8. Macie

Chapter eight

Macie

" W e need to call Gianna's parents," Mom announced, and I convulsed as if I'd touched a live wire.

"We definitely cannot do that." I threw my arms out to emphasize how much we could not cross that line. Any hope I had of returning to school a somewhat normal person in the fall would collapse and die if Mom called Gianna's parents.

Yes, Gianna was the one who chose to drink. Yes, she was the one currently puking in the toilet of our downstairs bathroom. Yes, this was the fallout of all her choices.

But if my mom called her mom, then Gianna would no doubt blame me for her punishment, and then she'd tell everyone else that I snitched on her. Because let's be honest, only two people who I went to school with initially knew I was the one carjacked, and Ariel would never be the one to gossip about me. Especially when Ariel was the one who refused to leave the ICU waiting room for the entire week I was on a ventilator. Isaiah had to literally pick her up and carry her out to force her to go home to eat and rest. Ariel and I were that close. I had thought Gianna and I were that close, too, but evidently everything about my life had changed.

I stood at the sink as Mom crouched next to the puking Gianna and Dad hung back in the hallway, completely pissed and disgusted.

"Did you drink, Macie?" Mom asked, and I could tell there was no judgement in her voice, but I felt Dad's red-hot stare.

"No," I snapped. "Why would you even think that?"

Mom gave a glance at Gianna, and I pushed out my hands to punctuate each word. "I don't need to make her bad choices. I do a good enough job with my own."

"Noah," Mom said as she rubbed Gianna's back. "Get my cell."

I swung around and slipped in front of Dad. "Please don't."

Dad placed his hands on his hips like he did when he was attempting to not be angry. "She's puking in our bathroom. She's drunk. She could have alcohol poisoning. If this were you, I'd want to know."

Oh my God, when did Dad get dramatic? "She doesn't have alcohol poisoning. Yes, she had too much, but she didn't have that much. She had a beer, one shot of liquor, and then a little bit of wine."

For some reason when I said she had beer and then liquor, Dad rolled his eyes and then rubbed his head. "Get out of my way, Mace. We're calling her parents."

Panic welled up inside me, tears burned my eyes, and the sensation rattled me. I hadn't cried since before February. Never once, and this overpowering flood of emotions mangled me to the point of implosion. "Please don't. Please. I don't understand, why are you so angry?"

Dad's pissed-off eyes widened. "Angry? Have I yelled at you?"

"I can tell you're angry with the way you're glaring. You don't have to yell for me to know you're angry. You're angry."

Dad shook his head as if to push away the anger I clearly saw in him. "This is the first time you've gone out, and your best friend chooses to get drunk instead of being there for you. That alone pisses me off. Which then, by default, tells me that your other friends were drinking, which then makes me wonder what the hell has been going on all this time."

My stomach sank as I shook my head. "No, no, no, no. You don't understand. This has never happened before. They never drank before…" My throat closed up before I could say "February," and I coughed as I choked on the word.

"Noah," Mom said as a gentle warning, but Dad kept going.

"But what I'm really mad at is that you allowed her to drive you home in her state. Thank God you made it home safely, but to make such an irresponsible choice…"

"Noah," Mom said again with more force, but she was chained to the floor with Gianna, who was now ugly crying through a dry heave.

Blood drained from my face as I realized the real source of his anger. He thought I'd gotten in a car with a drunk driver. "That's not what happened."

"Then how did you get home?" Dad snapped. "How could you allow her to drive drunk?"

"Noah, you need to take a break," Mom pushed. "Walk from the conversation. Now!"

Ignoring Mom, Dad continued, "How could you do this to us? After we nearly lost you, you go and make such a horrible decision that could have not only cost you your life, but Gianna's life, and the life of whoever else she could have hit! You should have called us. You should have called your brother. You should have called any of your aunts and uncles. You should have made any other choice than this one."

I disappointed him. Again. I disappointed Mom. Again. I went out tonight to try to make them not worry about me, to relieve all the pain I had put them through, and I failed. Plus, Dad and I were back at it again…fighting. Picking up where we had left off before February.

