by Wesley King
But my brain doesn’t need a lot of runway. I was too late.
I ran my fingers down my face and pulled tears from my eyes and snot leaked, and I gripped the counter so hard that my body shook. I was so tired of being sick. I was so tired of being Psycho Sara, and still she was there clawing and screaming and telling me I was stuck.
The panic attack came fast. It hit like ice and fire and my knees gave way. I put my head in the toilet and wretched. I gripped the sides and poured spit and tears into the bowl. When I couldn’t wretch anymore, I curled into a ball by the toilet and hugged myself. I shivered and wondered if I might die.
My dad found me later and covered me with a robe and brought me to bed.
He stroked my hair until the fear faded to sleepiness.
“My princess,” he said. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why won’t it just go away?” I whispered.
“I don’t know. I wish I could make it for you. Did you take your medications today?”
“I take them every day. But I don’t want to anymore.”
He sighed. “Why?”
“They don’t fix me. And even if they could, I don’t want them to. I want to do it.”
“The pills help you, Sara. Why would you want more pain?”
“I don’t. I just want to be normal.”
He laid his hand on my cheek and smiled. “Now why would you want something like that? I wouldn’t change anything about you. I wish it wouldn’t hurt so much. But here we are.”
I wiped my eyes, but they filled up again, and I left my hands over them like a mask.
“I want to give up sometimes,” I said softly.
He pushed my hand away and took my face in his.
“You made me a promise,” he said.
“I know.”
He ran his fingers through my hair. Calloused and gentle.
“Sometimes it would be nice to get away,” he said. “I know the feeling.”
“Can we go together?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Where should we go?”
“A boat, maybe. We could go anywhere, then.”
He laughed. “You always did love the ocean. A boat it is. Feel better, Princess?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll wait until you fall asleep.”
I fell asleep to his fingers in my hair, and I promised myself that I would feel better tomorrow, and play no Games. I said it like a prayer most nights, and I believed it most times, until the morning came again and I was still Psycho Sara.
NOTE (REGARDING MY ONLY CURRENT PROMISE)
My dad says it is important to keep your promises, so I think it is best to not make them. But I did make two promises in my life and they were both to him. The first one was to be good at the mall that day. That didn’t work out very well. This was the second. We were watching television.
“I heard the kids were saying things to you today,” he said.
His eyes were still on the TV.
“Yeah.”
“Mean things.”
“Yes.”
“They called you Psycho Sara.”
“Yes.”
“You aren’t … that.”
I said nothing because I didn’t like to lie to my father and I was a psycho.
He put his arm around me. When he spoke again, his voice was low.
“Sometimes I get worried about you. I can’t always be there, you know?”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. Sometimes we all have to walk in different directions, even for a bit.”
“Well, I can just go with you.”
He laughed. “Most times. Not always. But you still got to walk regardless. You know?”
“Not really.”
He smiled and mussed up my hair. “That’s okay. Just promise me that even when I’m not there, you’ll keep walking. In general. Even when things stink like they did today. Promise me you will keep walking, Sara.”
“I promise, Daddy.”
He pulled me into a hug and his eyes were watering. I didn’t really understand why.
But a promise is a promise, and I would not break another one.
CHAPTER 9 FAILED EXPERIMENTS
I have to pee.”
Ms. Hugger looked up from her cell phone and sighed. It was Monday afternoon. Sunday had come and gone, and of course nothing at all had changed. I didn’t get better. I played Strong Girl for most of the day and I was extra tired now as a result. Maybe I was still playing, actually.
“We worked on this,” Ms. Hugger said. “You say, ‘May I go to the bathroom?’ ”
“To pee.”
“It’s polite, Sara.”
“May I go to the bathroom, madam?”
I was feeling sassy today, apparently.
She sighed again. “Let’s go.”
I am not allowed to go to the bathroom by myself, though Ms. Hugger at least waits by the entrance like a polite jailer. The hallways were empty. I looked in through the little windows in the doors. They were like televisions showing classes sitting and learning and talking together.
“We really can try to join a class again one day,” Ms. Hugger said.
“No,” I replied softly. “I think that ship has sailed.”
We passed the seventh-grade class, and I looked in and saw the lost boy. My favorite person to watch. Daniel Leigh. He had been in the class the day I screamed. I liked to watch him sometimes during recess. He always seemed like he was daydreaming. Counting nothing.
A part of me had always wondered if he was like me, but a lot better at hiding.
“Ms. Hugger?” I asked, pausing before I went into the bathroom.
“Yes?”
“Do you think I will ever have a boyfriend?”
She choked on air and looked at me. “What?”
“Do you think I’ll ever have a boyfriend?”
She scratched her arm. “I … I don’t know, Sara. I’m sure if when you’re older …”
“Never mind the age. Me. Can I have a boyfriend?”
She hesitated. “I’m sure you will, Sara. If you want.”
I didn’t believe her.
