STILL CRADLING ARTHUR, I speed walk to the small table in the corner of the kitchen and squeeze under it. Trying to tune out the party only makes the laughter, barking, and occasional shouting louder, like a slow explosion. I wonder if Brad’s here, and the thought kind of makes me want to smile and puke at the same time. I definitely don’t want him to see me all anxious and panicked about the million and one classmates in my house.
And, I realize, I really don’t want anyone to go in my room, where I have my computer open to We Are Not Alone and the collage of all my favorite movie stars and TV shows on my wall. It’s hard enough feeling like I’m totally different from my classmates; I definitely don’t want to explain why I find David Duchovny more attractive than Channing Tatum.
I close my eyes and pull Arthur closer. He snuggles into my chest.
“Knock, knock,” Lincoln says, lifting up a corner of the tablecloth.
“Is Scott with you?” I ask. My eyes are squeezed shut.
“He went to go help out. He can get along with anybody, so he doesn’t mind.”
With Linc here, my heart rate slows and the noise becomes a little less unbearable. “So … boyfriend, huh?”
“Nice try. We’re talking about you right now.”
“I’m only under the table because I care about Arthur’s well-being. I don’t want him to be scarred for life because of a traumatic socializing experience!”
“That’s so kind of you, Mal, but why don’t you just try to come out. No one’s making you leave the house, okay? Just get up, say hi to a few people, and then go hang out in your room for the rest of the day like you always do.”
“I don’t always hang out in my room.”
“Oh, my apologies … like you do ninety percent of the time.”
I’m about to counter with another argument when my mother’s voice carries over the sound of the crowd. “Look at this … party!” she says. I can tell by the measured quality of her voice that she’s internally surveying the damage that muddy paws and sneakers have done to our carpet. “I’m so happy—I mean, Mallory is so happy to help out with the fund-raiser!”
The desire to stay comfortable and the desire to prove that I’m “better” battle it out in my head. Hanging out underneath the kitchen table isn’t going to do anything to convince my mom that I’m feeling okay—in fact, it will probably do the opposite. Socially well-adjusted people, as a rule, do not spend parties under tables.
“I am safe. I am secure. I am capable,” I mutter.
“What?” Lincoln asks.
I give Arthur one last snuggle before handing him off to Lincoln. There’s no reason he should suffer just because I have to prove a point.
I scoot out from under the table and right into the wall of people in my house. Holding my breath, I weave through the crowd, giving curt nods and the occasional “hihowareyou.” I just have to make it to the stairs.
In the living room, a puppy is climbing on top of the coffee table, strangers are sitting on my couch, and … oh God, why is Monica Bergen even still here? Seeing all of these people I haven’t seen in months makes my stomach flip over and over like a coin flying through the air. Everything I’ve been trying so hard to avoid has come to me. Even my house isn’t a safe space anymore. The laughter and yelling pushes into my ears and into my stomach, where the handful of pretzels I just ate rolls around. My lungs seem to contract, taking in less and less air no matter how many deep breaths I take.
And that’s when I know that I’m one hundred percent, definitely, actually going to barf.
I know I can’t make it to the upstairs bathroom, so I run through the living room, lock myself in the bathroom by the laundry room, and hurl into a clothes hamper. With tears in my eyes, I slump down with my back against the door. Even though the house was full of chattering and barking just a few seconds ago, now all I can hear is the barking … which means that everyone who doesn’t have four legs and isn’t covered in fur was probably listening intently as I puked my guts up.
There are three tiny raps on the door. “Mallory?”
“Can you just make everyone leave, Jenni?” I ask weakly.
I can barely even hear the disappointment in her voice as she says, “Of course I can!”
She went out of her way to set up this fund-raiser so it would benefit me, and how did I repay her? By hiding under a table and then ending the whole thing with a poorly timed barf. I sigh and hold my head in my hands, wondering if they can take away spirit points.
After a few minutes and a lot of shuffling around and murmuring, Jenni knocks on the door again. “It’s safe to come out!”
I open the door slowly and then throw my arms around her. “I’m sorry!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jenni says. “A lot of people donated money because they felt sorry for us, what with the weather and then…”
“The barfing girl,” I say flatly.
