CHAPTER NINETEEN

I’m the last one down to brunch the next morning. When I come in, there’s a slight pause in the bustle. It’s not like they all turn to stare at me, but I can tell they all feel me come in, and they’re trying to act normal.

Mom smiles at me. “Hi, sweetie. Here’s a plate.”

I take it from her and sit down at the table. Sam helps Dad bring the food out. I can feel them looking at me, but I don’t meet their eyes, tracing my finger over the blue flowers painted on the white ceramic. Mom made them in her pottery class last year.

Ella sits across from me and nudges my foot gently with hers. I move mine away. I know they’re all worried, but in this moment, it just feels overwhelming. I’m already embarrassed about my panic attack yesterday; I can’t hold my family’s worry, too.

I move my hand to the pocket of my shorts without thinking and realize I left my phone upstairs. Eventually my friends stopped texting and calling last night, but they started again this morning. I want to text someone back, but when I picked up the phone, I didn’t know how to start. So I set it back on my night-stand. I feel weirdly lost without it, but it’s better than feeling like I have a bomb in my pocket.

I lift my eyes and take in the spread Dad cooked this morning. A mountain of huge, fluffy waffles sits on a platter in the center, with toppings grouped around it: chopped strawberries, peanut butter, frozen blueberries, whipped cream, and syrup. There’s a plate of sausage patties and one of vegan bacon strips and a big bowl of scrambled eggs. Orange juice and almond milk sit at either end.

Normally Dad says something silly to kick us off, but today, he just smiles, his eyes lingering on me. I look away.

“I know it’s just another Sunday, but it really is special to have brunch with all of you girls every week,” he says.

“I’m glad all of us kids are here, too,” Ella says, emphasizing the gender-neutral term ever so slightly, and we make eye contact across the table. I glance at Sam. Their leg is bouncing up and down, but they’re smiling down at the table.

We pass the food around and I fill my plate. The day after a panic attack is always a hungry day.

“Actually, I have something to tell you,” Sam says as soon as the last plate gets set back in the center of the table. I look at them, and everyone else does too. Their cheeks are slightly pink, and their hands are shaking a little as they hold their fork. They set it down and clasp their hands under the table, fixing their eyes on Mom and Dad. “Hayley and Ella already know this, but I’m nonbinary, and I want you to use they/them pronouns for me.”

I look at my parents. Dad’s face breaks into a wide grin, and Mom’s eyes get misty. They both gaze at Sam with so much pride, the same pride I can see in Ella’s face and feel in my chest, even though I’m worn out and still anxious.

“You got it, kiddo,” Dad says.

“Do you want us to change the other words we use for you, too?” Mom asks.

Sam nods.

“OK, let’s see,” Mom says. “Sibling instead of sister. Kid instead of daughter. Kids for all of you together.” She smiles at us.

“How do you want to handle the extended family?” Dad asks.

Sam scrunches up their nose. “Could you tell them?”

“Of course.” He reaches out a hand, and Sam puts theirs in his. “I’m so glad you told us.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. They take a deep breath and let it out. “Can we talk about something else now?”

They all laugh, and I smile a little bit, too. It’s a classic Sam response. Ella pipes up with some drama at her job—a customer who was rude to her the other day, and the manager had to intervene. I focus on my food, and the conversation moves on.

After brunch, I head upstairs to my room. When I glance at my phone screen, the number of messages is overwhelming. I turn it facedown.

I’ve only been lying on my bed scrolling through TV shows for a few minutes when Mom pokes her head around my half-open door.

“Hey.” I shut my laptop and sit up as she closes the door. I forgot we were going to talk.

“Hi, you.” She picks her way through the path to my bed and sits by my feet. She grabs one of them, shaking my leg, and I try to smile, but it feels forced. “So. You don’t have to tell me what happened, but we do need to make a plan in case this happens again.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, small and whispery. “I just freaked out.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Mom says. “I just want to know how to help you.”

“I don’t know,” I say. My nose stings and tears well up. I press my palms to my eyes.

“Do you want to talk to me about what’s been going on?”

I fiddle with the bedspread. The words are bottled in my throat, a pressure valve waiting for release. I’ve been keeping this in, and I can’t anymore. I don’t have to tell my friends, but I can tell Mom. I take a deep breath, and then it’s all spilling out.

