Anger flared. My “social interests” were none of his fucking business. I leaned forward. “If you’re referring to who I see in my free time?—”
“I’m referring to you visiting the jogging trails and bike paths behind campus,” he said, raising his voice. “You might remember they’re Hale Valley property, donated by a generous alumnus several years ago. My staff and I are responsible for your safety and well-being during school hours. We can’t ensure either of those things when you skip class to embark on unauthorized outings.”
The anger blossomed into something hot and shaky. Welch didn’t give a flying fuck about my safety. He didn’t care if I had perfect attendance, either. He just wanted to be a dick. Because he could. Because I was an easy target.
My heart thumped faster. I drew a deep breath to steady it—and sucked in a double helping of Chapstick and formaldehyde. Nausea roiled my gut, and the office dimmed as my jaw throbbed.
Not now.Not again. The jaw thing was relatively new, but it was just as baffling as everything else. The sudden anger. The bombardment of scents and sounds. Shortness of breath and my heart trying to beat through my chest. Ants crawling over my skin until I wanted to claw my way out of my own body.
Welch didn’t appear to notice my struggle. He continued, his condescending tone droning under the blood pounding in my ears. “As for your internship, the semester-based programrequires twenty hours per week of unpaid service. You probably view this as an opportunity for unlimited freedom, but the businesses we partner with don’t tolerate absenteeism. If you anticipate transferring your bad habits from HVCC to your internship, you’re going to be disappoin?—”
“Are we done here?” I demanded, panic rising as sweat beaded my brow. The edges of my vision dimmed as another wave of nausea crested. I gripped the arms of my chair, the metal hot under my clammy palms.
Welch’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not trying to be rude.” The nausea broke. Bile shot up my throat, and I gagged, doubling over. “I’m gonna be?—”
“Go,” Welch said, getting it at last. He stood and raised his voice. “Pamela!”
I lurched to my feet, grabbed my backpack, and stumbled for the door. The world tilted as I shoved past the startled secretary and staggered through the main office.
The hallway was a blur of closed doors and posters advertising tickets for Saturday’s playoff game. The scent of microwaved food wafted from the direction of the building’s student lounge, which sent me reeling into the wall as I fought to stay upright.
“Caleb?”
Nathan Brooks’ voice echoed in my ears, followed by the squeak of shoes on the polished floor. I couldn’t talk to him right now. Couldn’t talk to anyone. Because I wasn’t sure when “it” would happen, or how bad it would be this time.
Pushing away from the wall, I raced for the stairwell. My backpack bounced against my spine as I stumbled down one flight, then another. Then I hit the doors and burst into the afternoon sunlight. Crisp air blasted me in the face as I hurried across the parking lot filled with commuter vehicles. Head down, I wove between the rows and made it through thelot without seeing anyone. My feet carried me to the football stadium on the edge of campus.
The bleachers were empty, and I collapsed on the metal bench and tugged at my tie so I could breathe. Then I curled my fingers around the edge of the chilly bench until my palms hurt. Slowly, the world righted itself. The nausea receded, and my heart rate returned to normal.
I’m okay. I’m not crazy.
It was the same mantra I’d been telling myself since August—since the night I decided to take a jog through the trails that ran through the forest behind campus. The weather had been too hot for running during the day, so I’d waited until the sun was setting.
And I’d ended up flat on my back in the middle of the woods with the night sky stretched above me. Nothing broken. No scratches or bumps on my head. But when I’d checked my phone, I’d lost four hours. Just…gone. That was bad enough. What came after was worse.
I pulled my phone from my back pocket and opened the internet. Even as I scrolled through articles, I knew I wouldn’t find answers. Just as there was no accounting for those four hours, there was no explanation for my sudden bouts of rage and all the symptoms that accompanied them. Was it just anxiety? The stress of living with my parents? Of course, Welch had to remind me that all the area businesses offering internships were staffed by his asshole corporate friends. His little dig about “absenteeism” was code for something else. I didn’t need a fucking translator, either. I was fluent in Welch’s language.
It doesn’t matter, kiddo,my grandmother’s voice said in my memory.You’re sharp as a tack. And one day, you’re going to stick somewhere and know you made it.
My throat burned as her wrinkled, lovely face joined her voice in my head. Growing up, weekends at her house hadbeen a refuge—and not just because they offered a respite from church. She fed me all the delicious, processed crap my mother didn’t allow, let me stay up late watching movies my parents disapproved of, and sent me home with fifty-dollar bills hidden in my socks.
Ihadto make it. For Nana. For myself. Maybe for everyone who was different.
The sunlight waned, prompting me to lift my head from my phone’s screen. Voices echoed from the direction of the path that led back to campus. Practice would start soon. I couldn’t linger, but it was too early to go home. Not unless I wanted to experience more “quality time” with my dad. He monitored the debit card tied to my bank account, so grabbing food off-campus wasn’t an option. Nothing like having a father who doubled as a parole officer.
But I was no stranger to killing time. Considering my near-miss with hurling on Welch’s floor, it was probably best to do it on an empty stomach anyway.
Tugging off my tie, I descended the bleachers and slipped into the shadows just as the trample of cleats and raised, enthusiastic voices signaled the arrival of my former teammates. Masculine laughter peppered with trash-talk followed me as I made my way across the parking lot. I tuned the noise out and picked up my pace. No use listening to conversations that didn’t belong to me anymore.
No point wishing for something I couldn’t have.
Two hours later,the temperature was trying to decide if it wanted to stop flirting with fall and plunge straight into full-blown winter.
It was early for snow, but upstate New York never let that stand in the way of truly shitty weather. I huddled against the cold as I wandered through Hale Valley’s quaint downtown, past coffee shops, bookstores, and boutiques that sold trinkets to tourists. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and stray flurries whipped through the air.
“You need a coat, young man!” an old guy called out, bumping my shoulder as he passed me. My temper spiked, and I whirled on the sidewalk and snarled.
