The next week went by in this strange, awkward daze. I felt like I was trying to walk on eggshells, which if you think about it, is pretty ridiculous for someone my size. Because those things would just turn to dust under my feet. My mom and I hadn’t spoken, Jake and I hadn’t really spoken, and I felt like I was going batty. Vicki’s words had been tormenting me too. During another session she’d pointed out how my self-worth had become so entwined in the numbers on the scale. And for as long as I did that, I would be letting the bullies win, because I was still bullying myself. Until I learned to measure my self-worth by other means, I would be stuck in this cycle of self-sabotage, pushing away the things I really wanted and deserved—like Jake, and like wearing a beautiful dress.
We also talked about my panic attacks and I was given more homework: tackling those irrational fears around my anxiety. Like when I’m sure I’m going to die and have a stroke because my heart is beating so fast, or when I’m sure I’ll drown in the air. She taught me some breathing techniques for when the panic attacks hit, and we practiced good self-talk and focused on the things I liked about myself. We talked a lot about the dress that Thembi was making me, and how I needed to see myself in a different light, and that maybe this was an opportunity to do so. We spoke a lot about Jake, not necessarily just him, but guys like him, and how it was ridiculous for me to think that I would never have sex and be loved at my size. That was impossible, she said. She made me read articles, and research and arm myself with knowledge that I’d never had before. Now I’m not saying I was all cured and #bodypostivity vibes were flowing out of my pores, and I’m not saying I thought I deserved to be kissed by someone like Jake yet; I was far from that. Very far. And I still hadn’t managed to stand in front of the mirror yet either.
And then on Thursday, Xander called me into his office again. I went more reluctantly this time.
“Come in,” he called as I knocked on the door.
He wasn’t pumping weights and drinking H2O this time. He also wasn’t smiling as much and didn’t look as orange, but maybe that was my imagination.
“Please, sit, Lori.” His voice was more somber and therapisty this time. Like he was trying to overcompensate for something. Not hard to guess what. It might have had something to do with me catching him in the hot tub with my mom. I wonder if I’d caught them precoital or post? I wasn’t actually sure what was worse.
“I wanted to circle round and touch base with you regarding the other night,” he said.
I instantly cringed at the “touch base” thing, and I could see he knew he’d chosen the wrong words.
He cleared his throat. “Debrief. I want to debrief.”
I rolled my eyes at these buzzwords he was using. “Okay.”
He looked away, as if he couldn’t hold my gaze. “What happened with your mother the other night . . .” He tapered off and I waited for him to speak.
“Yeees.” I leaned in.
“I would never have considered allowing anything to happen if I’d known that you were her daughter. My priorities are always, always, to my students and their well-being.” He looked up at me and forced a smile. “Nothing is more important than the happiness of my students. And I would never want to do anything to jeopardize that. I always strive to put their needs first, and do whatever I can to help them, and I feel like I failed you, and . . .” He paused, ran his hand through his hair, looking genuinely tormented, and I was thrown. “I’m sorry.”
I stared at him as he fiddled with his fingers, looking so upset by this ordeal that I actually believed what he was saying to me. In his strange way—his strange, sharky, cool beans kind of way—he really cared for the students here at BWH. With his short-handed, clichéd, two cents–worth therapy and big white teeth.
“And I want you to know that it’s over between your mother and me. . . . She’s a remarkable woman, though, your mother,” he said softly. “Very inspiring.” He gave me a small smile and I forced one back at him. “So . . .” He clapped his hands together and I flinched. “Is it forgiven?” he asked.
I nodded. Just because I wanted to get this over and done with. “Sure.”
“Good. Chapter nine in my book is all about forgiveness. Forgiving your enemies, forgiving yourself.”
“I’ll make sure I read it then.” I didn’t mean that, though. I walked out of his office and breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived when I found Jake standing there, waiting for me.
“I heard them call your name over the intercom,” he said. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk since, so . . . can we?”
“Won’t you be missing class?”
“I have a free period now, so it seems we’re both free.”
“Okay.” We walked down the passage, much like we had at the park the other night, which seemed so long ago now. No one said a word, although there were so many words to say. It was as if the whole passage we were walking down was filled with these massive, invisible words that were just waiting to be spoken. And finally Jake did.
“Did I . . . did I screw it all up?” he asked.
I turned and looked at him. “No.”
“It feels like I did. The kiss messed it all up.” He was looking at me in a way that made me want to kiss him all over again. I wanted to tell him that I had actually messed it up—well, all those bullies in my head had.
“No, you didn’t mess it up,” I said again.
“You sure?”
I forced a smile at him. It was so damn hard. “No. You didn’t.”
He exhaled an audible breath, as if he’d been holding it. “Great! So we can move past this and be friends again? I really, really like our friendship. I’ve never met anyone like you, and anyone I can talk to like I talk to you, and I would hate to lose that. Seriously.”
“It’s already been moved past. It’s forgotten.” Crap. That wasn’t really what I wanted to say. What I really wanted to say was, Let’s not move on. Let’s never move on from that moment, ever. Let’s kiss again. And let’s not stop once we start.
“Great! Friends!” His face lit up and it was like a hot dagger in my gut.
I didn’t want to be friends. And how could we? How could we go back to the way things were, now that we’d kissed? We carried on walking together, and even though he looked a lot happier and lighter, I was not.
“Are you going to the vigil tonight?” he asked.
“What vigil?”
“Haven’t you heard about it? For Natasha. Tonight at seven they’re holding a candlelight vigil for her, and also to stop the repainting of the wall.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I turned and started walking again. “I don’t know,” I said quickly. “I might have to look after Zac.”
“Me neither, I have this water polo dinner thing.” We walked in silence to the end of the corridor and then Jake looked at his phone.
“Free period almost over.”
“Sure. Cool.”
“Friends still?” he asked. “I’m just checking again.”
“Friends.” I agreed, even though, right now, friends felt like the ultimate F word.
“Great, because you’re a good friend, Lori.”
Things I Like about Myself by Lori Palmer
I’m a good sister.
I’m a real artist (despite what Blackwell says!).
I, Lori Palmer, am officially good with parents!
I have a voice. There is power in my art.
I am brave!
I am a great kisser!
I’m a good friend (even if I don’t really want to be just a friend).