s school, so she could tell me more about him, but she was in a public school too—she just lived in a different district.
When her mom picked her up, she gave me another hug, and texted a minute later.
Good night, bestie. Talk to you Thursday! Just joking. I will obviously text you 100 times before then.
I stared at the text that night as I lay in bed. I read it a hundred times at least.
I had hung out with a friend. Me. Sara Malvern.
My eyes got a little watery, but tonight, they weren’t sad tears.
NOTE
You might be wondering when I officially got my nickname. You know … Psycho Sara.
For a while, I tried to pretend it was a superhero name. Like, Watch out, robbers, Psycho Sara is here and she is going to get angry and you won’t like that! Yes, I stole it from the Hulk.
Anyway, after the whole smashing-the-mirror day I got special attention at school and started taking a few classes in the Crazy Box. Most kids don’t get their own Crazy Boxes, but they decided I was a unique case: Socially I didn’t fit in the normal classes, but academically I was ahead of everybody and would disrupt a larger special education class. So I got listed as an “exception,” which would have been cooler with an extra “al” at the end.
In fifth grade I had a special education teacher named Mrs. Gregoriwich. She was supermean, and yelled a lot, and didn’t let me take Sara breaks. One day she decided that I was ready to go back to regular classes, as long as she was there to supervise me. My parents weren’t sure, but she was very convincing.
My new teacher seemed nice. I had pretty much stopped talking a year before because talking got me in trouble, but it wasn’t a full-out life strategy yet. So I just sat there for a few weeks and tried to act normal. It was hard. I kept getting hot. Restless. My thoughts would start spinning. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe right. Sometimes I felt like I was in danger without knowing why or from who.
But I tried and tried because I wanted to stay.
It was tiring, though. Exhausting. And when you get tired, you make mistakes.
It started with a panic attack. I had gotten them before, but I didn’t know much about them. As it was starting, I whispered to Mrs. Gregoriwich to let me go to the bathroom, and she said no, and it felt like my whole body was on fire.
“Please,” I whispered.
“We just went thirty minutes ago—”
“But—” I tried again, keeping my voice down.
People were staring. Daniel was staring. Did I mention him yet? Stand by.
“Just sit still and listen—”
And then I screamed. Like a shrill, bloodcurdling scream. Was it a good reaction? No. Did it scare my classmates and almost make Mrs. Gregoriwich fall over? Yes. Did I care at the time? No.
I screamed, and she hustled me out, and I went to the bathroom to die but surprise! I lived, like I always do. And that was that. I got my new nickname, I went back to the Crazy Box, and I never joined regular classes again. One scream and you’re a psycho. It’s all right. It’s just a temporary thing. As soon as I get better, I’m going back. Maybe I’ll get a new nickname.
Smart Sara. Super Sara. Splendid Sara. Doesn’t matter.
Sara—just Sara—would be fine.
In fact, it’s all I want. Just plain, normal Sara.
Yeah. That would be more than fine.
CHAPTER 6 NOT ALL GAMES ARE FUN
We have school assemblies once in a while. An author visit, or a fire safety demonstration, or a talent show. On Monday morning we had an anti-bullying presentation, and Ms. Hugger decided we could attend.
I always had to sit on a bench with the teachers, even though the other kids were cross-legged on the floor. They organize the grades in seated lines from kindergarten at the front to eighth grade at the back. The whole school was there, so there wasn’t much room. I was close to the eighth graders, and I was being careful not to make eye contact with anything but my shoes.
The presentation seemed nice. It was about helping each other and combatting bullying with teamwork. But two girls were not listening. They were looking at me and whispering.
Ms. Hugger was half watching and half texting, so she didn’t notice. I tried to do the same. But I could hear them and feel them looking. I started to feel fidgety and hot, and that always means my brain is about to pick a Game. She spins a big wheel and we both wait to see what it will be, except she always sees it first and gets to tell me. Today it was the Danger Game.
Now I could hear the girls very clearly.
“What a freak,” one gi
rl said.
She was nearly shouting, but no one else heard her.
“Completely crazy. She shouldn’t be here.”
“She could hurt someone,” the other girl agreed.
They were smiling at me like two hyenas.
