Caroline and I are sitting in the front row of the theater in our usual seats. I’m jittery from my lack of sleep and the three Cokes I’ve had since lunch. This morning, I found AJ’s guitar pick in the pocket of my jeans, and I’ve been fiddling with it ever since, like it’s my thinking putty. I’ve already decided I’m going to tape it up on the inside of my locker door.
“You’re freaking out about a girl he hasn’t spoken to in months,” Caroline says.
We’ve been trying to write a new poem, but I’m having a hard time concentrating. I keep picturing the way AJ folded his arms around me, his chest pressed against my back, his warm breath on my neck. I can’t stop reliving that fantasy when I crossed the room and kissed him. I’m trying to think about the good parts of being alone with AJ in his room yesterday—because there were many of them—but no matter what I do, that photograph pops into my mind every time.
“They were together for almost a year. It was serious, Caroline.”
“So? It’s not serious now.”
I close my notebook, leaving the pencil in the binding to mark our place, and lean back in the crushed red velvet theater seat. “See, this is good. Keep going,” I say, curling my finger toward me. “This is why I told you. I knew you’d talk some sense into me. Did I tell you she’s a senior?”
“Three times now.” Caroline shifts in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. “Do you really want to hear what I think, Sam?”
“Of course I do.” I throw my head back and stare up at the ceiling. She doesn’t say anything. I look at her, so she knows I mean it. “Please. I want to know what you think.”
“Fine,” Caroline says. “I think he likes you.”
“You do?”
She doesn’t answer my question; she just keeps talking.
“I also think you’re overcomplicating this whole thing. I think that even when good, totally normal, completely healthy things happen in your life, like”—she starts articulating her points on her fingers—“your new car, writing poetry, spending an afternoon at AJ’s house, meeting me…” She sits up straighter wearing a big fake grin, then returns to her serious tone. “You seem determined to find a way to make them unhealthy.”
“You? I haven’t turned you into anything unhealthy.”
“Maybe not yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She laughs. “You’re missing the point, Sam. These are all good things, all normal things. And rather than enjoying them, you find a way to twist them into something toxic.”
I roll my eyes and let out a sigh. “Trust me, I want to stop thinking. I wish I could.”
Caroline kicks her feet out in front of her and leans way back in the chair, crossing her arms behind her head and staring off into the distance. “You should hit baseballs.”
“Baseballs,” I say flatly.
“My dad and I used to go to the batting cages at the park. Have you ever been?”
“I think I went when I was a little kid. It was ages ago. I don’t really remember it. Why?”
“You get in the cage all alone.” Caroline sits up straight and begins talking louder and faster, using her hands for emphasis. “Then you grab your bat and take your stance, and even though you’re expecting it, there’s a sense of surprise when this ball comes flying out of the machine right at you.” She points to her head. “So you grip the bat tighter and bring it to your shoulder. You watch the ball. Then you step into it and swing.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering where she’s going with this.
“You hear this crack when the bat connects, and then the ball’s gone, soaring off into the distance. But you can’t relax, because now there’s another ball speeding your way. So you tighten your grip, take your stance, and swing again. And you keep going until your time runs out. By then, your shoulder is throbbing and you’re totally out of breath, but you feel pretty damn good.”
“You’re saying my thoughts are like baseballs.”
Her lips curl into a satisfied grin. “Exactly. And you, my friend, stand there in the batting cage and let those balls smack you in the head, over and over again. But you don’t have to.” She taps her finger against her temple. “You have a perfectly good bat.”
“I have a broken bat.”
“Eh. It’ll do,” she says. Then she leans back in the chair again and crosses her arms, looking proud to have said her piece. “Are you still glad you asked me what I thought?”
“Actually, I am.”
“Good. Can you be happy, please? Things are going well, aren’t they?”
They are. I can’t wait to get downstairs on Mondays and Thursdays. I’m even starting to look forward to stepping up on that stage. I haven’t had an Eights-induced thought spiral in weeks.
“Yes.”
“You can trust them, Sam,” she says. “Let your guard down with AJ and everyone else. And please, stop thinking so much. You’re exhausting.”
I give her foot a kick. She kicks me back. And we return to writing.
