by E. Lockhart
I didn’t want to have a panic attack. This was the third one in like a week.
Breathe, Ruby, breathe, I said to myself.
It doesn’t have to happen. You are in charge of yourself.
But there wasn’t any air in the car.
Stop, heart, slow down, I thought. There is nothing to spaz out about.
The only thing that’s happening is that a boy you’ve known since kindergarten is helping with your bake sale.
Breathe.
I reached out and turned the radio on, then hit the button for K-ROCK. Guns N’ Roses’ “Paradise City” banged through the Jeep’s speaker system. Retro metal. I pushed the volume up and closed my eyes.
There. With Guns N’ Roses on, I couldn’t think about anything. Didn’t panic. Just turned off my brain until Meghan said, “You know I love you, but Hutch has totally warped your musical taste,” and shoved a Rihanna CD into the stereo.
Nora, Meghan and Noel were all skiing that weekend, so I job-hunted all day Saturday, bringing photocopies of my sucky résumé to shops along University Ave and calling places listed in the newspaper: a tanning salon, the Jamba Juice in Bellevue Square, a telemarketing company that was looking for people to make cold calls about mattresses.
Sunday my dad and Hutch were pruning early-flowering rhododendrons and discussing various techniques for a gardening article my dad was writing for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Hutch and I drilled each other for our Monday French quiz and the three of us went out and got Chinese food for lunch while my mom was at her yoga class.
Hutch asked me about the whole zoo debacle, and when I explained what happened he said he was boycotting the zoo to protest my losing my job.
“Thanks,” I told him. “But when was the last time you actually went to the zoo?”
“Sixth grade,” he admitted, shoveling a piece of garlic broccoli into his mouth.
“So you average once every five years or so?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Your support means a lot,” I said. “I’m sure the zoo will take your protest extremely seriously.”
“Never let it be said I didn’t do my part,” he said, reaching across me to snag the lo mein. “I defend your right to tell people how they smell, any day of the week.”
He smelled of garden dirt, soy sauce and a bit of BO, but I didn’t say anything.
When we got home, I called Nora to find out how Operation Ski Bunny Romance was going, but she didn’t pick up.
Neither did Meghan.
So I did my Am Lit homework.
Monday in Chem we curdled milk by adding vinegar and then squeezing it out in pieces of cheesecloth. In the middle of the disgustingness, I couldn’t resist asking Noel, “How was Crystal Mountain?”
“Excellent.”
What did he mean, excellent? Did he mean that he and Nora had fallen in love? Or did he mean there was nice powdery snow?
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Meghan’s way better than me or Nora, so she went off with Gideon and some friends of his to ski Otto Bahn. Nora and I are well matched, so we stuck to Kelly’s Gap Road and stuff like that.”
I was annoyed. Why did skiers always talk about slopes like nonskiers had any idea what they were on about? And had he really skied with Nora all weekend? Riding on those chairlifty things, just the two of them, looking out at beautiful scenery?
Ag.
Or rather, Oh, I’m so happy for Nora.
Why didn’t being a good friend come naturally to me?
Fleischman started babbling about casein and positively charged H+ ions and a lot of other boring stuff. I dried my hands when he told me to and tried to take notes on the lecture, but none of it was sticking with me.
“I mean, what did you do besides ski?” I finally asked Noel, when Fleischman was done talking and we were all supposed to be coming to the front of the room to taste various cheeses and think about what we’d learned in terms of their chemical makeup. “Roquefort!” Fleischman was shouting. “Epoisses! That one is stinky, watch out! Did you know raw-milk cheeses are illegal in the US of A? Yes, people! Can anyone explain why? Did anyone do the reading on pasteurization?”
I had done the reading, but I was more interested in what Noel was going to say than in gaining points with Fleischman.
Noel shrugged. “Nora brought some movies and we watched them.”
“And?”
