My parents sent me to a psycho head…head…shrinker when I was nine to get rid of someone like you.
You
aren’t coming
back
!”
He grins. “I said no one else can see me. I didn’t say I was imaginary.”
I back away, clutching my stomach and feeling my forehead for a fever. I turn away from him, breathing hard and feeling like I probably should’ve had a drink. “Okay. Okay. I’m losing it. Okay. Officially losing it. Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Okay.”
“You know,” he says.
I cringe. I was hoping he might have disappeared.
“Dr. Montrose wasn’t totally psycho. He just didn’t
get you.”
Whether he’s real or not, this guy’s right. Montrose wasn’t psycho. I was. Am. In the middle of being. I turn, jamming my finger into the air. “No. No. No. You don’t get to just spout things, about me that I already know to…to trick me. I know these things, and therefore I could be making all this up. Yes, me. Making it up in my head. Maybe Montrose was right…”
I hadn’t thought about that quack doctor in years. I hated that man. He was very tall and thin, with darker skin, thinning hair, and a tiny mustache that twitched like mouse whiskers. He wore perfectlyround glasses that always made him look surprised and therefore made me feel like I was in some odd way always surprising.
I remember in one session, he said I should try bossing my imaginary friend around. My mother always told me not to be bossy so this was very confusing to me, but I realize this might come in handy right now. So I look him in the eye, point my finger to his face and say—nothing, because he interrupts me.
“Your phone is about to ring. It’s Blake. Your blonde-obsessed friend, as you so affectionately coin him. Don’t answer it.”
It rings. I look at the caller ID: BLAKE LIGHTNER . For a second, I almost snatch up the phone and scream for help, but I have no idea how I’m going to explain this, and Blake’s probably calling about some fabulous date he had. So I withdraw my hand.
“Okay
that
I wouldn’t have known.” So my theory that I’m going insane is unwinding. I look at him. “Who are you?”
“The one you accused of never doing anything to help you. Some people call me God. Occasionally in vain.”
It’s very odd, because I’m literally about to take God’s name in vain. I’m not usually the cussing type. It’s just that certain situations—this would be a good example—cause questionable language to invade my vocabulary.
“God. Right. God has shown up in my living room. That’s funny.” I let out a halfhearted laugh, because secretly I feel like I’m going to burst into tears. Of course, laughing makes me look just as hormonal and insane, and I fear that I may land in a psych hospital either way.
“Is that so hard to believe?” he asks.
I study his quizzical expression, beautiful eyes, square chin, andsculptured cheekbones. This is a guy that I’d notice, you know? If he’d been at speed dating, I’d have marked him down. So my insides wiggle at the weirdness of it all. Not that I ever imagined God coming down to meet me, but if he did, I’d, well, I just think he’d lean more toward the Morgan Freeman look with a voice like James Earl Jones, or he’d have long wavy hair like Colin Farrell tried. I don’t know. This guy, he just doesn’t fit the mold.
I cross my arms. “
God
has never been in the business of coming to my rescue. Or doing anything for me, for that matter.”
“You gotta lay off those inflammatory generalizations.”
I hold up a finger to retort, but my lips and finger freeze as I watch him hop off the arm of the couch and head out of the room.
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer as he goes upstairs.
I follow the stalker, a.k.a. God, taking two stairs at a time because he’s vanished like he might’ve just floated all the way to the top. I’m out of breath as I fly into my bedroom. I stand in the doorway, my fists planted on my hips, breathing
You
aren’t coming
back
!”
He grins. “I said no one else can see me. I didn’t say I was imaginary.”
I back away, clutching my stomach and feeling my forehead for a fever. I turn away from him, breathing hard and feeling like I probably should’ve had a drink. “Okay. Okay. I’m losing it. Okay. Officially losing it. Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Okay.”
“You know,” he says.
I cringe. I was hoping he might have disappeared.
“Dr. Montrose wasn’t totally psycho. He just didn’t
get you.”
Whether he’s real or not, this guy’s right. Montrose wasn’t psycho. I was. Am. In the middle of being. I turn, jamming my finger into the air. “No. No. No. You don’t get to just spout things, about me that I already know to…to trick me. I know these things, and therefore I could be making all this up. Yes, me. Making it up in my head. Maybe Montrose was right…”
I hadn’t thought about that quack doctor in years. I hated that man. He was very tall and thin, with darker skin, thinning hair, and a tiny mustache that twitched like mouse whiskers. He wore perfectlyround glasses that always made him look surprised and therefore made me feel like I was in some odd way always surprising.
I remember in one session, he said I should try bossing my imaginary friend around. My mother always told me not to be bossy so this was very confusing to me, but I realize this might come in handy right now. So I look him in the eye, point my finger to his face and say—nothing, because he interrupts me.
“Your phone is about to ring. It’s Blake. Your blonde-obsessed friend, as you so affectionately coin him. Don’t answer it.”
It rings. I look at the caller ID: BLAKE LIGHTNER . For a second, I almost snatch up the phone and scream for help, but I have no idea how I’m going to explain this, and Blake’s probably calling about some fabulous date he had. So I withdraw my hand.
“Okay
that
I wouldn’t have known.” So my theory that I’m going insane is unwinding. I look at him. “Who are you?”
“The one you accused of never doing anything to help you. Some people call me God. Occasionally in vain.”
It’s very odd, because I’m literally about to take God’s name in vain. I’m not usually the cussing type. It’s just that certain situations—this would be a good example—cause questionable language to invade my vocabulary.
“God. Right. God has shown up in my living room. That’s funny.” I let out a halfhearted laugh, because secretly I feel like I’m going to burst into tears. Of course, laughing makes me look just as hormonal and insane, and I fear that I may land in a psych hospital either way.
“Is that so hard to believe?” he asks.
I study his quizzical expression, beautiful eyes, square chin, andsculptured cheekbones. This is a guy that I’d notice, you know? If he’d been at speed dating, I’d have marked him down. So my insides wiggle at the weirdness of it all. Not that I ever imagined God coming down to meet me, but if he did, I’d, well, I just think he’d lean more toward the Morgan Freeman look with a voice like James Earl Jones, or he’d have long wavy hair like Colin Farrell tried. I don’t know. This guy, he just doesn’t fit the mold.
I cross my arms. “
God
has never been in the business of coming to my rescue. Or doing anything for me, for that matter.”
“You gotta lay off those inflammatory generalizations.”
I hold up a finger to retort, but my lips and finger freeze as I watch him hop off the arm of the couch and head out of the room.
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer as he goes upstairs.
I follow the stalker, a.k.a. God, taking two stairs at a time because he’s vanished like he might’ve just floated all the way to the top. I’m out of breath as I fly into my bedroom. I stand in the doorway, my fists planted on my hips, breathing
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