Chapter Two

Sunlight streams through my windows, waking me up early. Too early. I groan, throwing a pillow over my face to block the golden light. The innermost part of my skull pulses as if it has a heartbeat, and my stomach rumbles from the alcohol lingering in my system. I slept for no more than an hour or two.

My phone vibrates from my nightstand. If news about what happened in Elliott's bedroom was going to make rounds at the party, it would have by now. I whisper a silent prayer in Hebrew before opening the text.

Gemma: Got home safe.

The stiffness in my shoulders ease. If nobody else finds out about last night, I might be able to forget it ever happened. I can lock up the memory and bury it.

Tossing my phone back onto the nightstand, I drag myself out of bed. Last night's black dress taunts me from the floor. Scowling, I kick it beneath my desk, out of my line of sight. Maybe Gemma will help me burn it later.

My reflection in the mirror is slightly less monstrous, but my eyes are still hooded with tiredness. I rub a layer of concealer across my skin to cover up the red spots. Even after brushing my teeth for five whole minutes, I still taste vodka on my tongue.

I'm never drinking again.

The smell of bacon grease wafts from downstairs and my stomach growls. I can't remember the last time I had anything to eat. After one last peek at the mirror, I follow the smell to the kitchen.

My father's disheveled dark hair is sticking out in multiple directions. I hold back a giggle as he tries and fails to flip a pancake. He's been cooking breakfast every Sunday morning since my mom died. It's one of our few remaining traditions.

"How was the movie?" he asks.

Right. I lied about my plans.He wouldn't have cared much if I went to a party; in fact, he probably would have been excited about me hanging out with other people again, but the movie excuse seemed better than suffering through his "don't drink or you'll die" speech for the tenth time.

"Pretty good."

He passes me a plate stacked with pancakes and pork bacon. Before my mother died, we used to keep kosher. Now we don't even go to synagogue.

"Sleep okay?"

I lift my chin and smile with as much energy as I can muster. "Yeah. I had weird dreams."

I've been using "weird" instead of "bad" recently.

"Do you want a ride to your appointment?"

I've told him a thousand times I'm getting better, but he insists I keep seeing Dr. Taylor, my therapist, an aging man with too much patience for his own good. Although, after last night, complaining to somebody doesn't sound like as much of the usual inconvenience. I shove a forkful of food into my mouth.

"Sure, thanks."

We slip into small talk about our plans for the upcoming week. I toss my cleared plate into the sink, then head upstairs to change. My room is a disaster. I throw the purple comforter over my sheets and straighten up the rest of the bed. One of the posters on the wall, the album cover of Nirvana'sIn Utero, threatens to fall onto my head. I grab an extra tack from my desk and pin up the bottom.

"Ready?" calls my dad from downstairs.

I glare at the black dress on the floor once more before leaving.

My dad hums along to the radio as he drives. Apart from a few solo cups peeking out of the bushes, there is no sign at all there was ever a party at Elliott's.

Grady Hospital is less than a ten-minute drive from our house. A security guard waves the car into the covered parking lot. Dad picks the closest spot to the entrance.

"Do you want me to come in with you?"

I shake my head. He always asks even though I never let him. I attempt a reassuring smile, but the concern on his face doesn't fade. These appointments end differently each time. Sometimes I leave feeling better; other times not so much.

Rain sprinkles onto my hoodie. I take my time walking to the front entrance, sucking in a lungful of cool autumn air.

Inside, the smell of sterilization is overwhelming. The walls are coated in a thick layer of white paint. I asked Dr. Taylor once about the choice of color. He told me that white raises the moods of patients, but I disagree. Too bright.

"How have you been?" Dr. Taylor asks.

A pair of thick-rimmed glasses sit dangerously close to the edge of his nose. One tiny movement and they'll fall right off.

"Good," I reply half-heartedly.

He motions for me to take a seat, which I do. Compared to the white of the hallways, the brown hardwoods in his office are comforting. I run my hands over the three marks dug into the hand rest of the chair. Months ago, during a boring session, I determined someone must have forced their nails into it.

"Is the Prozac still working?"

I respond truthfully, "I haven't had a panic attack since I started it."

I never thought something as small as a pill could help so much. I take one every morning like clockwork, never missing a dosage. Dr. Taylor scribbles in the notebook in his lap. His gray, speckled hair bounces around as he writes.

"You mentioned last week that Gemma invited you to a party? How did that go?"

