apple on my tray and clear my throat. “Was he at the game?”
“I stood by him in line at the concession stand at halftime. He remembered that my oldest brother got into a car accident last year and asked how he was doing, which is pretty amazing. Nobody else has asked. Anyway, he asked about you.”
I cough. “He did?”
She nods emphatically. “He wondered where you were.”
“What did you say?”
“That you weren’t feeling well.” Leela’s cheeks glow. “First he stares at you at the pep rally. Then he asks about you at the football game. Do you know how many girls would love to be in your position right now?”
Yeah. My position. Crazy girl going to the Edward Brooks Facility. Somehow, I doubt that. I look over at his empty seat, as if Leela’s bit of news will conjure him into the moment. Why would Luka ask about me? “I found out he’s my next door neighbor.”
Her eyes go wide as she stuffs a bite of her sandwich into her mouth, gives it a couple good chews, and swallows it down. “Are you serious?”
“I saw him surfing on Saturday.”
Leela shakes her head, like she can’t believe my luck. I can think of nothing natural to say that might continue the conversation, so it peters out. I chew my apple, searching for a logical explanation for Luka’s interest. After all, I am my father’s daughter. If he asked about me at the football game, it was probably leftover curiosity over the mini freak-out he witnessed at the pep rally. I’m sure he noticed it. Why else was he staring at me afterward? I take another bite of my apple. It’s crunchy and sweet, but I don’t enjoy it. I’m eating because I’m supposed to, not because I have any real appetite.
“So what’s this thing you have after school?”
“Oh …” I think fast, grappling for a believable lie. “I, um … I take piano lessons.”
Leela perks. “Really?”
I nod, hoping Leela is not a big piano person. I hope she doesn’t ask if we can get together and pound out some music. Because the best I can do is “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and even that’s a bit choppy.
She looks across the cafeteria, toward Pete. “Does your brother play too?”
“No. Just me.”
She opens a bag of chips. I eat the last of my apple. I can tell we both want to ask more questions, but neither of us do.
*
The Edward Brooks Facility is right outside my neighborhood. The tall, looming building sits on an actual cliff, a picture straight out of an Alfred Hitchcock film. Mom, who is a major history buff, explains how it used to be an orphanage. A long, long time ago when our country still had them.
Now it’s a privately-owned treatment center for people like me. As I unbuckle my seat belt, Mom gives me a cheery smile and tells me everything will be okay. She reminds me that I can be honest with Dr. Roth. That it’s safe. Then she squeezes my hand and I get out of the car and walk up the cement stairs, waiting for the thunder to crack and the lightning to strike and Frankenstein’s doctor to yell, “It’s alive!”
I struggle with the heavy front door and sign my name on a sheet of paper at the front desk and read Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier (I finished Wuthering Heights on Monday) until a lady with yellow teeth calls my name and leads me down a long corridor into Dr. Roth’s office. She doesn’t say goodbye or smile. She just walks away and leaves me standing inside the room, staring at a man who sits in a cushy red chair. He wears a stiff-looking white shirt, a navy blue tie, and bifocals that slide down his bulbous nose. He smiles at me, scratching his mousy brown goatee. “Teresa Ekhart, I presume?”
“Tess.” His office has no windows, but is somehow drafty, and smells like an overpowering mixture of oranges and ammonia.
“Tess,” he concedes, motioning to an equally-red, cushy chair beside him.
“I thought shrinks had couches.”
He chuckles.
I sit and fold my hands in my lap, taking deep, steady breaths. I
“I stood by him in line at the concession stand at halftime. He remembered that my oldest brother got into a car accident last year and asked how he was doing, which is pretty amazing. Nobody else has asked. Anyway, he asked about you.”
I cough. “He did?”
She nods emphatically. “He wondered where you were.”
“What did you say?”
“That you weren’t feeling well.” Leela’s cheeks glow. “First he stares at you at the pep rally. Then he asks about you at the football game. Do you know how many girls would love to be in your position right now?”
Yeah. My position. Crazy girl going to the Edward Brooks Facility. Somehow, I doubt that. I look over at his empty seat, as if Leela’s bit of news will conjure him into the moment. Why would Luka ask about me? “I found out he’s my next door neighbor.”
Her eyes go wide as she stuffs a bite of her sandwich into her mouth, gives it a couple good chews, and swallows it down. “Are you serious?”
“I saw him surfing on Saturday.”
Leela shakes her head, like she can’t believe my luck. I can think of nothing natural to say that might continue the conversation, so it peters out. I chew my apple, searching for a logical explanation for Luka’s interest. After all, I am my father’s daughter. If he asked about me at the football game, it was probably leftover curiosity over the mini freak-out he witnessed at the pep rally. I’m sure he noticed it. Why else was he staring at me afterward? I take another bite of my apple. It’s crunchy and sweet, but I don’t enjoy it. I’m eating because I’m supposed to, not because I have any real appetite.
“So what’s this thing you have after school?”
“Oh …” I think fast, grappling for a believable lie. “I, um … I take piano lessons.”
Leela perks. “Really?”
I nod, hoping Leela is not a big piano person. I hope she doesn’t ask if we can get together and pound out some music. Because the best I can do is “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and even that’s a bit choppy.
She looks across the cafeteria, toward Pete. “Does your brother play too?”
“No. Just me.”
She opens a bag of chips. I eat the last of my apple. I can tell we both want to ask more questions, but neither of us do.
*
The Edward Brooks Facility is right outside my neighborhood. The tall, looming building sits on an actual cliff, a picture straight out of an Alfred Hitchcock film. Mom, who is a major history buff, explains how it used to be an orphanage. A long, long time ago when our country still had them.
Now it’s a privately-owned treatment center for people like me. As I unbuckle my seat belt, Mom gives me a cheery smile and tells me everything will be okay. She reminds me that I can be honest with Dr. Roth. That it’s safe. Then she squeezes my hand and I get out of the car and walk up the cement stairs, waiting for the thunder to crack and the lightning to strike and Frankenstein’s doctor to yell, “It’s alive!”
I struggle with the heavy front door and sign my name on a sheet of paper at the front desk and read Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier (I finished Wuthering Heights on Monday) until a lady with yellow teeth calls my name and leads me down a long corridor into Dr. Roth’s office. She doesn’t say goodbye or smile. She just walks away and leaves me standing inside the room, staring at a man who sits in a cushy red chair. He wears a stiff-looking white shirt, a navy blue tie, and bifocals that slide down his bulbous nose. He smiles at me, scratching his mousy brown goatee. “Teresa Ekhart, I presume?”
“Tess.” His office has no windows, but is somehow drafty, and smells like an overpowering mixture of oranges and ammonia.
“Tess,” he concedes, motioning to an equally-red, cushy chair beside him.
“I thought shrinks had couches.”
He chuckles.
I sit and fold my hands in my lap, taking deep, steady breaths. I
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