I dropped the little canvases next to the paints, and as I did, a photograph fluttered to the ground and skittered across the smooth floor. It was my favourite photograph of Max and me, taken when we went to Glastonbury together, years ago. I was looking straight at the camera, beaming at whoever had taken the picture – I couldn’t even remember now. And Max was laughing and looking at me with such love that it made my heart skip. We’d been such buddies back then. He’d been my best friend in the world. And now he was in prison and I was on my uppers and he hated me. How had everything fallen apart so completely?
My hands began to shake. My chest tightened and I felt my breathing get shallower. I’d been standing, leaning over the bag as I rooted around, but now I sank to my knees because my legs were suddenly unable to support me.
‘No, no, no,’ I breathed. ‘Not again.’
I had thought the panic attacks that had plagued me after Max’s arrest were in the past. I’d not been able to afford counselling but I’d learned some basic strategies in the little bit of the therapy course I’d completed, and I’d also done a lot of googling and some of the techniques I’d found online had helped. I’d not had one for ages.
But here I was, crouched on the dirty garage floor, trying not to be sick as my forehead grew clammier and my breathing more rasping. My heart was racing and I thought I might pass out. I put my head down onto my knees, squeezing my legs tight, andtried to concentrate on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, counting to five each time just like I’d seen on one of the websites.
With my head still on my knees, I put my hands down on the floor, feeling the dust on the rough concrete, I could smell the washing powder I used to clean my jeans and engine oil and I could hear my breath, more regular now.
I kept breathing and counting, and as I felt my pulse return to normal, I lifted my head and, to my shock, saw Micah sitting next to me, watching me with a concerned expression. He reached out a hand and put it on my arm gently. ‘I didn’t want to scare you,’ he said. ‘Panic attack, yeah?’
Surprised by his insight, I could only nod.
‘How you feeling now?’ he asked.
I breathed in deeply. ‘It’s going,’ I told him. ‘Better.’
He gave me a little smile. ‘That was a long one.’
‘Do you …?’
He shrugged his skinny teenage shoulders. ‘School’s not always easy, you know?’
I felt a rush of affection for this gawky man-boy. ‘I know.’
‘Gaming helps,’ he said. ‘It stops me thinking about all the stuff that’s in my head.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Fancy it?’
‘Gaming?’
‘Yeah, I’ll show you what to do.’ He unfolded his long legs and stood up, holding his hand out to me to help me to my feet.
‘You’re very kind,’ I said.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell no one.’
I saw him glance at the photo I’d dropped and my bags of painting bits and pieces. ‘Do you want me to bring that bag?’
I shook my head. ‘I just needed a sketchbook.’
Efficiently, Micah scooped up the picture from the floor and wiped the dust from it on his behind. ‘I’ll put this in the bagand keep it safe,’ he said. He dropped it on to the equipment, making me think we had different views of what constituted keeping something safe, and then reached down and pulled out a sketchbook. ‘This one?’
‘Perfect.’
Feeling stronger, I spotted a pack of pencils in the other bag, along with a case that I knew had coloured pencils in, and pulled them out too.
‘So,’ I said to my school-uniform-clad saviour. ‘What are we playing?’
*
It turned out, Micah was absolutely right. Gaming did stop me thinking about my troubles. We played two matches of a football game, which I lost so thoroughly, Micah laughed like a drain. Then he showed me a cowboy game that was almost a film, because the story was so gripping. And I found a strange satisfaction in shooting all the baddies. As we played, eyes focused on the screen in front of us, Micah occasionally chatted.
‘I worry about big tasks,’ he said out of the blue, scoring another goal against me. ‘Get in! I freak out and I can’t get started.’
