Every Day

So Kelsea remains silent the whole drive. From her father’s response to this silence, I can imagine this is how their mornings always go.

Kelsea has email access on her phone, but I’m still worried about anything being traced, especially after my slip-up with Nathan.

So I walk the halls and go to classes, waiting for my chance. I have to push harder to get Kelsea through the day. Any time I let it, the weight of living creeps in and starts to drag her down. It would be too easy to say that I feel invisible. Instead, I feel painfully visible, and entirely ignored. People talk to her, but it feels like they are outside a house, talking through the walls. There are friends, but they are people to spend time with, not people to share time with. There’s a false beast that takes the form of instinct and harps on the pointlessness of everything that happens.

The only person who tries to engage me is Kelsea’s lab partner, Lena. We’re in physics class, and the assignment is to set up a pulley system. I’ve done this before, so it doesn’t strike me as hard. Lena, however, is surprised by Kelsea’s involvement. I realize I’ve overstepped—this is not the kind of thing Kelsea would get excited about. But Lena doesn’t let me back down. When I try to mumble apologies and step away, she insists I keep going.

“You’re good at this,” she says. “Much better than I am.”

While I arrange things, adjusting inclines and accounting for various forms of friction, Lena talks to me about a dance that’s coming up, asks me if I have any weekend plans, and tells me she might be going to DC with her parents. She seems hypersensitive to my reaction, and I’m guessing the conversation usually gets shut down long before this point. But I let her talk, let her voice counter the unspoken, insistent ones that emanate from my broken mind.

Then the period is over, and we go our separate ways. I don’t see her again for the rest of the day.

I spend lunchtime in the library at the computer. I don’t imagine anyone at lunch will miss me—but maybe that’s just what Kelsea would think. Part of growing up is making sure your sense of reality isn’t entirely grounded in your own mind; I feel Kelsea’s mind isn’t letting her get anywhere near that point, and I wonder how much of my own thoughts are getting stuck there as well.

Logging into my own email is a nice jolt to remind me that I am in fact me, not Kelsea. Even better, there is word from Rhiannon—the sight of which cheers me up, until I read what the email says.

A,

So, who are you today?

What a strange question to ask. But I guess it makes sense. If any of this makes sense.

Yesterday was a hard day. Justin’s grandmother is sick, but instead of admitting he’s upset about it, he just lashes out at the world more. I’m trying to help him, but it’s hard.

I don’t know if you want to hear this or not. I know how you feel about Justin. If you want me to keep that part of my life hidden from you, I can. But I don’t think that’s what you want.

Tell me how your day is going.

Rhiannon

I reply and tell her a little about what Kelsea is up against. Then I end with this:

I want you to be honest with me. Even if it hurts. Although I would prefer for it not to hurt.

Love,

A

Next, I switch accounts and find a reply from Nathan.

I know I haven’t made a mistake. I know what you are. And I will find out who you are. The reverend says he is working on that.

You want me to doubt myself. But I am not the only one. You will see.

Confess now, before we find you.

I stare at the screen for a minute, trying to reconcile the tone of this email with the Nathan I knew for a day. It feels like two very different people. I wonder if it’s possible that someone else has taken over Nathan’s account. I wonder who “the reverend” is.

The bell rings, marking the end of the lunch period. I return to class and the black cloud takes hold. I find it hard to concentrate on what’s being said. I find it hard to see how any of this is important. Nothing I’m being taught here will make life less painful. None of the people in this room will make life less painful. I attack my cuticles with merciless precision. It is the only sensation that feels genuine.

Kelsea’s father is not going to pick her up after school; he’s still at work. Instead, she walks home, in order to avoid the bus. I am tempted to break this pattern, but it’s been so long since she’s ridden the bus that she has no memory of which bus is hers. So I start to walk.

Again, I find myself wishing for the mundane possibility of calling Rhiannon on the phone, for filling the next empty hour with the sound of her voice.