“We should do something about it,” one girl said.
It’s just a Game, I told myself. It’s not real.
“I agree,” said the other. Suddenly she had a knife or at least a flash of light on something metal, and then she was standing up. “There is no time like the present.”
My brain won the Danger Game. I stood up and burst through the gym doors and heard laughing. I kept running all the way to the Crazy Box. Then I locked the door and breathed.
Ms. Hugger appeared at the glass. I let her in and she gave me a hug.
“Was I right this time?” I whispered.
“No, Sara,” she said quietly. “You are never going to be right. It’s not real.”
“I saw a knife.”
“You didn’t.”
“They wanted to kill me.”
“They don’t.”
I breathed again and sat down at my desk. We were both quiet for a little while.
“Do you ever lie to me, Ms. Hugger?” I asked.
“No.”
“Never?”
“I would not lie. But that doesn’t mean I can answer every question.”
I wanted to believe her, but it was time for a test.
“Have I gotten better this year? Have I made any progress?”
Her eyes moved. “We have accomplished a lot—”
“Not my academics. Me. My brain. Have I gotten any closer to going back to normal classes?”
“Sara …”
“Tell me.”
“No,” she said finally. “I’m still not sure you’re ready for that.”
I nodded and put my head down. Ms. Hugger was telling the truth, and I knew that was real and I could relax. The Game was over. I was very tired, and Ms. Hugger let me fall asleep.
* * *
As usual, on Tuesday night Dr. Ring knew all about my freak-out. I sat facing him on the corduroy couch and waited as he got his notes in order and turned to me, pen at the ready.
“So, Ms. Hugger tells me we had a round of your ‘Danger Game.’ ”
I was really starting to regret telling them about the Games.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Which, as we know, is a—”
“Schizophrenic episode.” I was staring at my hands in my lap. “My name is better.”
“You know I never approved of the names.”
“You may have mentioned that once or twice.”
“Why don’t I approve of them, again?”
I sighed and recited his usual speech.
“Because they individualize my problems, as if I am the only person who has them, when, in fact, they are very common issues with scientific names and established treatments.”
He put the pen down. “And you thought those girls wanted to hurt you?”
“I … thought I heard something.”
“And the first step should be?”
I paused. “To assess likelihood. If that fails, talk to Ms. Hugger.”
“And what did you do?”
I paused again. “Ran back to the Crazy Box.”
Dr. Ring stood up. That was unusual. He walked over to the bookshelf and began to pace in front of it, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He did that for nearly a minute in silence.
“Do you remember what you said to me the first time we met?” he asked finally.
That had been a few years ago, when my parents decided to try a new doctor.
“No.”
“You said, ‘Please make me better.’ And I told you what I always do. That you are who you are. That you can’t set unrealistic expectations. That I can’t turn you into someone you are not. That instead we must work toward becoming the best version of ourselves.”
I closed my eyes. I did remember that. It was when I started my rules. I decided that if no one else could help me, I would have to do it myself. That I would become Normal Sara.
“I remember,” I said.
“You are fighting me at every step. If I tell you to walk, you run. Whisper, you shout. Sometimes it seems you are doing the exact opposite of what I prescribe. And I know why.”
“Because you can’t help me.”
“No,” he said. “It’s because you blame yourself. Despite everything you know.”
I felt a little stirring of anger. Sometimes it flares up, like someone blew on some coals. Not often. Dr. Ring said I had volatile emotions. Part of the bipolar disorder.
But I didn’t get angry much. It never ended well.
“Who do you want me to blame? God? I tried that, and He didn’t do anything either.”
“There is no one to blame. It could be genetics. Could be luck. It doesn’t matter.”
I stood up, hands balled at my sides, trembling all over. “Of course it matters!”
He turned to face me. “You need to stop trying to find someone to blame. You need to work on managing your issues—”
“I want to be better!” I screamed. I hadn’t shouted in here in months. But all of my control was slipping away now. “I don’t want this anymore! I don’t want a brain that is trying to hurt me. I am always afraid of what my brain will say to me. Always. And nobody can help me!”
The last part spilled out with tears that I didn’t even know were coming.
