The thing is that I know what’s going on. I don’t need you to tell me what’s wrong with me. I don’t need the back-and-forth analysis of what my dreams are telling me or how my hallucinations are changing. I’m very aware of the things lurking in my head. I understand that I’m not normal, so I actually don’t need you, which is why I don’t need to talk in your office.
I don’t ask you about the picture frames on your desk of your three children, who will all most definitely need braces. (Sorry, dude, but it’s true.) I don’t ask you about your wife or about the painting behind your desk of the woman with the green umbrella.
It might actually be worse for you because I write everything down. It means the evidence is all here. If you miss my descent into madness, overlook some anecdote that seems off, it could be crucial. It could be the difference between failure and success. You’re supposed to notice this stuff before it happens.
So you also asked me about my mom. What I think about the pregnancy, if I’m worried. I guess that’s fair. Major life changes are supposed to set us off. Any disruption in our day-to-day routine could cause problems, which is why my mom has been watching me more closely than ever.
My mom had me pretty young. Twenty is young to be a mom. That’s four years from now for me. I can’t imagine having a kid in four years.
But I guess it makes sense that she and Paul want to have a baby. The funny thing is they didn’t talk to me about it. My mom usually goes into excruciating detail about everything, so it’s really out of character for her to keep this kind of secret. They waited until she was three months in to tell me.
When they told me about it, Paul looked anxious, like he was afraid the news would set me off, which made Rebecca cry, because why would a baby set me off?
It’s sad that my mom’s worry is split between her thoughts about the baby and her thoughts about me. She shouldn’t be worrying about me at all. Plus I can hear Paul’s reaction in my head. Metaphorically, of course—I don’t actually hallucinate his voice. He’s got his own kid to protect now. It’s an almost Shakespearean turn of events, where I should be cast out because I pose a threat to the true heir.
It’s nice that I can talk to Maya about the pregnancy, at least. Her brothers are only five, so she understands what it’s like to be a lot older than your siblings.
I think it’s weird that I still haven’t seen Maya’s mom. She’s a nurse and works strange hours, but still I feel like I should have bumped into her by now.
Okay. So my hand. This is what happened.
Maya and I decided to stay late at the library after school on Thursday to work on some homework because Paul had to work late and my mom had a doctor’s appointment. It was kind of a date. I brought gummy bears and she had peanut butter pretzels. If food is required for it to be classified as a date, then there you have it.
I like libraries, if for no other reason than they give homeless people a place to hang out. There’s something nice about the way you’re never too old to go into one, but it still makes you feel the way it did when you were small. I still remember how my mom would let me wander the children’s book section while she looked in the career section for jobs for my dad.
And I like the smell of books.
A few minutes after I arrived, I noticed Ian staring at me. He had his feet up on a nearby table, and his eyebrows were raised. I’d unknowingly started twiddling the pen in my right hand to ward off the group of flies that were circling my stack of books.
But then I realized he wouldn’t have kept staring if that were actually what I was doing. The flies weren’t real.
So I stopped moving altogether. The flies were still there, moving in perfect formation. Maya came back from the copy room a few minutes later and asked me why I was keeping so still. I told her I was studying, but really I was just concentrating on not acting weird. Ian was still watching me.
Then out of nowhere, I felt like I needed to run. Part of me knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t help it. I was convinced that I had to run, so I got up and sprinted toward the rows of desks near the reference section and tripped on an uneven piece of carpet and snagged my hand on the edge of a bookcase. It took a pretty big flap of skin off my palm. Enough to look pretty gruesome. Blood gushed all over the floor, and Maya screamed when she saw it. Her face turned white. I think that was the most shocking thing. She screamed in the library. And then started crying.
I’d never seen her cry like that before, like she was scared, and the scary thing is that I liked that she lost control for me. Yes, that makes me a creep and a bad person, but isn’t this stupid diary supposed to reflect me as I am? Truthfully? So yeah, I like that she cried because I got hurt. If that makes me a creepy bastard, then that is what I am.
The librarian made a pretty big scene, too, which drew everyone else’s attention to the puddle of blood soaking through the carpet.
“I can drive you to the hospital,” Ian said, appearing at my side. The librarian looked at him with a soft expression, and I wondered how much of the staff he’d duped into believing that he was a decent human being. How could she miss the hungry expression on his face? That obsessive need for information. Of course he wanted to drive me to the hospital, but there was no way I was going to let that happen. Luckily, Maya stepped in just in time so I didn’t have to say anything.
“Thanks, but not necessary,” Maya said, her cheeks a little pale. “I’ll take him.”
The librarian’s expression indicated that Maya’s rejection of Ian’s courteous offer was a bit rude, but after assuring her that we’d be able to get to the hospital on our own, we rushed out of the library. I heard people whisper and could feel Ian’s eyes on my back as we got out of there. Douche bag.
“Why did you start running?” Maya asked, trying to keep her voice calm as she fumbled for her keys.
“Because I’m an idiot,” I said, hoping that was a good-enough explanation. She looked at me like it wasn’t, but she didn’t say anything else as we got into her car. My hand was throbbing.
She had her dad’s minivan that day, so she drove me to the emergency room, where we were met by my hysterical mother. Her expression oscillated between concern for me and concern that she might inadvertently say something about my illness in front of Maya.
I told her it was just a cut and that I’d just tripped in the library, but I could feel the questions burning because nobody gets hurt in a library. Seriously.
Once a doctor showed up to stitch up my hand, I sent Maya home. She looked like she wanted to barf, but instead she kissed me, right in front of my mom, and raced out the door without looking back. My mom had the grace to wait until Maya was gone before she whistled.
Paul showed up two seconds later, his lips pursed tight in a thin line. He clapped his hand on my back and had a silent conversation with my mom while the doctor stitched me back together. Paul didn’t seem to do well with blood, either. He immediately sat down in a chair near the door and put his head between his knees.
I ordered them both to wait for me outside, and though Mom looked like she wanted to argue, Paul was able to get her out into the hall.
I saw them through the crack in the blinds. They were speaking quickly, a look of pure determination on my mom’s face. Then Paul did something I’d never seen him do before. He reached forward and put his hand on my mom’s stomach. She stopped talking midsentence when Paul’s face split into a wide grin.