Every Last Word
: Chapter 3

We’re eating lunch under our tree in the quad when Alexis takes a dramatic breath, places her palms flat on the ground, and leans into the circle. “I can’t stand this anymore. I have something to tell you guys.”

Kaitlyn rests a hand on Alexis’s back, like she’s offering silent reassurance. “It’s about my birthday this weekend,” Alexis says, and the rest of us squeeze in tight. “We’ve been planning to go to this amazing spa in Napa for months now, right? Well, I guess my mom should have scheduled the appointments earlier, because when she called two weeks ago, they told her there was a wedding this weekend and everything was booked solid.” She sighs dramatically. “She could only get three appointments.”

“Whatever. We’ll go to another spa,” Olivia says.

“That’s what I suggested. But my mom said she called all the high-end places, and none of them could accommodate all of us on such short notice. Besides, this is her favorite—she’s been going there on special occasions for years—and she’s always wanted to take me.”

“Can we go on Sunday instead? Or the following weekend?” I ask.

Alexis looks at me and her eyebrows knit together. “Saturday’s my birthday, Samantha.”

She takes a sharp inhale as she removes two envelopes from her bag. She hands one to Kaitlyn and the other to Olivia. “I’ve been thinking about this nonstop over the last week, and I finally decided it was only fair to pick the two people I’ve known the longest.”

“You’ve known all of us since kindergarten,” Hailey says, voicing what I’m pretty sure each one of us is thinking.

“True, but our moms,” she says, gesturing to Kaitlyn and Olivia, “knew each other when we were in preschool,” and the two of them nod like that explains everything. Then they actually have the audacity to start opening their envelopes in front of us.

Again, Hailey speaks on behalf of us losers. “Samantha has a car now. Maybe the two of us can drive up and meet you for lunch?”

Hailey’s pleading expression makes me actually consider it for a moment. But Mom and Dad would never agree. Even if they did, what would happen when we arrived at the restaurant? It might take me ten minutes to park correctly. What if there’s a valet?

I can’t drive.

“I thought about that,” Alexis says. “But she won’t drive with passengers. Right, Samantha?” My face gets hotter the longer they stare at me.

I shake my head. Alexis glances around the circle, shifting the blame to me, using nothing but her eyes.

The thoughts start gathering, butting up against the caution tape surrounding my brain, strategizing and preparing to rush in and take over. I hold them off, telling myself all the right things, repeating the mantras, taking deep breaths, counting slowly.

One. Breathe.

Two. Breathe.

Three. Breathe.

It’s not working. My face is getting hotter and my hands are clammy and my breathing feels shallow and I need to get out of here. Fast.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend I just received a text. “I have to run. My new lab partner needs my notes from class.” I pack up my untouched sandwich, hoping no one asks about the lab partner I don’t actually have.

“You’re not upset, are you?” Alexis asks sweetly.

I bite the inside of my lower lip three times before I make eye contact. “Of course not. We get it, right?” I direct the question at Hailey, acknowledging the two of us as allies, stuck on the bottom rungs of Alexis’s social ladder.

And then I walk away as slowly as possible, ignoring the fact that every muscle in my body wants to run.

When I feel the first sign of a panic attack, I’m supposed to go to a quiet place with dim lighting, where I can be alone and get my thoughts under control. My psychiatrist has burned these instructions into my brain in a way that makes them second nature, but instead I duck around the corner out of sight and stand there, my back against the science building, my face pressed into my hands, like I can achieve the same effect if I can only block out the glare of the sun. Eventually, I start walking through campus and let the path take me wherever it leads.

It leads me to the theater.

I’ve been here before for the annual talent show, the band recital, school plays—basically, the slew of events we’re forced to attend because they take place in lieu of class. The five of us always ditch our assigned row and sit together in the back, snickering to ourselves and poking fun at the people on stage, until one of the teachers gets tired of shushing us and sends us all outside, as if that’s punishment. We sit on the grass, talking and laughing, until everyone who had to stay and watch the entire performance finally files out.

I hunker down in a seat in the center of the first row, because it’s actually darkest here, and I’m already feeling calmer, despite the fact that Alexis just force-ranked her best friends and put me on the bottom. On the bright side, I no longer have to waste so much time wondering where I fit.

The bell rings and I’m about to get up and head for class, when I hear voices. I crouch down lower, watching a group of people walk across the stage, talking to each other in hushed tones. A guy’s voice says, “See you Thursday.”

The last person emerges from behind the curtain. She’s about to disappear on the opposite side when she stops and takes a few deliberate steps backward. Resting her hands on her hips, she scans the theater and sees me in the front row.

“Hey.” She walks over and sits with her legs dangling over the edge of the stage.

I narrow my eyes to get a better look at her in the dark. “Caroline?” I ask.

“Wow. You remembered my name,” she says as she jumps down and collapses into the seat on my right. “I’m kind of surprised by that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess I assumed you were the type of person I’d have to introduce myself to more than once before it would actually stick.”

“Caroline Madsen,” I say, proving that I even remembered her last name.