I failed. I failed. I failed.

My mind whirled as Dad continued and Mom yelled at Dad to stop. What could I say that would make this better? That I let some guy I barely knew drive Gianna's car home? Dad would lose his mind because I was too na?ve, not "street smart" enough. That after being stupid enough to get out of the car to talk to a stranger in February when the car bumped me from behind, I was still foolish enough to ask another stranger to come into an enclosed car with me? That would be Dad's final trigger, and he'd literally explode.

"I drove, okay?" I yelled over Mom and Dad and Gianna's crying dry heaves. "I drove us home."

Silence…except for the sound of Gianna sucking up her snot.

Dad stood in front of me, unblinking, unmoving as if my words had turned him to stone. "What did you say?"

Feeling unhinged, I scratched at the welts on my arms as I shook from head to toe. I was hot, I was cold, my eyesight blurred, and my throat tightened with this surging fear and panic racing up from my stomach.

"I drove, and you can't call Gianna's parents, okay? You can't. You can't because everyone at school knows I'm the one who was carjacked. They know I was the one who was shot, and tonight, when I went to the party, everyone was happy to see me, but that's because I was acting like me. I was hanging out with Gianna and Gianna was hanging out with everyone else. But if you call, then I ratted her out, and then what's going to happen? What's going to happen when she's not my friend anymore because she's mad? What's going to happen when everyone figures out I don't talk about February? What's going to happen to me, Dad?" Those tears that I hadn't been able to shed burned as they filled my eyes and spilled hot down my cheeks. This time, I shouted the question so loudly it scratched my throat. "What's going to happen to me?"

More hives grew on my arms, and it became harder to breathe. Alarms sounded in my brain. I lost control. All control. I couldn't control the shaking or the welts or the itching or the pain or that I couldn't breathe. I shoved up the sleeves of my summer sweater and screamed at Dad, "What's happening to me?"

With a blink, Dad's anger evaporated, and he closed the distance between us. He placed a hand on my cheek and wiped away the tears. "You're okay, Macie."

But the tears wouldn't stop, the hives wouldn't stop, and I gasped, unable to breathe. I shook my head as I couldn't say the words. I couldn't say I wasn't okay. That I'd never be okay ever again.

"It's okay, Macie," Dad said again as he pulled me into a hug. "It's okay. I have you. You're safe. Nothing is going to hurt you. I swear to you nothing is going to hurt you ever again."

The strength in Dad's hug made me feel like a little girl. It reminded me how I once believed he could scare off all the monsters. He spoke to me as if he loved me more than anything else, and I rested my head against his shoulder. I cried and cried and cried even as Dad picked me up in his arms. He went up the stairs, the entire time still telling me I was okay, and when he laid me on the bed, I didn't want to let him go, so Dad stayed, holding me as I sobbed.

***

When I woke, early morning sunlight fought its way through my blinds. It was the type of light that told me it was way too early to be awake for not a school day. My head throbbed, my mouth felt all dry, and when I stretched, my muscles hurt. I rolled my head and didn't jump when I saw Mom sitting in the comfy chair in the corner of my room. She was in a pair of purple yoga pants and a white T-shirt. Her red curly hair was pulled up onto a messy bun on top of her head, and she glanced up from whatever she had been reading on her iPad.

Since February, I sometimes had nightmares, and Mom and Dad took turns staying in my room to help if I woke screaming. It had been a few weeks since the last one, and I felt bad that she was in here again. "Morning," I said.

"Morning. How's my baby girl feeling?"

She called me baby girl even though I was as tall as her. "Like crap."

"You can go back to sleep," Mom prodded.

I could, but I didn't want to. I rolled onto my back and stared at the white ceiling. "What happened to me last night?"

"You had a panic attack." Mom set her iPad on my dresser and came to sit at the end of my bed.

I scooted up to sit and rubbed at my arms that had fading maroon spots from all the hives I had acquired the night before. "That's the first time I've cried, and it's weird because it wasn't even what I was crying about." It being February. "I don't even know why I was crying."