Some of his features are similar to Harris's. Their lips are identical in size and shape, and they prefer the same musty cologne.

"It was alright."

I try not to react to the weight of his question but hiding even the slightest negative reaction from him is an Olympic feat. I swear he was born for this gig—body language is his natural dialect.

"You seem on edge. What happened?"

I speak through gritted teeth. "Some people made fun of me while I was there."

"What did they say?"

"A lot of stuff. One of them was in class with me. When ithappened."

I remember Harris's reaction, now. He was sitting in the front row of the classroom when the EMTs guided me out of calculus. That day disrupted the rest of my junior year; Dr. Taylor and I have spent the last few months working toward some form of normality again.

"Did this person say something about the incident?"

"No. But he called me Psycho."

Dr. Taylor groans. He's become as annoyed with the nickname as I am. He really does care, which makes admitting the bad stuff even worse. I sink into the chair.

"High schoolers are incredibly immature. We both know that."

"I know," I mumble.

Dr. Taylor's guided me through a thousand different exercises where I learn to ignore the Psycho thing, but I haven't found the courage to tell him it's an impossible task. High school is literally all about being defined by the nicknames given to you by people like Harris Price.

Suddenly, Dr. Taylor's green eyes light up. He pushes his glasses farther up on his nose and flashes a smile that makes me nervous.

"I have an idea, but I don't think you're going to like it."

Not the most intriguing start.

"What if you tried out a sport?"

I can't stop myself from laughing. Loudly.

Dr. Taylor rushes his words. "I think the physicality of it might help you forget about all the stuff going on mentally. It would give you something consistent to look forward to."

Just entertaining the idea of myself playing a sport is nightmarish. I'm uncoordinated and the opposite of a team player. I've been picked last for kickball every year since sixth grade when I accidentally hit Angela Thomas in the face.

"I'm not joining a sports team," I proclaim. To my surprise, Dr. Taylor doesn't back down.

"How about something more individualized? Yoga?"

"Too slow."

"Track?"

"I hate running."

"What about boxing?"

I pause.

Elliott wrangled Harris off of me without effort. He could have easily beat the school's quarterback to a pulp if he wanted to. Elliott exuded the power I've been trying to get back ever since that day in calculus.

"Maybe," I say.

Dr. Taylor beams. "There's a place close by that my friend goes to, Midtown Ring. First lesson is free."

He rips off a piece of paper, scribbles down the name of the gym, then passes it to me. I slip it into the pocket of my blue jeans. We spend the rest of the meeting discussing my plan for graduating on time.

"Same time next week?"

I nod, and he narrows his gaze on my pocket. "I truly hope you give it a go."

"I'll think about it."

Exiting the hospital, I take out my phone and type Midtown Ring into Google. The gym's website hasn't been updated since 2005. Apart from a calendar with an address and a time for a class tomorrow, there's no other information.

"Lovely," I whisper.

The sprinkle of rain earlier has turned into a thunderstorm. I sprint to the car.

"How was it?" Dad asks.

"Dr. Taylor suggested I try boxing."

He stares at me like I've grown an extra head. "But . . . you hate sports?"

"I know," I sigh.

Dad seems to go through the same thought process I did—minus the visual of Elliott King throwing Harris Price into a glass table.

"Well," he finally says, "I guess there's no harm in trying."

He sounds hopeful. He's been desperately searching for something—anything—that might help me. A few boxing lessons aren't going to magically get rid of my anxiety, but I keep my mouth shut.

I spend the rest of the day catching up on my reading for class, the piece of paper heavy in my pocket.

*

Gemma wraps me in a hug when I step out the front door. Her hair, naturally black but dyed red, is pinned up into two Princess Leia buns.

"I have so much to tell you!" she exclaims.

"Why do you have this energy at eight in the morning?"

"Coffee, obviously."

I turn my nose. Caffeine makes my anxiety act up, so I've been staying away from our local Starbucks as much as a seventeen-year-old girl can. We start toward our school, Dekalb High. Other seniors pass us by on the other side of the street.

I need to tell her about Harris, but the words are glued to my throat. If Gemma finds out, she'll freak. She'll want to talk to Harris, and if the whole school is around to hear her, I may as well be dead.

Later. I'll tell her later.

"We played spin the bottle after you left the party. Nishi spun and it landed on me. She wouldn't kiss me though, which was super embarrassing."

Gemma talks so quickly; I have to slow down my walk to understand her.

