This is what I feel like: I’m trying to keep my balance in a cold, hard wind, standing on the tip of a gigantic metal cone that towers over everything in my world. I have this feeling that if I can stay balanced, things will stay the same, as bad as they are. They won’t get any worse. But if I lose my balance, I’ll go flying off the tip of the cone, and the whole world will come apart. I have a list in my head of things I have to do to keep the balance.
1. I have to talk to at least three people at school every day. Chris and Bean don’t even say “Hey” to me anymore. Every time I talk to someone, it’s like an invisible octopus tentacle shoots out of me and attaches itself to them. So no matter how hard they try to beat me back until I disappear, I’m still here because I’ve got these tentacles attached to them and they keep me from floating away.
2. I have to watch Karen eat at least what Mom puts on her plate every night. Because if she eats, then maybe she’s not sick, and that one trip to the emergency room can be just that—something that happened just that one time. She’s in counseling, and she wouldn’t be in counseling unless it was making her better, right?
3. I have to see Dad at least once every ten days, because if I can get him to come by every ten days, it means that he’s just a busy guy, and that we’re basically a normal family.
4. I have to make sure Amanda sleeps over at least once each weekend. This means that if it’s Saturday night and she’s not at our house, I say to Karen, “Where’s Amanda?” They’re not spending as much time together anymore, and I think Mom’s worried about it too, because when I ask, “Where’s Amanda?” Mom gets Karen to call and invite her to sleep over. Karen’s having a best friend means that she’s okay, and Amanda wouldn’t sleep over at our house if we weren’t normal, so of course if she sleeps over, it means we’re all right.
Today was a good day at school. Mr. Delancey had us do a group science project in experimental bio where we tested how flammable candy is. That means that before first period was even over, I’d talked to the four people in my group. That means that I talked to one more person than I needed to, and if only two people talk to me tomorrow, it’s all right, because I’ll just use that extra one from today to make up for it.
Karen and Amanda are sitting on the front steps scrunched together under a blanket when I get home. It’s freezing out, and they have on hats and scarves and gloves, and they’ve got the blanket pulled up under their chins. They’re both laughing but have tears on their faces, which usually means they were fighting and then made up. They don’t move when I try to walk past them up the steps. Amanda says, “Hey, Donnie, I have to tell you something.”
Today I’m going to count Amanda as the fifth person I’ve talked to today. Usually I just count her as family, which doesn’t really count, but since I haven’t talked to five people in one day in over four weeks, I’m letting her in.
“What?” I say, and I don’t let myself hope that she’s forgiven me for the whole lying-about-sleeping-with-her thing and that she wants us to be friends again and by the way do I want to go make out with her in the woods behind the baseball field?
“My dad’s moving us back to Chicago.”
Karen starts crying, and there is no more balance, and I think, This is what falling feels like.