“You did good, Mal,” Jenni says, so sincerely that a tear involuntarily sneaks out of my eye. Every last bit of my heart wants to believe her, but as I rest my forehead on her shoulder, I know that I’m doing the opposite of good right now.
* * *
After Jenni leaves, I watch a few episodes of The X-Files in bed and end up falling asleep. By the time I wake up, it’s already dark and I feel like shit. I ruined a fund-raiser, threw away any chance at getting spirit points, probably scared Brad off, and definitely didn’t convince my mom that I’m a functioning human being. And I’m not any closer to getting five hundred dollars.
I can’t even be mad at my mom for doubting me, because right now, I have next to no faith in myself. Dr. Dinah says that this will get better in time. I thought I was getting better, after playing outside with the guys and hanging out on the porch. But is today what better looks like? My mantra isn’t “I am safe. I am secure. I am nauseated.”
I roll over and grab my phone, expecting a text from Jenni. There are three—full of exclamation points and emojis—but there’s also one I didn’t expect. From Brad.
Hope ur feeling better. Can’t have my physics partner getting sick!:)
Maybe this is doing better. I’m making friends—friends who care about me.
And are extremely hot. Not that it matters.
I turn on my lamp and open my computer. At least my unusual level of IRL activity today means I have tons of Internet minutes saved up. BeamMeUp messages me immediately.
BeamMeUp: What do you think’s up with those lights on the horizon?!!! Possible UFO?
As happy as I was about Brad’s text, I’m ten thousand times gladder to get BeamMeUp’s message. In BeamMeUp’s eyes, I’m a cool, put-together girl, the kind who would definitely never ruin a fund-raiser with her anxiety. The kind of girl who doesn’t barf at all, let alone in a clothes hamper.
And he used three exclamation points? That kind of irresponsible punctuation must mean something’s up.
I walk over to my bedroom window, which faces east, and inspect the sky. It’s clear—almost a liquid black—and I see the moon and some stars, but nothing else.
AlienHuntress: What are you talking about? Where? I can’t see any mysterious lights.
BeamMeUp: You must not be looking in the right place. Are you inside? Go outside!
I scowl at my computer. Sure. Go outside. Because it’s that easy.
But I’ve been on the porch. For seventeen whole minutes, even. And I played football. And I need to redeem myself after the puppy party disaster.
Is a tree branch going to snap off, falling and crushing me instantly? Not likely.
Am I going to lock myself outside and then be unable to get back in because Mom and Lincoln are sleeping and then I have to sleep outside and get eaten by coyote-wolf-bear hybrids overnight? Probably not.
Safe. Secure. And, laughing to myself as I think about my shitshow of a day, totally capable.
I step out of the front door into the dark, quiet night. I lean up against the railing, listening to the gentle noise of the crickets and inspect the sky. It’s the same moon and stars that I saw from my bedroom window. And then, slowly moving across the sky, a blinking light … that is clearly an airplane.
I snort. Very mysterious. Maybe BeamMeUp isn’t the scientific genius he thinks he is.
Still, I can’t deny that the stars are a whole lot prettier when I’m under them instead of taking them in from the other side of my bedroom window. The airplane blinks its way across the blackness. The sky is full of people crisscrossing the world right now, and I think about my dad. He’s out there, somewhere. I just have to figure out where.
A light snaps on in one of Brad’s house’s upstairs windows, making my chest thump a little—just a little. I sit down on the porch swing and draw my knees into my chest. Breathing in the scent of the post-rain air, I watch the plane until it disappears into the dark.
BeamMeUp: No way. Pizza demands to be eaten with hands. I can’t believe you’re a forker.
AlienHuntress: A forker?! Come on. Pizza is hot, it’s greasy, and it’s way easier to eat with a fork. Also I’m civilized.
BeamMeUp: Cute.
AlienHuntress: Did you just call me cute?
BeamMeUp: I called your pizza-eating style cute. Don’t get too full of yourself.
AlienHuntress: What do you eat your pizza with, your massive ego?
BeamMeUp: Sounds like something a forker would say.