Finding Audrey by Sophie Kinsella Page B

after school?
    Frank doesn’t reply.
    MUM
    Frank?
    Frank is silent.
    MUM
    FRANK?
    She nudges Dad with her foot. Dad looks up, bewildered.
    MUM
    CHRIS!
    She nods meaningfully at Frank. Dad cottons on.
    DAD
    Frank, don’t be so rude. We live in a family here. We communicate. Answer your mother.
    FRANK
    (rolls eyes)
    I don’t know what I’m doing after school. Not playing computer games, clearly.
    MUM
    Well, I want you to go through your shirts. I don’t know what happens to them. Chris, we can go through yours too.
    Dad is working on his BlackBerry.
    MUM
    CHRIS? CHRIS?
    Dad is too absorbed to hear.
    FRANK
    Dad? Family? Communicate? Family?
    He waves a hand in front of Dad’s face and Dad finally looks up. He blinks at Frank.
    DAD
    No, you CANNOT go out tonight. You are grounded, young man.
    He looks at the blank faces. Realizes he’s got it wrong.
    DAD
    I mean . . . stack the dishwasher.
    (He tries again.)
    I mean, put your laundry in the right basket.
    (gives up)
    Whatever your mother says.

It’s the next night that Frank appears at the door of the den and says, with no preamble, ‘I’m going to bring Linus in to say hello.’
    ‘Right,’ I say, trying to sound relaxed and casual. ‘OK.’
    Relaxed and casual? What a joke. Already my whole body is tense. Already my breath is coming faster. Panic is rocketing around my body. I’m losing control. I hear Dr Sarah’s voice, and try to recall her soothing presence.
    Allow the feelings to be there.
    Acknowledge your lizard brain.
    Reassure your lizard brain.
    My damn lizard brain.
    The thing about brains, which you might not know, is they’re not just one ball of jelly. They’re all divided up into bits, and some bits are great and some are just a waste of space. In my humble opinion.
    So the one I could really do without is the lizard brain. Or the ‘amygdala’, as it’s called in the books. Every time you freeze in fright, that’s your lizard brain taking over. It’s called the lizard brain because we all had one of these even when we were lizards, apparently. It’s¸ like, prehistoric. And it’s really hard to control. I mean, OK, all bits of your brain are hard to control, but the lizard brain is the worst. It basically tells your body what to do through chemicals and electrical signals. It doesn’t wait for evidence and it doesn’t think, it just has instincts. Your lizard brain is
totally
not rational or reasonable; all it wants to do is protect you. Fight, flight, freeze.
    So I can tell myself rationally that talking to Linus in the same room and everything will be fine. No worries. What’s the problem? A conversation. What could be dangerous about a conversation?
    But my stupid lizard brain is all, like,
Red alert! Danger! Run away! Panic! Panic!
And it’s pretty loud and convincing. And my body tends to listen to
it
, not to me. So that’s the bummer.
    Every muscle in my body is taut. My eyes are flicking around in fear. If you saw me now you’d think there was a dragon in the room. My lizard brain is in overdrive. And even though I’m telling myself frantically to
ignore
the stupid lizard brain, it’s kind of hard when you have a prehistoric reptile banging away inside your head, yelling,
Run!
    ‘This is Linus.’ Frank’s voice breaks into my thoughts. ‘I’ll leave you two together.’
    And before I can escape, there he is, at the door. Same brown hair, same easy smile. I feel kind of unreal. All I can hear is my own brain saying,
Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run
.
    ‘Hi,’ he says.
    ‘Hi,’ I manage to reply.
    The thought of facing him or looking at him is impossible, so I turn away. Right away. Staring into the corner.
    ‘Are you OK?’ Linus takes a few steps into the room and pauses.
    ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘You don’t look that fine,’ he ventures.
    ‘Right. Well.’
    I pause, trying to think of an explanation that doesn’t involve the words
weird
or
nutty
. ‘Sometimes I get too much adrenalin in my body,’ I say