Noel put some Epoisses in his mouth and made a slight face. “She made these cinnamon swirl things on Sunday morning. They were seriously good.”
Nora had taken my advice.
I wished she hadn’t.
“She made blueberry muffins too,” Noel added. “Amazing.”
“I wasn’t asking for the Nora report,” I snapped.
He looked puzzled. “You asked about the weekend.”
“So?”
“So, I was just telling you.”
“Back to your places, people!” Mr. Fleischman called, his comb-over flopping off his head. He sat us down and began to discuss the difference in curd-granule junctions between brick cheese and Cheddar, and explaining that next week we would be looking at the junctions under microscopes.
Noel bent over his notebook seriously. I bent over mine. We didn’t say anything more.
When class is over, I told myself, I’m going to walk out without giving him another glance.
It’s not like Noel is anything to me.
He was making out with Ariel last week.
He can fall for Nora and her cinnamon buns. I’ll be nothing but happy for them.
I don’t care.
Fleischman finished talking, and immediately I bent down to pick up my backpack. When I stood up, ready to dodge Noel so as not to have to continue our conversation, he was already gone.
“I think retro metal is maybe a cure for panic disorders,” I told Doctor Z the next day.
She popped a square of Nicorette. “Ruby.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have a panic disorder.”
I crossed my legs and picked at the fraying knee of my jeans.
“You know that, don’t you?” repeated Doctor Z.
“Yes.”
“Three attacks in one week don’t—”
“Two attacks were in one day!” I interrupted.
“Fine. They’re still not enough to constitute a disorder. It’s an important part of our therapy that we keep you thinking rationally about your panic attacks. Because it is when people begin to fear them and avoid situations because of possible triggers that a disorder can emerge.”
I knew all about that. “I am thinking rationally,” I told her. “I’m telling you I think the cure is retro metal.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Retro metal is how Hutch survived years of roly-poly-ness without becoming hospitalized for mental stress. He just rocks out on a regular basis to the likes of Poison or Van Halen or whatever, and it keeps him from going insane. It’s the secret mental health of hair bands.”
A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “What’s a hair band?”
“You know, those bands with ginormous teased-up hair they flip around while they play guitar,” I explained. I knew I was wasting my therapy hour, but I kept going: “Retro metal is how my father manages to live with my supercontrolling mother. I expect the metal has to have some kind of a beat. Like AC/DC works, Aerosmith works, but not Metallica or any other speed metal.”
Doctor Z shook her head gently.
“You doubt me,” I said, “but I’m telling you, this theory is golden. You could write a book on the subject and become famous.”
“Well,” she conceded, “music can be an excellent stress release.”
“I’m saying, music that I don’t even like. Music that by most objective standards actually sucks. Who would imagine it could be therapeutic?’
“Ruby.”
“What?”
She didn’t say anything. I hate it when she does th
at.
I didn’t say anything back.
But I hated sitting there in silence, too. “It’s so passive-aggressive when you say my name and then don’t say anything else,” I finally told her.
Nothing from Doctor Z.
“I know you don’t want to hear my theory of retro metal,” I went on. “I know you think it’s a front to avoid talking about something real.”
Silence again.
“No doubt you want me to talk about why I had the panic attacks.” Nothing.
“Or explain more about what happened beforehand.”
More nothing.
“Did you know Jackson said I looked bad when I had the panic thing on the path at school?” I said. “It kills me that he said I looked bad. He even told Noel I looked bad.”
Doctor Z chewed her Nicorette thoughtfully.
“You’re thinking about how I’m talking about Jackson again, aren’t you?” I said. “Because I haven’t even told you about the Frog Laden with Meaning. If I were still obsessed with Jackson, that would have been like, the first thing I mentioned when I got in here. The Frog Laden with Meaning.”
“Actually …,” Doctor Z said.