Mom touched her chest near her heart. "You have a lot of emotion stored up in you. It's a lot like a volcano. You can appear serene, calm, and dormant on the outside, but on the inside the emotion builds like bubbling lava until eventually the pressure is too much, and you explode."

"Does that mean I'm cured now?"

"No," she answered honestly. "But a good cry can help."

I picked up the stuffed rabbit my younger brother Oliver gave me when I was in the hospital. He told me it was his favorite when he was younger and that he wanted me to have it to think of him while I was healing in the hospital. "I didn't like having the panic attack."

"I've had more than a few myself and I agree, they're unpleasant, but you'll be okay. To be honest, it gives me hope. It's encouraging to see some of the emotion within you being released. It could be a sign that your mind is ready to start the healing process."

I had no idea if that were true, but how exactly did one argue with their art therapist mother? I stroked the rabbit's ears as I sorted through the twisting in my soul. "How mad were Gianna's parents last night?"

"We didn't call them."

My head perked up. "What?"

"She's asleep in the guest bedroom." Mom gave her best stern look I knew not to question. "We decided to let last night slip, but we're not going to allow this to become a habit. We're here for you, Macie. Anytime. Any way you need us. If either you or your friends are in a dangerous situation, call us and we'll be there, but as parents, there are lines. We can't allow Gianna to think she can use you so she can get drunk."

I nodded, understanding.

"Can I see your arm?" Mom asked, and I felt like throwing up. I extended it, and she held it as she examined the aftermath of last night's hives. "How long have you been having hives?"

"Since I came home from the hospital." When it was cold, I wore long sleeves to hide them. In the spring, I wore light sweaters, but now with it being summer, I was running out of ways to keep them a secret. I hadn't had them in a few weeks, so I thought maybe I was safe, but oh how wrong I had been.

"You should have told us."

"Why? So you can have one more thing to worry about with me?" I muttered. "Like you don't have enough already."

"You're not a worry to us. We want to help."

That was such a lie, but I didn't feel like arguing. "Is Dad still mad?"

Mom's head tilted in sympathy. "He's not angry with you."

"He seemed angry last night."

Mom placed her hand over my ankle and that light touch made a tiny amount of my hurt dissolve. "You're right, he is angry. But not with you. Your dad has a lot of emotions brewing inside him, too. While your dad feels a lot of things for you, I promise anger isn't one of them."

"I don't believe you."

"Knock, knock." Dad pulled a white T-shirt over his head then ran a hand through his bedhead hair as he entered my room. "I believe I heard my name."

"From your bedroom?" I countered.

"As soon as I heard your Mom speak, I've been hanging in the hallway."

I guess eavesdropping was a genetically inherited trait.

It was comical to see Dad wearing the SpongeBob pajamas my brothers bought him for Christmas, especially given the tattoos on his body—remnants of his "bad boy" days. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes then gave me a careful once over. "How are you feeling, Mace?"

I gave a shrug because I didn't honestly know. "Better. The same. Like crap."

He bobbed his head as if those were acceptable answers, and he sat in the chair Mom had just abandoned. "Your Mom's right. I'm not mad at you, and I'm sorry I yelled."

I focused on the bunny's ears again. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"I'm actually relieved you yelled. It's a hell of a lot better than your being quiet."

Not sure how to respond, I stroked the bunny's ears. Maybe Oliver was right. Maybe we did need a rabbit as a family pet. That would make my Aunt Abby extremely happy.

"How did it feel driving again?" Dad's absolute hope and happiness caught my attention.

I had no idea what he was talking about until my slow mind eventually caught me up. Ah—I told him I drove Gianna home last night. "Um…good?"

Dad grinned, really grinned. A grin I hadn't seen from him from before February, and that made me feel like trash. Fantastic, I finally made him happy, and it was based on a complete and total lie. How the hell was I going to get out of this?

"Really?" Mom questioned, and I could sense that her Mom radar was picking up vibrations. Not only that, but her therapist mode had also flipped on. "No anxiety? Panic?"

If I drove, there likely would be massive panic and anxiety. "I mean, yeah, at first, but then it was weird and then normal, and then I was home." Because that sounded believable?

