Marcus:Yep, we did win. Thanks to astronomical levels of not giving a shit.
Translation: I tried really hard actually.
He texts again.
Headed to dreamland anytime soon?
Me:I think so.
His response:Maybe I’ll see you there.
Is he flirting with me?
There’s something different about texting Marcus now that I know he thinks I’m beautiful. But maybe he says it to girls all the time. Maybe he means beautiful, like, mind-wise. Which is also great.
Eventually, I just write backMaybe you will, and I hope it is true.
Seventeen
But the next dream doesn’t come.
Instead, over the next couple of days, I face the single other thing I dread more than continuing my Princeton application: Reading the next book from our list without Dad. Book No. 25. When we decided to do the Cartwright Father-Daughter Book Club, Dad had this big box of books sent to me. On Sunday, I pick a random novel from the box and read the first page. It takes exactly forty seconds before I can’t continue. Every word feels like slugging through mud, even though I know in theory I could love this book. If Dad were reading it too, miles away in his little apartment in Portland, Iwouldlove this book.
I pick up another, and the same thing happens. A third book, and now my head feels thick, like the words are sticking to the inside of my skull.
I’ve been battling myself for a whole hour before I realize that sticky feeling inside my brain is actually a headache. Maybe it really is time to do something about these things.
“Mom?” I call as I open the door of my room and go to hers. It’s empty.
Downstairs too.
I grab a glass of cold water and two pain tablets and shuffle back up the stairs where I realize that, in addition to a bunch of textsfrom Mo and Amber, I have a message from Mom saying she’ll be working late over the next few days.
“Whole house to myself. Woo-hoo,” I say flatly, because I’m probably the lone teenager who would give anything for my parents to be home. I’d pick either of them over getting to throw a raging party or not do chores or sleep in till midday.
I go to bed early, but it’s a restless sleep. Soon, I’m jerking awake, tripping over the side of the bed to reach my waste basket, and then again in my rush to the bathroom. I throw up everything I’ve eaten into the toilet bowl, flush, then stay there on the floor of the bathroom. The coolness of the tiles against my right temple is sweet relief.
Okay, so maybe this is more than a headache. It’s like every pain I’ve felt before in my life has condensed into one or two pulse points.
I try to reach for my phone, but I realize I left it in my bedroom.
My head feels like something detonated in there. It is a dull throbbing pain in the front of my head and behind my eyes that refuses to stop, no matter how much I plead with it to.
When I feel a little less nauseous, I rinse my mouth and shuffle back into my room. Just the slit of moonlight bleeding in over my bed feels aggressively bright.
I curl up on my side as I fall back into bed.
I can’t really sleep because my head hurts so much, but I’m also not fully conscious.
“Mom?” I croak out again, knowing what her text said but hoping that somehow she’s come back early or changed her mind. Some type of maternal sixth sense that brought her home to take care of me. But the only sound is the hammering in my brain.
And when I wake up, I know that hours have passed, but I have no sense of how many. I must be missing school.
There’s a pounding sound that gets louder and louder. Except—wait. For the first time, the noise is coming from outside me. The front door.
I groan, wanting the sound to stop.
It’s only the hope that maybe it’s my mom coming home that gets me up, blanket dragging behind me, shuffling to the front door.
