The Evidence
My body has a mind of its own.
My mind has a mind of its own.
My big sister already snapped.
I have a constant sitting-at-the-top-of-a-roller-coaster feeling. Except I never drop.
Can. Not. Shut. Off. Brain.
Almost hyperventilated during a run.
Freaked out at school because a boy possibly (okay, almost definitely) knows Alice from rehab. Currently sitting on the bathroom floor like a weirdo.
I stare at the strikes against my mental health.
Writing the words in the back of my planner, seeing it in ink, makes it feel real. I’ve known something was wrong—something was off—since my first heart-pounding, mind-racing, breath-stealing freak-out a few weeks after Alice went to Fairview. I was alone on a late-night practice run through the neighborhood, running the same path I’d taken on the Night of the Bathroom Floor. While I ran, the memories flashed, fast and fresh: Alice’s blood. Help me, she says. I don’t know how.
My heart ended up in my throat, beating a million miles a minute, and my lungs pinched off my air until I couldn’t run anymore. I’ve lost control a few times since, but I’ve managed not to have a repeat during school, in front of everyone—until now. (Thank you, Mr. Monkey Socks.)
I’d give anything to just stay on this floor all day. But someone’s gotta keep those dominos falling in line. I hoist myself up, dipping my head down slightly to stop the ground from spinning. At the sink, I splash water onto my face and slap my cheeks a little in the mirror so I don’t look quite so Queen of the Undead. This latest and greatest episode has left my body drained, like it’s run a marathon. The kind I can never win.
With a coarse paper towel, I wipe the trickle of blood from where I scratched my neck in front of the class.
They all think you’re nuts.
I pop in a piece of gum to hide the sour bile taste in my mouth and tug my ponytail tight, ignoring the pulsing in my skull, the weary in my bones.
They’re right.
When I emerge, the boy in the monkey socks is leaning against the bank of lockers in an otherwise empty hallway. Fan-freaking-tastic.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
He jogs a few steps to catch up to me, and his eyes lock on mine from behind thick black half curls of hair that fall in front of his face.
“It’s just, you looked like you were about to have a panic attack in there.”
“I don’t have panic attacks.”
I have brain attacks. Body attacks.
I keep those words to myself. No need to go blabbing about my questionable sanity so my classmates can call me a psycho, too. And whatever is happening to me is not just a panic attack, because that would mean it’s all in my head, and how can that be when my heart’s racing and my skin’s buzzing and my lungs are gasping for air?
“Well, whatever it was, I’m sorry if I said something wrong. You know, about dog grooming with your sister?” He puts air quotes around the words dog grooming like we’re in cahoots. “It’s just, Alice talked about you all the time at Fairview. You look just like her.”
I stop short in the hall. We’re only three doors away from the English room, and the last thing I need is to walk in together.
Freaks of a feather.
“Look, Micah—it’s Micah, right?”
He nods.
“One, I am nothing like my sister. And two, you can’t just go broadcasting stuff like that.”
Micah tucks his curls behind his ear. One eyebrow curves upward when he smiles.
“Stuff like what?”
“Stuff like”—I lean in closer to him—“Fairview.”
He leans in close, too. He smells like ashy charcoal and wood shavings rather than the standard I Just Bathed in Axe Body Spray eau-de-boy.
“Why are we whispering?”
A couple of junior girls from the track team walk by, and I straighten up, pulling away from him.
“Just trust me.”
“Thanks for the tip.” He flashes an easy, genuine grin just as Principal Porter rounds the corner, his mouth puckered in its usual I-hunt-children-for-sport demeanor.
“Mr. Mendez,” Porter half shouts down the hallway. “At Ridgeline, we stay in class during class time.”
“On my way, sir,” Micah says, straightening up to give a small salute with his black-tipped fingers. Porter looks from him to me, probably trying to figure out what we’re doing together.
“May I remind you that you’re here on a probationary basis,” he says. “Don’t give me a reason to change my mind.”
He stares at both of us like Well, get going, dummies until we turn and speed walk back to the classroom. Inside, everyone is sitting in pairs, like they’re about to board an ark. Two by two, they turn to stare at us. At the front of the room, Gifford smiles.
“Wonderful!” she says. “Our final partnership has returned!”
A classroom’s worth of eyes land on us.
Did she say partnership?
As in Lily and Micah, partnership? As in this-can’t-be-happening partnership?
Gifford asks me if I’m all right. “It’s normal to get some jitters reading your work in public,” she whispers to me.
“No, it’s not that. I—” I start, the class still staring.
I’m losing it.
“I think maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Liar, liar, crazy pants on fire.
Gifford ushers us into two desks at the front of the room, assuring me I’ll have a chance to make up my poetry reading.
“You’ve missed our spiel, you two, but Mr. Friedman will give you the SparkNotes version.” She’s talking so fast, her frizzy red hair vibrates.
