Chapter 4

AGE 6, SEPTEMBER

I have a bad feeling.

But I always have bad feelings.

Last spring, my parents took me to see the doctor to find out what was wrong with me. I was getting so sick all the time—belly aches and throwing up… It made me miss school more and more.

They took an x-ray and even poked me with a needle, stealing some of my blood, which was stupid of them. It made me puke all over the floor. I always thought you go to the doctor to feel better. Not make it worse.

Dr. Bass, our pediatrician, said everything came back clear. I was a healthy six year old boy, if not a little small for my age. He said it was probably just nerves, and sent us to this lady called a therapist, who I now see once a week. Her name is Mary Ann.

She's nice, and she likes Spider-Man—the movies though, not the comics; she said she's never read those—but talking to her is hard. I don't really have anything to say or complain about. I usually just nod or color as Mommy or Daddy or both talk to her in the other room.

Mary Ann will sometimes come talk to me as I draw—she'll color with me too sometimes—but other than that I'm not alone with her. She tried once, but I shook my head and hid my face in Mommy's arm.

She hasn't tried again since.

Social anxiety.

That's what they're calling it now.

Not just me being shy. Not just nerves. It has a name.

Mommy and Daddy said no to medicine for it. I'm not sure why. Aren't you supposed to take medicine when you're sick?

I wish I had medicine now. I don't feel good at all, and school didn't even start yet.

Izzy and I were driven separately today. Normally, I hang out with her and Waylon before we're called into the school and I go to my transition class, while they go to their own classroom. But I don't have either of them now.

Waylon didn't stay with us last night, so his daddy's bringing him. They must be running late.

And Izzy, she now has piano lessons first thing in the morning three times a week, instead of the afternoons like she used to, since she's now in first grade and goes all day. Mommy and Daddy don't want her to fall behind with school work.

I'd hate to wake up as early as she has to, especially when school is now all-day long—for me too, even though I'm in transition. But she doesn't complain at all, not about that. She only complains when we get home when Mommy won't let her go down to our studio to practice until she gets her homework done.

Going all day stinks. I miss summer. I miss kindergarten. I miss preschool even more, because we got to have naps there. I was never sick when I was in preschool.

Now I feel sick every day.

The swing creaks under my weight, the chains on either side of me brushing against my arms as I color in the leaves on the tree I drew. I don't always get to sit on the swings before school starts, because most days they're already taken, and I'll go sit against the chain fence in the corner of the schoolyard to draw instead.

No one's tried talking to me today so far, and I'm glad. Makes my stomach feel a little less tight and crampy. The first week of school was awful. I don't know why the only kids who seem to wanna bother with me are Clay and his friends. They're in first grade along with my sister and Waylon, so we only have lunch and gym together now—not all his friends, only him and Ethan, and they're the worst.

I wish they put Izzy, Waylon, and me in the same lunch and gym period. But they didn't. I guess Clay and Ethan have special classes or something, so they weren't able to be with the others in their grade. Instead they're with my transition class and the kindergarteners for those two blocks.

Hopefully they've finally gotten sick of bugging me and have moved on to someone else.

The sky is bright blue today, with clouds in the distance. It's the middle of September, the second week of school, and already cold enough I have to wear a jacket. Shoving up the sleeve for the bazillionth time, I switch out my pine green crayon for just plain green, so I can brighten some of the leaves.

And that's when it happens.

"Look, Ethan, bet she's colorin' a picture for you." Clay snickers, and someone else makes kissy sounds.

"Gross," Ethan says angrily.

I freeze, my fingers turning white, except for where red floods my nailbeds.

The crayon snaps in half.

So much for leavin' me alone…

They start saying more mean things, but I can't hear them under the angry roaring rush in my ears. My fingers tremble, and I watch with horror as my drawing pad slides off my lap, landing in the mulch.

Clay dives forward, grabbing it.

"Don't," I say, my voice lost to the invisible waves crashing in on my head from all sides, pushing me under water.

My whole body shakes as I try to stand up, but Mikey gets to me first—he's the biggest of them all—even bigger than he was last year—and he shoves me hard in the chest, making me tumble backward off the swing. I fall on my back in the mulch.

They're laughing.

Clay's saying something.

I roll onto my knees, blond hair falling all around my face—too long, it's too long, I should've let them cut it, why didn't I let them cut it?

In the corner of my eye, Mikey flips over my red backpack, shaking everything out of it.

My shoulders bunch up by my ears, and hot tears bubble up over my eyes.

"Aww, you made her cry."

I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for them to kick me. They don't normally. But they also don't normally shove me. Usually they just make fun of me, and call me names.

My stomach rolls, gurgling, and I shake my head, wishing for this all to go away.

To be a bad dream.

I wanna go home. I just wanna go home.

Something's squeezing my neck—my chest—squeezing so tight I can't breathe. I can't breathe, let me go! Let me go!

But when I reach up to claw at the hand choking me…

There's nothing there.

I sense footsteps drawing near, and brace myself?—

"HEY!"

At first, the voice doesn't register. Not when I'm literally being choked to death by an invisible force—just like the people in my comics.

It's not until he appears out of nowhere—like Superman dropping down on the fight—and shoves Mikey away from me so hard Mikey actually almost goes down, that everything seems to just….

Stop.

The mean words.

The sloshing inside me.

The angry crash of waves surrounding me.

It all just stops…

And I gasp.