I went into the bathroom and stared in the mirror. My mom had put my hair in a ponytail with a green scrunchie today. It made my face looked extra thin. But even if I was pretty, it wouldn’t matter because the crazy would still be there.
I went to pee and sat in the stall so long that Ms. Hugger came to get me.
* * *
“I thought we would talk about self-identity this week,” Dr. Ring said on Thursday evening. “A tricky subject.”
Mel wasn’t there this week, so it was just me, Erin, Taisha, and Peter. I had been the last to arrive and found myself directly across from Peter. He just gave me a sour look and chewed.
“What we think of ourselves is the lens through which we see the world,” he continued.
“Mine is broken,” Peter muttered.
“But you can fix it,” Dr. Ring said. “You control self- identity.”
I glanced at the rest of the group. Erin was picking eyelashes beside me. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a black ribbon, and she was wearing a lot of makeup. It was caked on over her cheeks and chin like someone had built her from clay, and she had drawn on thin black lines in place of eyebrows and lashes. She was staring at the floor, looking distant.
“Erin?” Dr. Ring said, obviously noticing her distraction.
Erin paused with a stray eyelash between her nails. “Yes?”
“What do you think self-identity means?”
She spared the eyelash and seemed to consider that. “What I think about myself?”
“Partly. Also, who you are. You get to decide that. No one else. So, who are you?”
Erin fidgeted. I watched her and thought about the hair-pulling.
“Well, my name is Erin,” she said slowly. “I’m in seventh grade and I like�
�”
“Deeper,” Dr. Ring said. “Who are you at the core?”
It was quiet now. Even Peter was watching. Maybe he was asking himself like I was.
“At the core?” she said softly. “Rotten like an old apple.”
I was stunned. Erin always seemed so happy and confident. But now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe some people didn’t talk to cover up their issues, like me. Maybe some talked more.
Without thinking, I put my hand over one of hers and squeezed. It was clammy and squeezed back. Peter seemed to notice. I saw his hand move. Just a twitch.
“That would make it hard to fit into the world,” Dr. Ring said, giving me the slightest approving nod and making a note. “To think that everyone sees something that is sick or rotten.”
“They do,” Erin said. Her eyes were watering. “It’s written on my face.”
“Only through your lens,” Dr. Ring said. “The rest of us see a girl who is working through issues.” He turned to me. “Sara, who are you at the core? Do you think you are sick too? Or rotten?”
I wanted to shake my head. But that was a lie. I did think I was rotten. I was sick. That’s why I was here. That’s why I had to take the pills and make my list and try so hard. I nodded.
“Self-identity is created by us,” he said. “A mental disorder is a disease like any other illness. The difference is that a person with a physical illness doesn’t usually blame themselves. They think they are unlucky to be sick. Not responsible. They are right, of course. They’re not responsible. And neither are any of you.”
I looked at the floor and thought about that. He knew what I thought. It had grown over time, somewhere deep down the belief that this was my fault. That Sara Malvern had chosen to be sick. And that made it all so much worse. It made me guilty.
When the session ended, Erin and I walked out together.
“Do you think I’m rotten?” Erin asked softly.
“No,” I said. “But I … think the same things about myself sometimes. A lot.”
She sighed. “I’m coming over tomorrow night. I want to show you something stupid.”
I looked at her, frowning. “Okay.”
“You’re going to laugh. It’s just something I did … ugh. Whatever. You’ll see.”
We walked outside, and she stopped, glancing at a red car by the curb.
“Got to go,” she said quickly. “My dad hates waiting.”
Before I could even say anything, she had darted over to the car. I caught a flash of a man in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, and Erin for once saying nothing as they drove away. It all seemed a little strange, but I did lots of strange things. I just hurried over to the van.
“Well?” my mom said.
I considered that, thinking of another summary. One thing stood out … and oddly, it made me feel a little better.
“I’m not the only one who thinks she is a bad apple.”
CHAPTER 10 STAR CHILD
We sat down for dinner on Friday night before Erin arrived. There was a vase of red roses on the table. We were having salmon, which was my father’s favorite. Mom poured herself some white wine, which I guess meant the carpet was going to get a night off. I was getting excited.
She didn’t pour Daddy any wine, but he had brought an open beer to the table. I could smell the beer on his breath and his eyes looked heavy. He sat and stared at the roses.
“Sara,” my mom said. “How was your day?”
Another email. Ms. Hugger really was quick. I had fallen asleep at my desk after lunch and that was supposed to be math time. Unplanned naps always resulted in a discussion.
“Ms. Hugger emailed you,” I said.
“She did. Are you getting enough sleep—”
“Where did you get the flowers?” my dad asked suddenly.
He still hadn’t touched his salmon.
My mom looked at him. “At the grocery store.”
“Roses,” he said.
I looked at the flowers and back at him. He was tapping the table and staring.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why roses?” he asked softly. “Strange thing to buy for a family dinner.”