“We’re combining our classes to explore what happens when words and art collide,” says the art teacher with the straggly beard. He interlaces his fingers and holds his joined hands up to the class. “The power of art. As one.”
More specifically, Gifford adds, we need to come up with a project that’s both written and visual, that shows the power of art in a community. We have seven weeks, and this project will be 20 percent of our grade. Half the project is what we say, and half is finding a creative way to share it with as many people as possible. They turn us loose to create! Mine the depths of your artistic genius! Their enthusiasm makes me want to curl up and sleep for a million years.
And I’m stuck with this kid?
The other partnerships are chattering away, introducing themselves, and Micah’s just staring at me, that same I’m-getting-away-with-something grin on his face with his eyebrow cocked upward.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“I don’t know you.”
“And yet, you hate me.” He leans toward me, whispering, “Just so you know, Alice is the one who asked me to check in on you.”
“Hold up. Alice is worried about me? First of all, that’s hilarious, and second, as you can see, I’m doing just fine without her.”
“Clearly.” Micah studies my face in a way that makes me want to run away again. “How come I never saw you on visitation days?”
“Just haven’t made it yet.” Technically, it could be true. She’s got another month at Fairview, so I could still go visit, but I highly doubt she’s eager to see me, considering our last interaction included such highlights as me standing there helpless while she nearly bled out. I push the memory of razor blades out of my mind because I’m trying to pull off an I’m-not-crazy vibe here. Damon catches my eye across the room—his pants are dry but he’s still death-staring Micah. “Look, I don’t know how else to say this. I do not want to talk about my sister.”
He holds up his hands, guilty.
“Okay, okay. Message received, Little Larkin.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“So many rules.” He smiles again. That eyebrow reaching for the sky. A scar runs through it, separating it right in the middle. “Why so many rules?”
“I don’t know. Why do you have so many questions?” I stare him down, but he doesn’t look away. “Look. I guess we’re partners.”
He leans back in his desk so that the front two legs come up. “Looks like it.”
His hands are clasped behind his head, elbows pointed outward, and from this angle I can see a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. A semicolon. I’ve seen it before online, the symbol for someone who lived after attempting suicide. Is Damon right? How many of the rumors are true? Public meltdowns? A death wish? He follows my eyes to his wrist and then stares at me, daring me to ask.
“I just need to know you’re going to take this seriously,” I say instead.
He tips his desk back down, looking me straight in the eye.
“It’s art. I never take it seriously.”
“It’s twenty percent of our grade.”
“So?”
“So, I care about my future.”
“And I don’t?”
“I’m just—”
“You’re just making some bold assumptions, is what you’re doing.”
I take a deep breath. “Let’s start again. Since we’re stuck together—”
“Oooh, bad start.”
“Since we’re partners—”
“Better.”
“We should come up with a plan.”
I take out my planner and open it to the calendar.
“We have seven weeks.” I draw a red star on the project’s May due date. “So let’s break that down by week, and then give ourselves a week to finalize, and—”
“Are you for real?” He pulls my planner away. I try to snatch it back, but he’s already thumbing through it. My heart starts beating toward panic again. My list of crazy is in there.
It takes all of two seconds for my heart rate to skyrocket.
Do not freak out again.
Do not freak out again.
“Please give it back,” I say.
He puts his hand over his mouth and shakes his head.
“This is the most anal-retentive thing I’ve ever seen. And yet, I can’t look away.”
I grab the book, shove it into my backpack, and zip the pack tight.
“Look, you don’t have to get me. I don’t have to get why you’re wearing monkey socks and sunglasses indoors. We don’t even have to actually work together. Why don’t you just worry about the art and I’ll worry about the writing. We’ll get together in a few weeks and find some way to put them together. Deal?”
He smiles again, his eyebrow shooting up. “Is that another rule?”
“Is that another question?”
He leans back again, arms folded, like he’s trying to figure something out. Thankfully, mercifully, the bell rings and he tips his charcoal piece to his forehead. “See ya around, partner. Let me know if you need help.”
“I don’t need help.”
And you’d be the last person I’d ask, anyway.
Damon and a group of guys flank both sides of the doorway so that Micah has to pass right through them. They make monkey noises as he does and knock his backpack off.
“Watch your back, Manic Micah,” Damon says.
In one day, he’s already got a reputation, a nickname, and an enemy in the biggest douche-nozzle at Ridgeline High.
If anyone needs help, it’s that kid.
This place is going to eat him alive.
Ridgeline Underground
354 likes
Heads up: Micah Mendez is dangerous. He basically attacked Damon today and I heard he went full psycho on a kid at his last school. Like stomped him into the ground. Anyway, don’t let his dumbass socks fool you.
45 comments
I believe it. Kid’s weird and trying WAY too hard.
I like his socks!
Bets on how long until he offs himself?
20 bucks says he can’t even do that right