“Of course they can,” Dr. Ring said calmly. “But it will be much easier for people to help if you let them.”
And then I was crying. I wanted to believe it was that easy. But all these years, and I wasn’t getting better. I was still in the Crazy Box. I was still Psycho Sara. He waited for me to cry myself out. Soon I was back on the couch, quiet again.
“So what do you want me to do, exactly?” I asked finally, eyes on the floor.
“I want you to start liking Sara Malvern.”
I snorted. “Why would I possibly like myself? I’m a total nut.”
“That’s something I want to help you find out,” he said. “Until you do that, it’s not going to get better.”
“I don’t,” I said finally. “I’m sorry. I don’t like myself. Not like this. I won’t. Ever.”
He nodded. “Then we had better find a reason to start.”
CHAPTER 7 A QUESTION I DON’T LIKE TO ANSWER
On Wednesday night, Erin came over again, and we sat in the living room and put on The Notebook. I had never seen it, and Erin pretended to faint when she found out—I think she was pretending—and said we had to watch it immediately because it was “stupidly cute and Ryan Gosling is my whole entire heart.” Very little of that made sense to me, but I agreed to watch it.
My dad was out, my mom was in the kitchen, and Erin was mostly just talking.
“So,” she said through a mouthful of popcorn, “are you picturing James right now?”
I spit my own popcorn out. “What?”
The two main characters were kissing. I flushed.
“Well, just swap out Ryan Gosling for James,” Erin went on. “Keep the kissing, though. Oh, don’t look so scandalized. Sometimes I forget you’re a year younger.”
“You said you just turned thirteen last month,” I murmured.
“And you’re still twelve. Things change. I mean, do you think I always wore this amazing pineapple lip gloss?” She took it out of her pocket. “Yeah, I know. I always did. Never mind James. Who needs boys? Other than Ryan Gosling. So, I looked into selective mutism again—”
“I don’t have that,” I interrupted. “Not officially. I … don’t want another name.”
It came out a bit sharper than I intended, but she just nodded, smiling.
“Right. I get that. Well, I just want you to know you can talk to me about anything. Like, code of silence, lockbox, never-speak-of-it-to-anyone kind of thing. And I hope I can do the same.
Besties have to be able to trust each other. It’s the foundation of best friendship. Complete trust.”
I nodded. “Sure. Do you want to talk about your trichotillomania?”
I had done my own research on my mom’s laptop. She let me use it supervised so I could go on the internet. It was a hair-pulling disorder. Anxiety-related, like panic attack syndrome or OCD or my diagnosis: general anxiety disorder. Her hands went right to her eyebrows. She was still smiling, but I could see her lips quiver for a moment as she slid her fingers down her face and then back to her side. I am not good with people, but I could see that I had hurt her feelings.
“Sorry,” I said quickly.
“No,” she said. “Don’t be sorry. I can’t go blathering away about other people’s issues and just pretend like Erin Stewart is all hairy fairy.” She frowned. “That did not sound right.”
“Hunky-dory?” I offered.
“Right. Anyway, I guess my ultrasleek eyebrows gave it away? Or my luscious lashes?”
I opened my mouth, paused, and closed it again. “Umm—”
“I know,” she said softly. “It’s hideous. I am reminded by every stupid reflection.”
“It’s not hideous,” I said. “Why do you do it?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. It just kind of … happens. Sometimes not for a few days. Even a whole week. And then all of a sudden I’m in the bathroom again. And I’m picking, and I’m crying and thinking don’t, and I do it anyway.” She glanced at me, then softly ran her finger over her right eyebrow. “I did it before I came. I’m so stupid … I don’t even know why. I felt okay today. Can you tell?”
I looked at her eyebrow. There were so few hairs anyway—but the right one was nearly gone, and it was a bit red from where she had pulled. I thought about how much it might hurt.
“A little,” I said.
“Yeah. I try. Trust me. I try to read or walk away and even when I finally get in front of the mirror, I still fight it for as long as I can. But I just … need to do it. Or think I need to. It makes me feel better for a second. Dr. Ring says it’s a strategy to deal with my anxiety. Like a control thing. It’s funny, because it feels like I have no control over it at all. Tricked by my own brain.”