“They were on sale,” she replied, giving me a smile and taking a bite. “Try the—”
“How much were they?”
She swallowed her fish and turned to him. “I don’t recall.”
“Get the receipt.”
“I didn’t get one—”
He stood up and swept the vase off the table. It shattered on the floor and roses and water went everywhere and I screamed. Mom ripped her napkin out of her collar and stood up, flushed.
“Why did you do that—”
“Don’t bring roses to my table!” he screamed.
He finished his beer, stormed out of the house, and slammed the door behind him. My mother stood there for a moment, eyes watery, and then she started to pick up the roses and glass.
I took a bite of my salmon and tried to remember if we used to have nice family dinners.
“The salmon is good,” I said quietly.
My mom looked back at me, walked over, and hugged me until the fish was cold.
* * *
When Erin got there, she marched straight to my room, gesturing for me to follow. She had a backpack on, and she seemed uneasy. Nervous, even.
When I had closed the door, she sat down on the carpet and opened her bag.
“Promise me you won’t laugh.”
“I promise.”
She took out a folder with a bunch of papers and opened it up. Frowning, I sat down beside her, cross-legged, spotting scribbled notes and drawings. Most were of little stars.
“I read about it online first,” she said, handing me a piece of paper. It looked like it had been printed off a website. The title said: The Star Children Among Us. “Then I did some research on my own. I read everything. Most of it is silly … but, well, there is some evidence.”
“Star Children?” I asked, skimming down the page.
She flushed. “Basically, special kids that have alien DNA. They’re supposed to be really smart and wise and different, obviously. I mean, it’s all crazy, I know. People believe in this stuff, though. I don’t. Well, I don’t really. But I sort of liked the sound of it. You know. Special kids.”
I didn’t say anything. I read through some more printouts, and her notes, and even something called the 3 Tenets of Star Children that she had written. I read through them slowly.
1. You are a Star Child for life.
2. Star Children must always help each other.
3. Never be unkind to normal humans (unless they deserve it).
Erin was watching me and fiddling with her hands and straightening out the pile.
“I know,” she said finally. “It’s really dumb. But we were talking about what we thought of ourselves, and sometimes I like to think this is me instead. I just couldn’t really bring it up at group with Peter staring at me like a gremlin. Now you probably think I’m an idiot. I really am.”
I stared down at the tenets, thinking. I wanted to believe it too. I really, really did.
I used to lie in bed and wonder what I was. Not who. What. Because I could see other humans on TV and at school and at the park and they didn’t seem like me. They didn’t hear voices or get sad for no reason or feel like they couldn’t breathe sometimes. So, I came up with other stories to make myself feel better. Sara was a superhero and she could sense danger. Sara was a friendly monster. God didn’t like Sara. Sara was possessed. The stories were all the same.
Sara was special—that sounded better than crazy.
But I stopped that two years ago. I stopped imagining ways that I was special, because all I wanted was to be normal. I had to be normal. I didn’t need tenets. I needed my normal rules.
But I also didn’t want to offend Erin. I could see her watching nervously, ready to pluck.
“Okay,” Erin said quickly. “Too weird. I know. Let’s just never speak of it agai
n—”
“I love it,” I said, looking up at her and smiling. “I want to be a Star Child too.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. It was just pretending, so what did it matter?
She looked at me for a moment, maybe to make sure I wasn’t making fun of her. Then she laughed and reached over and hugged me, squeezing so tightly that I started laughing too.
“You already are!” Erin said. “And that means we always have to help each other.”
We spent the rest of the night going through the stories about other Star Children and making up our own. By the end of it, I decided to just keep pretending. It wasn’t quite normal, but it was like a club. Even if it only had two members, it felt good. Well, some people claimed Mozart and Newton and a few others were Star Children too, but it seemed like they were all dead. Those were pretty awesome members, though. I even copied down her tenets so I would have them handy, and put them in my desk with the rules. I didn’t share those. Somehow, I didn’t think a Star Child cared about being more normal.
Eventually, we were both lying on the carpet staring up at the ceiling, shoulder to shoulder, the papers scattered around us like confetti. Her collection, and some new ones, too: my drawings of stars, and spaceships, and our theories that Star Children could still hang out with regular people, as long as they kept the secret of their true identity. I had added that one myself.
“What do normal girls do when they hang out?” I asked, imagining shapes in the ceiling stucco.
“Pretty much the same stuff. Well, we talked about slightly less weird things. Sometimes more weird. A few times we put on my mom’s makeup and got yelled at.”
“Oh. Do you miss doing that?”
“I don’t know. I guess. That was before the hair-pulling, though.”
She sounded sad, and that answered it for her. She missed being normal too.
I guess even a Star Child could feel lonely.
“Maybe I can help you get better,” I offered. “Since we’re Star Children and all.”
She was silent for a long time, and then looked at me. “I would like that.”