But I went on: “Did I tell you Nora invited Noel skiing? Nothing happened between them, she told me, but they got to know each other much better and she’s optimistic. Plus she baked him cinnamon buns and I know for a fact he was impressed. Nora is like a role model for going after what you want, don’t you think? I should try to be more like her. I’m sure all my mental problems would be better if I embarked on the Imitate Nora Van Deusen Program for a Happier Mocha Latte (aka adolescence).”
“Actually,” repeated Doctor Z, with only a slight sigh, “I was thinking that since we’re coming up against some resistance on your part to engaging with me on topics of substance, maybe it’s time for you to make a treasure map.”
“A what?”
“A treasure map. Our time is over for today, but it would be useful for you to do at home, to bring in next week. It’s a project.”
I gave her a doubtful look.
“It’s a treasure map because it’s a concrete imagining of something you want for yourself in life,” explained Doctor Z. “In this case, positive relationships with your peer group. But the map will make things more specific.”
“I’m supposed to draw a map of positive peer-group relationships?” I stood and heaved my bag over my shoulder.
“Like a friendship collage,” said Doctor Z. “You’re showing yourself what you want your social life to look like. You can use photographs, words, paint, fabric, any kind of mixed media. Include activities you’d like to do with your friends, images that illustrate how you feel about your peers and possibly about your romantic prospects.”
She sounded like she was reciting something from a textbook of shrinky ideas, and I wondered if she’d looked up treasure mapping in her secret Instruction Manual for the Care and Treatment of Annoying Teenagers before I arrived for my appointment.
“Whatever,” I told her.
“Give it a try,” Doctor Z said, and she had this hopeful, earnest look in her eyes that made me think she really, truly did want to help me be a normal person.
“Yeah, okay,” I told her. “I’ll get out my glue stick.”
Both my parents were in the car waiting for me when I got out. They announced we were going to Judy Fu’s Snappy Dragon for Chinese.
“How was Doctor Z?” asked my dad as I climbed into the backseat. He was behind the wheel of the Honda and there was garden dirt under his fingernails.
“Kevin, you’re not supposed to ask her what happens in therapy,” Mom said. The backseat was filled with plastic bags she wanted to reuse at the grocery store. I was squished in among them.
“I’m not asking what happened in therapy,” Dad said. “I’m asking how Doctor Z is.”
“She’s fine,” I told him. “She got a haircut.”
“Did you learn anything interesting today?” he asked.
“It’s not school, Kevin,” my mother corrected him. “You can’t ask her what she learned, because A, she didn’t learn stuff and B, I already told you, you can’t ask her what happened. It’s supposed to be her business.”
“Hello, I’m in the car.” I said, scrunching grocery bags to make some noise in the backseat.
My mother ignored me. “Kevin, get on the freeway. It’s shorter if you take I-Five.”
“She could learn stuff,” said Dad. “She’s going through a growth process. It’s different from school, but it’s still learning.”
“Learning that you can’t ask her about. Do you think they have salad at Snappy Dragon?” Mom pulled out a compact and powdered her nose. “Because I’m going to need to eat raw there, you know.”
“It’s Chinese. Are you really expecting salad?”
“Eating raw is a commitment,” Mom insisted. “It’s no good if you cheat.”
“You said okay to Snappy Dragon! I asked you!”
“Why are you so unsupportive of the raw-food way of life?”
Mom sulked for a few minutes and Dad drove. Finally, he said: “I don’t see why Ruby wouldn’t tell us what she learned. She doesn’t have to give us details that feel private, she could share the insights she’s gleaned, so as to help us relate to her better.”
My mother sighed. “Take this exit.”
“Is there anything else you want to share with us about therapy?” Dad asked me. “I hope you realize my ears are always open.”
I don’t know what came over me then. I was so mad at myself for wasting my therapy session—and honestly, I didn’t think there was any way they’d believe me. “Doctor Z thinks I should get a dog,” I answered.
“What? That’s a strange prescription,” my dad said.
“Actually,” I continued, amused, “she thinks I should get a Great Dane.”