Mom looked at Dad, Dad beamed at Mom; I stared at both and willed them to believe me. Mom glanced back at me, and her apprehension was palpable. "How would you feel about driving again?"

Again? I placed the stuffed bunny on my arm where I felt the burning itch of an impending hive. If I said no, Dad would stop smiling, and my heart couldn't take much more disappointing him…or hurting them. "Yeah…totally…I think I can handle it." Lie, lie, lie, lie.

The pure relief on her face hit me hard in my chest. I had no idea how much strain Mom had been under until I saw a few of those muscles that had been constrained since February loosen. It was akin to watching a baby unicorn take its first step. A wet shine glossed her eyes.

Aw, hell. I made Mom proud/happy cry. It was going to crush them if they learned I couldn't drive.

"Isaiah's been waiting for this," Dad said.

My forehead crunched in confusion. "Isaiah?"

"Yeah. As soon as you came off the ventilator, he and Ariel found a car for you. They've been working night and day, and they finished it before Ariel went to Europe."

My mouth hung open as I searched for words. "But Ariel didn't say anything."

"We told her not to," Mom said. "We didn't want you to feel pressured to drive."

Well…yeah…that was an awesome idea that I just destroyed. As panic welled inside me—again—I had to concentrate hard for my voice to not sound tight. "They didn't need to do that."

They really, really, really didn't need to do that. Because that meant I had a car, and I didn't want a car because if I had a car, I had to drive, and I didn't want to drive.

Mom and Dad exchanged a heavy glance, and Mom squeezed my ankle again. "They wanted to do this for you."

"Not being able to do anything to help…" Dad added. "That was hard for them. They hated feeling useless, so they needed to do this…for you." The way his eyes softened with pain and anguish made me want to hide, because Dad described what he and Mom and everyone else felt when it came to me, and I hated myself for it—hated that I was putting them through this.

I needed out of this scenario. "Do you mind if I take a shower? I feel gross."

Dad smiled, so did Mom, and I realized that was something I would have said before February, because I used to care about how I looked. Now, I wanted a shower to hide.

"Sure," Dad said. "What do you want for breakfast? I'll make whatever you want. Bacon, eggs, pancakes."

Nothing. I wanted nothing, but said, "Pancakes." Because those were Oliver's favorites, and I owed him for this stuffed rabbit that was currently keeping me sane.

"I'm on it," Dad called as he walked out the door.

Mom gave my ankle another squeeze. "You sure you're okay, baby girl?"

I nodded because I didn't trust myself to answer without her catching the lie. "I'm tired. It's a lot…you know…to process."

"Yes, I do know." The sympathy in her gaze told my soul that she did understand. Mom stood, kissed the top of my head, grabbed her iPad, then left the room, shutting the door behind her. I collapsed onto my bed and pulled the covers over my head. What a deep, dark hole I had dug myself, and there was no way out without disappointing and hurting my parents.

My phone pinged, probably Ariel from France wondering why I hadn't texted her details of the party, and when I poked my head out and grabbed my phone, my heart lifted at the sight of Relic's text from last night: I made it home safely.

I sat up again and smiled as I reread his words. I don't know why, but something about Relic made me feel a lot less like…me.

I promised Relic I'd look into a job for him. Obviously, he needed a ride. When we dropped him off near where he lived, it was only a half mile from here… Maybe I could keep this charade going until I could drive again.

Even though it was early, I knew Jasmine, my manager from Bluegrass Mountain, would be awake. She'd been pleasantly prodding me and begging for me to return this summer, and I felt bad for putting her off.

I have a friend who needs a job. He's a great guy, but he got into a bit of trouble. I will totally vouch for him, though. Can you give him a job, and can you give him the same shifts as me? He'll be the one driving me to and from work.

Within seconds she replied: Girl, I'll hire anyone you want as long as you come back this summer. And he can't be that bad if you're vouching for him. You don't take anyone's crap. Give me his info and we'll get him set up.

Feeling like I might be that con artist Relic pegged me as, I sent him a text: I landed you the job, but I have another favor to ask. How do you feel about driving my car?