“I have a crush on Talia, and I don’t know how or when it happened, maybe I was just oblivious, but it hit me at the concert, and then I pushed her to talk to Rose even though she didn’t really want to, and now they’re dating, and I wish it was me, but they look perfect together, and maybe it would just be better for Talia if I wasn’t in the picture at all, but I wish we’d never made up this stupid summer love strategy, but I’m also happy for her, because I want her to be happy, but also I want her to be happy with me!” The last word wails out of my chest from somewhere deep, and I press a hand to my sternum, right where my heart aches, because I have to give up my best friend and it’s all my fault.

“Oh, sweetie.” My mom scoots closer. She wraps her arms around me as I sling my legs over her lap and lean against her chest, sobbing. I feel like a kid again, like I’m eleven and everyone is talking about the famous guys they think are cute and giggling about boys at school and all I can think about is—

“It’s just like Leia,” I mumble. The girl I had a crush on in sixth grade, the girl I couldn’t tell anyone about, the girl who barely even knew I was alive.

“I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” Mom says, rubbing my back as she holds me. “Why does it feel like Leia?”

“Because.” I take a few shallow, shaky breaths. “I like Talia, and I can’t tell anyone. But this time, it’s even worse, because if I do tell her, and something goes wrong, I’ll lose my best friend—and probably all of my other friends, too.”

“Like you were afraid of losing us back then?” Mom asks quietly.

I start sobbing again and she squeezes me tighter, murmuring to me as I do. Her words come through as if from far away, but they come through all the same: I love you. I hear you. I’m sorry it’s so hard. I’m so proud of you. I’m here.

After a while, the sobs shrink into shuddering breaths, and I’m able to sit back up. Mom moves my legs off hers gently and grabs the box of tissues on my desk. I take one and blot my eyes.

“Keeping such a big secret is a lot of pressure,” Mom says. “You’ve always had Talia to tell before.”

I nod and blow my nose.

“I’ll be right back,” Mom says. A moment later I hear water running, and she comes back in with a damp washcloth. She puts one hand up to my cheek, patting my face with the other. I close my eyes. It’s nice to be taken care of.

“Do you think you might be able to tell one of your friends? Maybe Bri?” she asks after a moment.

“I don’t know.” I take the washcloth from her and lay back, covering my face. “Once I tell one person, it’ll be harder to keep it secret.”

“Sometimes sharing a secret can lighten the weight of it, though,” Mom says. “When we hide things, we have to carry the shame and anxiety, too. That can make things feel worse than they might be.”

“I guess.”

“And I know now,” Mom says. “So you’re not alone anymore.”

I pull the washcloth off my face and look at her. Her eyes are warm, and it settles me. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

We rest in silence for a while, her hand on my foot. The bed is soft underneath me, and there’s a light breeze coming in through the window.

“Maybe in the future I could text or call you if I’m starting to panic?” I say. “And tell you where I am?”

“That’s a good start,” Mom says. “If your anxiety is really bothering you again, we can also talk to the doctor about medication and find you another therapist. There’s no shame in that.”

“That’s true.” I stare at the silhouettes of tree branches on my ceiling, cast there by the sunlight, waving gently back and forth. I don’t know what it’s like not to live with some level of anxiety. Would I be able to just do things without overthinking them? Sounds fake, but OK.

“Think about it,” Mom says. “I want you to start carrying a little anxiety first-aid bag, too. Some fidget toys, something scented you like, reminders that will help ground you.”

“OK.” I prop myself on one elbow. “I was thinking, too. I know the therapist back in middle school told me to find private space to do my breathing. But when I was in the bathroom, I just started to feel trapped. Maybe I should try going outside next time instead?”

“As long as you contact me, too,” Mom says.

“I will.”

“Good.” She smiles at me. “Dad and I were going to tackle some yard work projects this afternoon. Getting outside and getting your mind off things could be good for you.” She glances at my phone. Alerts have been sounding on and off the whole time.

I know I should text people back. I could ask Mom to help me figure out what to say and sit here while I do it.

The wall is going up, though, between me and the task. It’s that opposing magnet feeling again; I know I have to do it, and so I just can’t.

I look at Mom and nod. “OK.”

She smacks my shin lightly. “That’s my girl. See you outside in five.”