“No way.” My mother crossed her arms. “Kevin, left! Left right here!”
Dad turned obediently. “Doctor Z specified a dog breed?” he wanted to know.
“Yes,” I lied. “But really she said any superlarge dog would do. It has to do with having a vessel for my psyche, and the vessel shouldn’t be too small.”
I thought for sure they were both going to start laughing any minute. But they didn’t, so I went on. “It’s supposed to work wonders for the ennui brought on by mocha latte.”
“The what is supposed to do what for the what brought on by what?” my dad wanted to know.
“We’re not getting a dog. N-O spells no,” said my mother.
“I can spell,” I reminded her.
“Tell Doctor Z she should check with us before putting ideas into your head,” said Mom. “Juana has one of those dogs and it’s a total menace.”
I Join Up with Granola Brothers
Hey hey Roo,
I came by the bake sale table this morning but you weren’t there. Jackson
—written on his green-tinted narrow-ruled paper—but with no frog; no frog whatsoever.
i got this note after first period the next morning. I had an early meeting with my college counselor and had skipped sitting at the CHuBS recruiting table while Meghan and Nora gave out linzer cookies.
Why had Jackson come by the table?
What did he want?
And why was there no frog?
Had I expected a frog?
I wondered about it all morning, but I didn’t see him until after sixth period, when I spotted him waiting to talk to Mr. Wallace as a group of seniors surged out of Contemporary Am Lit. He was wearing an old plaid shirt rolled above the elbows. His forearms were solid muscle from rowing crew.
“Hey.” I tapped his shoulder.
“Ms. Roo to you, what’s up?”
“You said something about the bake-sale table,” I reminded him.
Mr. Wallace caught Jackson’s eye. “I haven’t forgotten about you, Clarke,” he said. “Just give me one more minute here.”
Jackson nodded at him and
turned to me. “Oh, it was nothing important,” he said. “I can tell you later.”
I was annoyed. Why write me, then, if it was nothing important? It wasn’t like we were friends. “Whatever,” I said, turning to go—but he touched my arm.
“You’re running the bake sale and it’s happening on Parents’ Day, is that what I hear?” he asked.
I nodded. “We’re recruiting now.”
Jackson flashed his grin. “Are there gonna be doughnuts?”
“Doughnuts are advanced,” I said. “You deep-fry them. There’s hot oil involved. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Jackson pulled a face. “Doughnuts would be so good, though, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
“You should get someone to make them,” he said.
“In your dreams,” I said, annoyed. “I gotta go to class.”
“Yes, in my dreams!” he called after me as I went into Pre-Cal. “There are homemade doughnuts in my dreams!”
Even though I was lying about the Great Dane, it’s true that I like animals more than people. That’s a horrible thing to say, I know. It’s also no doubt one of the reasons I need therapy. Wouldn’t anyone with a modicum of sanity care more about the homeless, or battered women, or any kind of person who might end up in a shelter than she would about fuzzy kittens?
Yes, anyone with a modicum of sanity would. But to me, dogs and cats are innocent. Goats and llamas, too. They’re never duplicitous, they’re never bitchy, they’re never untrue.1 They never write you confusing notes, or stare at your boobs, or steal your boyfriend, or write things about you on the walls of the bathroom.
When you love an animal, you don’t mind if it has bad breath, or chews on your hoodie, or chases a toddler because its foot is hurting. You just laugh at those things, and try to understand them, and appreciate the animal for who it is. It’s not conditional love—but love between people seems like it nearly always is.
I got Archer to agree to switch our charity to Happy Paws, a no-kill “haven” that finds homes for abandoned dogs and cats, and Thursday afternoon I stayed late at school helping Meghan and Nora make posters for the Baby CHuBS recruiting table. Some were about Happy Paws, and the others offered a free baked good to anyone who signed up to contribute to the sale. The food would get the boys in, we figured.