She looks a little impressed. “So did you see the rest of us?” she asks, pointing at the empty stage.

“I guess. I saw a bunch of people go by. Why?”

Her mouth turns down at the corners. “No reason. Just wondering.”

But now she has me curious. And besides, this is a great distraction. “Who were they? Where were you coming from?”

“Nowhere. We were just…looking around.” I start to press her for more details, but before I can say anything, she leans over, stopping a few inches short of my face. “Have you been crying?”

I sink down farther in my chair.

“Guy trouble?” she asks.

“No.”

“Girl trouble?” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye.

“No. Not like that. But, well…actually yeah, sort of.”

“Let me guess.” She taps her finger against her temple. “Your locker-wrapping best friends are actually manipulative bitches?”

I look up at her from under my eyelashes. “Sometimes. Is it that obvious?”

“You can take in a lot of information from a few lockers away.” She scoots back into her chair and slides down, kicking her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles, mirroring my posture exactly. “You know what you need?” I don’t answer her, and after a long pause she says, “Nicer friends.”

“Funny. My psychiatrist has been saying that for years.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I suck in a breath. No one outside my family knows about my psychiatrist. She’s not my biggest secret, but she’s right up there with the rest of them. I look over at Caroline for a reaction, expecting a biting comment or a condescending stare.

“Why do you see a psychiatrist?” she asks, like it’s no big deal.

Apparently I’m not keeping secrets from her, because words start spilling out on their own. “OCD. I’m more obsessive than compulsive, so most of the ‘disorder’ part takes place in my own head. That makes it pretty easy to hide. No one knows.”

I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud.

She’s looking at me like she’s actually interested, so I keep talking. “But I obsess about a lot of things, like guys and my friends and totally random stuff.…I sort of latch on to a thought and I can’t let it go. Sometimes the thoughts come rapid-fire and cause an anxiety attack. Oh, and I have this weird thing with the number three. I count a lot. I sort of have to do things in threes.”

“Why threes?”

I slowly shake my head. “I have no idea.”

“That sounds pretty horrible, Sam.”

Sam.

Caroline’s looking at me as if this whole thing is completely fascinating. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, exactly the way my psychiatrist does when she wants me to keep talking. So I do.

“I can’t turn my thoughts off, so I barely sleep. Without meds, I don’t get much more than three or four hours a night. It’s been that way since I was ten.” Now there’s a hint of sympathy in her eyes. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. “It’s okay. I’m on antianxiety meds. And I know how to control the panic attacks.” At least, I think I do. It’s been a little harder since the bizarre impulse to slash the Valentine’s Day roses.

“I started seeing a psychiatrist when I was thirteen,” Caroline says matter-of-factly. After a long pause she adds, “Depression.”

“Really?” I ask, resting my elbow on the armrest between us.

“We’ve tried different antidepressants over the years, but…I don’t know…sometimes it feels like it’s getting worse, not better.”

“I was on antidepressants for a while, too.” It sounds so strange to hear myself admit all this. I’ve never talked with anyone my age about this stuff.

Caroline reclines into the chair and smiles. She looks pretty when she does. She’d be even prettier if she would just wear a little makeup.

I bet I could help her.

I no longer have plans to be at a fancy spa with my four best friends this weekend. I don’t have any plans at all. “Hey, what are you doing on Saturday night?”

She crinkles her nose. “I don’t know. Nothing. Why?”

“Want to come to my house? We can watch a movie or something.”

Maybe I could talk her into letting me give her a mini-makeover, too. A few highlights to give her hair a little dimension. Some concealer to hide the pockmarks and blemishes. Nothing dramatic, just a touch of color on her cheeks, eyes, lips.

Caroline pulls a pen out of the front pocket of her baggy jeans.

“I’ll text it to you,” I say, reaching for my phone.

She shakes her head. “Technology is a trap,” she says, waving her pen in the air. “Go.” I give her my house number and street, and she scribbles it on her palm and pockets the pen again. Then she bounces up from her chair so quickly, I jump in my seat. She backs toward the stage, places her hands on the surface, and with a little hop, she’s sitting on the edge again. She leans forward and checks the room. “I want to help you, Sam.”

Wait. What? She wants to help me? “What do you mean?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

I’m great at secrets. My friends tell me all their dirt, knowing I’ll never breathe a word of it to anyone. They have no idea I’ve been keeping a mental disorder from them for the last five years.

“Of course I can,” I say.

“Good. I want to show you something. But if I do, you can’t tell anyone. And I mean anyone. Not even your shrink.”

“But I tell her everything.”

“Not this.”

Caroline waves me over to her. “See that spot over there?” She points at the piano in the corner of the stage. “Come back here on Thursday, right after the lunch bell rings, and wait for me. Don’t say a word to anyone. Hide on this side of the curtain and don’t come out until I come get you.”

“Why?”

“Because.” She grabs me by the shoulders. “I’m going to show you something that will change your whole life.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, please.”

“It might not.” Caroline moves her hands to my cheeks. “But if I’m right about you, it will.”