"Then she took me to this quiet corner in the back of the house and was like, ‘I didn't want our first kiss to be in front of everyone else.' And then she kissed me!"

I grin. For months, Gemma's been pining after Nishi Kapoor, lacrosse player and president of the Gay-Straight Alliance club. For someone so outspoken, Nishi can't form a coherent sentence in front of Gemma. I don't blame her. Gemma's intimidating. She's never found it difficult to turn a crush into something more. The only time it didn't work out for her was when I was her conquest.

"Was it good?"

"More than good." Gemma drools. "I think I'm in love."

My eyes roll to the back of my head, but I'm thrilled for her. "You say that at least once a month."

"It's true this time!"

As we approach the school gates, I practice Dr. Taylor's exercise: Breathe in. Hold your breath. Count for three seconds. Release. Repeat. As always, it doesn't help my anxiety. The only thing that does is the Prozac, which I forgot to take this morning.

Shit.

"Rose?" Gemma questions, "You good?"

"Sorry, yeah."

The brick building is buzzing with students. Sophomores chat with each other, embracing their last moments of freedom before the first bell rings. I scan the crowd for Harris, but he's nowhere to be found.

Hopefully, he caught the flu. Or something worse.

Gemma waves goodbye as we head to our respective classrooms. Math is emptier than usual. I have class in the same room that I took calculus in last year. Harris used to sit two rows in front of me. I spent hours staring at the words printed on the back of his jersey: H. Price, Eighteen.

"Rose?"

Mrs. Smith. She's waiting on an answer.

"What?"

Two girls in the back chuckle. I crane my neck and glare. It shuts them up.

"Can you solve the equation for us?"

"No. Sorry."

She lets me off easy. They usually do. I try to pay attention throughout the rest of the class, but I can't stop thinking about Harris. If he's not at school today, he'll certainly be back tomorrow. It's impossible to hide from him.

When the bell rings, I shiver.

I've been dreading this.

English class with Elliott King.

His back is facing me when I take my first step into the classroom. Girls crowd around his desk like moths to a flame. They laugh in perfect unison over the sight of him attempting to balance a pencil on the bridge of his nose.

He doesn't notice when I enter the room. No one ever does. I doubt he even knows we're in the same class. The desks to the left and right of me are empty, so I utilize the extra space for my notebooks. A girl to Elliott's right runs her hands across the collar of his green polo.

"Cute shirt," she purrs.

Maddy Davis. The girl from Elliott's bedroom. She moves her hand down the side of Elliott's chest and intertwines their fingers. His eyes wander absently toward a different girl across the room, narrowing on the shape of her butt.

Classy.

Mr. Ruse stands up right as the clock hits eleven. He's the oldest, quirkiest teacher I have and his taste in fashion shows it. Today, he's dressed in a bright purple suit with a polka-dotted tie. He scribbles the first few lines of Annabel Lee onto the white board.

"The last complete poem written by Edgar Allan Poe," Ruse says, tapping a marker against the words. "One of my absolute favorites. Has anybody read it before?"

A few hands shoot up, including my own.

"Well, you all will be happy to know that we're beginning our poetry unit today. I want each of you to choose a poem that you admire and discuss it in a paragraph or two. Write about what you think it means or how it makes you feel. Turn it in before Friday."

I scribble down the assignment. Ruse dives into a lesson on Edgar Allan Poe, but my attention drifts to the bruise on the back of Elliott's neck.

Did Harris get a hit in?

I swallow the bitter taste of guilt on my tongue. If only I had stayed in the kitchen and waited for Gemma to come back. Elliott's room wouldn't be destroyed. His skin wouldn't be turning purple. And I wouldn't want to die when he glances in my direction.

As class comes to an end, I can't stop thinking about why I couldn't sleep last night. I was too busy debating if I should take up Dr. Taylor's suggestion, and I still haven't come up with an answer.

I wait for Elliott and Maddy to clear the classroom before leaving my desk. Elliott wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, laughing obnoxiously about someone who fainted at his party. A freshman half Elliott's size crosses his path.

"Move," Elliott commands.

The kid jumps like a scared cat, earning an amused chuckle from Elliott. He's the king of the school when Harris isn't around.

Harris. His hungry expression as he stared down at me won't escape my mind. The rough touch of his fingers on my skin hasn't faded, and I'm not sure if it ever will. If I knew how to defend myself, things might have gone differently.

I know what I need to do.