19
CONFESSION
We parkin the McDonald’s parking lot. My phone vibrates, but this time, the messages aren’t text messages. Long and drawn-out vibrations show someone is trying to call me continuously.
It’s Andy. No one else is that persistent, and if it were Dad, he would call my friends rather than me.
A sickness churns inside me at eating so much food in a day. It’s a fresh experience. I should have stopped at the popcorn. Everything after that was overindulgent.
I tip my head back and let the cool air-con ease the throbbing in my temples as it chills my heated skin.
“Do you need Panadol or something?” Conner asks.
“I just need a minute,” I answer. “Maybe water.”
The door closes. I turn down the music because it’s overstimulating me. When I do, the vibration of my phone buzzes in the front pocket of my school bag. And I know the loud, irritable sound won’t stop until I reply to Andy.
Sooner rather than later.
Rubbing my eyes with my palms, I groan at the thought. Andy is my best friend, yet I’ve never felt as distant from him as I’m feeling right now.
The car door opens, and a rush of heat flushes my face. With it, my throat tightens, and the thought of vomiting draws nearer until Conner shuts the door and hands me the bottle of water. It’s as if I’m swallowing the sensation of throwing until the sickness settles in my stomach.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Conner’s eyes drop at the sound of my phone vibrating, and his eyes narrow before he looks away.
“I will talk to him sometime tonight. I don’t want to go to school worried about where we stand,” I say.
“If he becomes a problem, hang out with my group tomorrow.”
Conner has two groups of friends, and from memory, it seems he hangs around the other popular teenagers in his year—and some from my year hang with him, too.
The thought of appearing before them—a girl who doesn’t belong—causes me to cast my focus down, my hands tightening against the tights.
I grimace.
I’ve already created a fuss and drawn unnecessary attention by coming to school with Conner. Intruding into his group is the last thing I want to do—ever.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I say, even if I doubt my words.
“I hope,” Conner murmurs. He leans forward and turns the volume of the song up a notch. We then sit and talk in the McDonald’s parking lot for hours over trivial, random subjects. I learn a lot more about Conner and smile as he speaks about his family, but the bitterness can’t help but rise to the surface.
I tell him I have a wild imagination, and when I was younger, I played dress-up. I told him I wanted to be a knight and go on adventures with my stallion, Farin.
Then, we listen to Conner’s playlist. He explains the lyrics to certain songs in depth, and I do the same when an Imagine Dragons song plays. Our conversations are fluent. It is as if I can talk to him for hours and not grow bored or feel like I’m boring him.
He hangs onto every word, asks follow-up questions, and wants to know more about everything.
With every breath, my throat grows raspy and strained. It has been a while since I’ve spoken this much. I can’t recall a conversation where I don’t feel the silence or where what I say doesn’t matter.
When I spoke to Andy, he seemed as if he cared—even understood. But as soon as I answered, he never followed up. Instead, he went back to speaking about himself.
I was fine with it, but sometimes it seemed like a sucker punch when he talked about how he didn’t get a wink of sleep, but knew well that I was afraid to sleep.
But with Conner, I feel as if what I’m saying sinks in.
He remembered I said I didn’t like violence and had done everything in his power not to, while Andy knew my life but couldn’t think hard enough about why I flinched whenever he grabbed me or didn’t like the thought of anyone around me fighting.