Monday morning, I make it to my bus with plenty of time, which is good, because if I’m late again I’ll definitely have another panic attack. I still haven’t texted Talia or any of our friends back yet. I’ve stopped opening the threads entirely, and the unread messages feel like lead weights in my mind. The more I try not to think about them, the heavier they get.

I close my eyes, turn up the music in my headphones, and run basketball plays in my head for the rest of the ride. At least I can still count on that.

At my stop, I head through the quiet neighborhood toward our school. Even though I don’t love waking up early, there’s something sweet about the morning. The air smells fresh, the light filters through the trees, the coffee shops and boutiques are just opening their doors; it makes me feel calmer, like everything might turn out OK. Eventually. Maybe.

No one’s at the gym as I walk up. I’m on time, so there’s still fifteen minutes to spare before my teammates arrive. I sling my backpack around to my front and rummage through the side pocket for my keys.

Nothing.

I check the other front pockets, and then once more, heart kicking into high gear. This can’t be happening. I set my bag down and rifle through it, feeling all the way around the bottom. There’s no jingle, no feel of cool metal in my fingers, just the grit of crumbs and lint.

I pull everything out of every compartment: my water bottle, my snack bars, my wallet, the change of clothes and towel that’s been in my backpack since the start of the summer in case I ever decide I want to shower after practice, the crumpled papers from past essays and tests that I never cleaned out at the end of the year. I dump the backpack upside down, but all that falls out are those crumbs. I pat the pockets of my basketball shorts, but I already know what’s happened.

I left my keys at home.

Crouched on the ground in front of all my things and my empty backpack, I curse, pressing my hands against my face.

“Hayley?”

I look up.

“You OK?” Sherika’s eyes are soft and concerned. Of course she’d be the one to find me hunched on the ground like a goblin.

“I . . .” I stop for a minute and take a deep breath. I’m already choking up. I really don’t want to cry in front of my teammates, especially the varsity players. “I forgot the keys.”

“Ohhhhh.” Sherika’s eyebrows go up. “So that means—”

“No practice.” I stand up slowly, staring down at my backpack.

Behind me I hear a chorus of voices chattering, and as they get closer, they quiet. I squeeze my eyes shut, then turn around and face the team.

Somehow, they all managed to arrive at the same time today, because of course they did. I scan the group, my eyes landing on Mariah, Anh next to her, Trinity behind her. Mariah’s head tilts and then her gaze lands on the mess at my feet.

“Here, I’ll help you,” Sherika says and steps forward. I kneel beside her, and we put all my things back into my bag.

“What happened?” One of the girls asks. Her name’s Jaya, and she’s one of Sherika’s friends. “Are you OK, Hayley?”

We both straighten up, and I heft my pack onto my shoulder. I look Jaya in the eye. “I forgot my keys.”

A collective groan rises from my teammates. I want to throw up or sink into the sidewalk and disappear.

“This has happened so many times,” someone says.

“That’s what we get for trusting a sophomore,” someone else mutters.

“Hey!” Sherika says sharply, and they all go quiet. “It’s just a mistake.”

“Yeah, and it’s, like, the fifth time she’s made this mistake,” Jaya says. “No offense, but we need a different keyholder.”

I stare down at the ground while they debate back and forth. Jaya wants to tell Coach; Sherika says I could just give the keys to someone else. When they take a vote, almost everyone sides with Jaya—even Anh and Trinity raise their hands, mouthing a sorry at me. I shrug, swallowing my tears. Mariah doesn’t vote at all.

“OK.” Jaya looks at me. “It’s nothing personal. But we need to be sure we can have practice when we planned it. This is serious for a lot of us.”

“It’s serious for me, too,” I say, my voice cracking.

“Well.” Jaya shrugs. She turns to the rest of the group. “Anyone want to come jog the track with me? We can at least do some footwork drills.”

Sherika gives me a sympathetic look, then follows Jaya down toward the playfields with most of the team.

Mariah lingers. “You gonna join?”

I shake my head.

She sighs. “Hayley, what’s going on with you? You’re not getting into sketchy shit, are you?”

“No!” I rub my face. “No. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not over some crush, is it?”

I don’t reply.

“Oh my god.” Mariah shakes her head. “Listen. I don’t know who’s got you down bad, but I know you love basketball, maybe more than a lot of the people here. And basketball won’t break your heart. So figure it out, because I want you with me on the varsity team this year.”

