My legs start bouncing, even though I try to push them down and keep my feet flat on the floor. My head is spinning, my thoughts out of control. All I can see is Lavender curled up in a ball somewhere I can’t get to her—a black void I can’t reach into and pull her out of.
Suddenly it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the car. I clench and release my fists, aware there are things I can do to stop this, but I’m unable to find the will to use any of them. Instead, I let the panic take over, washing through me like a toxin.
“Shit,” my dad mutters.
He puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shake him off and yell, “Don’t!”
By the time we pull into the driveway, I’m itching to get out of my skin. My dad barely has the SUV in park, and I’m already running through the garage. I want to be alone with my thoughts so I can spiral in peace.
But my mom is right there, blocking the way up the stairs. Her expression makes the guilt almost unmanageable. So much disappointment.
And fear.
I don’t know what the fear is about. Is she scared of me, for me?
I press my palms against my temples—the headache already starting—screw my eyes closed so I can’t see her face, and grip my hair. Anything to distract me from the jumble of thoughts slicing through my brain.
What if I’m not there next year?
What if they separate us?
What if I stop being able to fix things?
What if someone else is better at helping her than me?
Black spots form in my vision, and I keep fighting to breathe.
“Kodiak, honey, you need to sit down.” My mom grabs me by the shoulders. “RJ, your help, please.”
Two strong hands grip me under my arms, and I sink to the floor.
My head is swimming. It’s too full. I just want Lavender to be okay.
“This is out of control,” my dad says.
“Queenie’s on her way over.” My mom’s warm palm rests against my cheek.
“What about—” My dad doesn’t finish the sentence, but I think he wants to know about Lavender, and so do I.
My mom doesn’t answer the unasked question directly. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” she says. “I don’t know how to help them.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sever
Kodiak
Age 13
I DON’T GO to school the next day. My session with Queenie was exhausting, and I had a hard time sleeping. I don’t get up until late, and still feel tired. I want to know how Lavender is doing and make sure she’s okay. My parents have confiscated my phone, so I have no way of getting in touch with her without going to her house. Maverick is my best friend, so I’m there a lot, but I worry that’s going to change.
And I’m right to worry.
I come downstairs and find my parents and Lavender’s parents sitting around the kitchen island. Their whispered conversation stops as soon as my mom addresses me. “Morning, sweetie, did you sleep okay?”
I shrug. I had bad dreams where I kept finding pieces of Lavender’s dress and her broken glasses in front of a door I couldn’t open. Every time I tried to call her name, all that came out was a whisper. It feels like I haven’t slept at all.
My mom pushes out of her chair and comes around the island so she can pull me into a hug. Usually I’d be embarrassed because we have company, but this morning I need it. I don’t like it when my parents are upset with me, and last night they were. I’m already taller than my mom, so I have to hunch. When she lets me go, her eyes are bright and shiny, as if she’s trying not to cry.
“What’s going on?”
She brushes my hair away from my forehead. “We all need to have a talk.”
“We did that last night, though.” My stomach feels off.
“I know, but we thought it would be best if we were all present, and Queenie will be here too.”
I glance over where everyone is sitting. They look tired and sad. “What about Lavender?”
“Queenie’s going to bring her. You should get dressed, because they’ll be here soon. I’ll make you some toast, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod numbly and go back upstairs to change. Everything feels wrong.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at the table with a glass of orange juice and buttered toast I don’t think I can eat with how nervous I am—especially since Lavender is seated across the table from me, her parents situated to the right of her, just like mine.
There are dark circles under her eyes, making the blue even more vibrant. She clasps her hands on the table, and her teeth run along the scar on her bottom lip, over and over again. Her lips are red and raw.
Queenie sits at the head of the table, with us on either side. Her eyes are soft and full of compassion, but today she also looks nervous and slightly uncomfortable.
“Do you know why we’re all here?” she asks.
“Because of me,” Lavender says quietly.
Her mom puts her hand over Lavender’s but doesn’t squeeze.
“This isn’t just about you, Lavender. If it were, only you would be here,” Queenie explains. “What happened yesterday made us very aware of how out-of-hand this situation has gotten. We cannot rely on another human being to make our anxiety better.”
“But it’s only when it’s really bad,” I argue. “And I make it stop.”
“Lavender’s panic attacks have increased in frequency and severity over the past several months,” Queenie says.
“That’s because Courtney is bullying her. And middle school is different. It was hard for me too, when I started,” I counter.
“I agree that middle school is different, and Lavender’s told me about the bullying, which we’re going to deal with. But it’s more than that, Kody. You’re hiding things, and that’s not good for either of you.”
“I’m not hiding anything!” But it’s hard to swallow, because that’s a lie.
Queenie nods to Lavender’s dad, who produces a thick folder. Inside is a stack of white paper. He flips it open and fans the sheets out. His gaze meets mine; he doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look happy either. “These are the text messages between you and Lavender for the past two weeks.”
I look at Lavender. Her chin quivers, and I can see the apology in her eyes. She didn’t remember to erase the messages, or maybe her parents kept all the message receipts. I disabled mine, but didn’t think to do the same for Lavender.
Tears stream down her cheeks, and her shoulders shake as she curls in on herself. Her mom takes her hand, probably so she doesn’t hurt herself again, although her nails have been cut.
“I know you care about Lavender, Kody, and you would never do anything to hurt her, but this”—her dad has to clear his throat—“talking almost twenty-four-seven without anyone knowing. It isn’t good for either of you.”
My anxiety spikes as I think about all the messages we’ve sent, the things we talk about, the times where some girl has said something mean to her, and I’ve told Lavender the girl is jealous because Lavender is prettier. Her dad has read them all. He knows sometimes we message late at night when she’s having trouble sleeping, and that our messages are constant, starting first thing in the morning and continuing all day. We’re each other’s lifelines. Why don’t they understand that?