I nod.

Her expression softens. “You want a hug?”

I nod again.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around me. She smells like coconut oil, and her hug is brief but firm. She pulls back, resting a hand on my shoulder, and I make myself meet her eyes. They’re deep brown and kind. “You got this.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though I don’t feel like I’ve got it at all. She squeezes my shoulder once and walks away.

When I get home, I can hear Sam in the kitchen singing along to Olivia Rodrigo. Judging from the sounds, they’re cooking or baking something. I wanted to bake, but I also want to be alone, so I head upstairs and send them a text to let them know I’m here.

In my room, I flop down on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The frustrated faces of my teammates fill my mind. I can’t believe I’m letting my crush on Talia ruin our friendship and basketball, too. My vision blurs and tears slide down my temples. I roll onto my side, facing the wall, and curl up with my arms around my favorite stuffed animal. It’s a velveteen cat. Dad won it for me at the state fair when I was a kid.

I cry quietly for a while, and eventually the tears peter out and I just lie there with my eyes closed. I’m too exhausted from everything that’s happened in the past few days to really sob; it’s like my emotions have flatlined.

My phone pings. I don’t want to check it, but the hovering specter of the notification itches my brain until I roll over and fumble it out of my bag.

Hey, what’s your address? It’s Jaya. The team voted me key-holder, and I wanna get them tonight.

I text her the address, and she says she’ll come by around six. So that’s it, I guess. I failed my friendship with Talia and I failed my responsibility as keyholder.

“Hayley?” It’s Sam, tapping on my door. “You want a cupcake?”

“Sure,” I say. “Come in.” I don’t really want to see anyone right now but a cupcake sounds nice.

The door opens, and they come in with a plate of pink-frosted chocolate cupcakes. “I didn’t mix up the baking powder and baking soda this time,” they say proudly.

I smile in spite of myself. When I got into baking a few years ago, before it became a de-stressing activity and was just a new hobby I was fixated on, Sam wanted to learn, too. The first time they baked, the cupcakes looked and tasted awful because of that mistake; that was also the last time they baked before today.

“What’s the occasion?” I say, sitting up and grabbing one from the plate.

“You seemed down, and I wanted to cheer you up.” They look at the plate, shifting from foot to foot.

“Sam.” I’m tearing up again. “That’s so sweet.” I motion for them to sit down, and they do.

“How is it?” they ask, watching my face as I take the first bite. The cupcake is moist and light, with a rich chocolate flavor complemented by the sugary icing.

“Ohmahgaw,” I mumble around the bite. “Issogood.”

Sam beams. We eat our cupcakes in silence for a minute and finish at the same time, both of us reaching for another.

“So . . . what’s going on?” Sam asks. “Mom wouldn’t tell me . . . but I was in the hallway for a minute yesterday and I heard you say something about Talia.” Their voice is light, too light. I know that means they were in the hallway for a lot longer than a minute—and probably happened to be right in front of my door the whole time. But I don’t mind it, for some reason. It makes me feel like I matter.

So I tell Sam the truth, even though they probably overheard my whole conversation with Mom.

“Are you guys gonna be OK?” Sam chews on their lower lip.

My heart pangs. “I . . . don’t know.”

“Oh.” Sam’s mouth turns down and they gaze at me. “Have you talked to her since then?”

I shake my head. I know Sam’s trying to help, and the cup-cakes taste amazing, but this line of questioning is just making me feel worse.

“What if you just told her you had a panic attack?” Sam says. “It’s partly true.”

“Over what, though?” I ask. “How do I tell her that without telling her everything?”

Sam shrugs. “Just say you got overwhelmed by being on a double date and that the strategy’s stressing you out.”

I arch an eyebrow. “So lie to her?”

“I mean, it’s kind of true,” Sam says. “Right?”

“I guess.” I take a deep breath. I don’t want to leave Talia or anyone else hanging much longer; it feels like the window of time where I can go back to pretending everything is fine and normal is closing fast. I have to come up with something. And Sam is right. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s partly true. The strategy is stressing me out, and the double date was overwhelming. I don’t have to tell Talia it was because I have a giant crush on her.

OK. This sounds doable. Talia is probably too busy with Rose to even question it.