Chapter 17

  Gravity

  Why won’t my hand stop shaking. I can’t get the key in the door. The lock clicks from the other side and the door opens just enough for my moms eye to peer through. After a second it swings open the rest of the way.

  “Did you forget how locks work? You were scratching at the knob for so long I thought you were the world's worst crook or the world's smartest raccoon.” My mom says with a sigh of relief.

  I try to keep my rexed apathetic aura that I’m so good at having when the pink demon isn’t with me. But there’s no point, I’m literally shaking in my boots. Mom’s intuition picks up on it immediately. Daughter's intuition picks up on moms and now I’m in a Mexican standoff.

  “Must’ve had too much coffee at work. Sorry, hazards of the job.” I say in a voice so smooth it surprises even me.

  “I told you to y off the caffeine, you’re gonna have a heart att-“

  Moms eyes pin to the right of me. I follow her gaze to Casey. No, not Casey. Her god damn name tag. My heart drops to my knees and I think my brain reboots. I look back to moms face and see the most unreadable expression I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s as if her face were suddenly made of surprised stone rather than the warm boredom I’m used to.

  “So you’re Casey. The girl I’ve heard so little about. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  My heart won’t slow down

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Brooke’s mom.” Casey offers her hand to my mother with a grin that could melt the icecaps.

  “So polite too. I thought all girls these days forgot how to talk to parents.” She eyes me pointedly “come on in, I just finished dinner so your timing couldn’t be better!”

  Casey and I stand on the front porch and watch my mom power walk to the kitchen, she looks more excited than I’ve seen her in a long time.

  “Shoes off at the door if you don’t mind, Casey. You can use my skull slippers if you don’t mind it cshing with your…” I gesture vaguely to her clothes that look like they belong in a bounce house rather than on a person.

  My hands are too sweaty

  Casey kicks off her shoes and slips into my slippers before dropping her bag and shuffling after my mom into the kitchen. My boots take a little more effort to take off. I listen intently for any sounds of murder or offensive nguage.

  I drag myself to the kitchen with my hands hidden in my pockets.

  Do not start picking at your fucking nails.

  The first thing I see when I turn the corner is Casey setting the table. The second thing I see is my mom pulling a casserole out of the oven. The air fills with the smell of toasted breadcrumbs and garlic. For just a moment a sense of calm washes over me and I rex as I lean onto the kitchen isnd. This is nice.

  There’s a comfortably warm buzz in my head, nothing is exploding. Nobody is screaming accusations.

  “Brooke, did you end up finishing this?” Casey asks in an excited tone

  My eyes flick over to Casey. She holds in her hand a copy of Gearbreakers. My copy of Gearbreakers.

  “Oh, yes Brooke, I found that in your bedside table. It was stuffed into an old Bible dust cover. It’s a pretty cute read. It’s a little too graphic for me though.” My mom says from behind me

  The way she so casually mentions invading my space, piercing my shield. I can’t tell if she’s upset. I can’t tell if she’s really talking right now. Am I talking right now?

  An unfamiliar feeling rises in my chest as the room shifts. I can’t breathe. It’s too hot. I need air. My feet move before I get a chance to process anything and I step through the back door and into the back yard. Cicadas sing in the distance their deafening song.

  I can’t feel my hands.

  My hands pat their way into my hoodie pocket, missing the opening for a moment. I bring a cigarette to my lips and pat around for my lighter as the back yard sways. The cicadas fade into an eerie squeal.

  The world tilts a little further to the right while my thumb sps against the striker. Then further to the left. Then further to the right. My vision tunnels and my head crashes into the grass.

  Tara’s grandmother. Glue. Be. Casey. Mom knows. Casey. Tara. Manager. Door open. Better. Get Felix. Tara’s grandmother. Don’t leave. Mom. Be better. Casey. Help.

  My head buzzes and a muted fear drips down my body. Shouting from miles away fills my ears as blurred figures look down at me. Hands paw at a body that isn’t mine.

  Static fades and a sharp metallic taste fills my mouth like I just ran a mile. My vision steadies onto Casey’s crying face above me. I reach a hand up and stroke a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a streak of tears.

  “What’s wrong, bug?” I ask her, my voice sounds foreign and far away.

  Her expression twists into a mix of surprise and a sweet shyness. My hands calm a little against her cheek either from the look on her face or my body working through the crash.

  My mom comes into view and my senses come crashing back to me all at once.

  “Casey doll, you’re doing good. Just keep breathing, she’s fine, she just had a panic attack.” My moms words enter my mind as she presses a bag of ice under my shirt. “Are you back with us, Brooklyn?”

  Casey’s sobs crify and pierce my heart like a dagger. I keep my hand on her cheek as my marbles straighten themselves out. Humidity and itchy grass cling to my exposed neck and hair like industrial adhesives.

  “Don’t try to sit up yet. Just take a minute, Brooklyn.”

  “Okay nurse.”

  “How’s your head feeling?”

  “Like it’s made of bees. What’d you cook for dinner? It smelled really good.”

  My mom and Casey both smile down at me, tension leaves the air- although it’s hard to tell if I’m just out of it at this point.

  Casey wipes her eyes and mouth, her smile wavers slightly and I poke her leg as she continues to stare down at me like I’m dying.

  The sight of Casey in such a state makes my head feel like it’s going to explode. I made her cry again.

  “Calm down would ya? I tripped, it happens.” I say softly to Casey

  “You didn’t trip. You had a panic attack. I told you to cut down on the caffeine-“ my mom interjects before taking a deep breath and counts backwards under her breath.

  “Can I get up now? That ice is too cold and the yard is itchy and I think I’m ying on a stick or something.”

  Mom withdraws the ice bag and gives me room to sit up. The world weaves and wobbles as I regain a bit of verticality, it feels like my heart stayed in the grass when I sat up.

  “I feel like I’m still ying down.”

  “That’s dissociation, because you had a panic attack” my mom says like an insult beside me while supporting my back. Her bedside manner could use some work.

  “I said that out loud?”

  “No. I can read your mind.” She says sarcastically

  I grumble to myself and push off the grass onto my knees. Casey wipes my back off, swatting away grass and dirt. They both grip my arms, moms fingers dig deeper than Casey’s, and help me back to my feet.

  My legs fight against me rather than with me, like two noobs in the voltron. Nausea swallows my thoughts as we approach the door. Don’t puke. Please don’t puke. The metallic taste is repced by the taste of paper and tobacco.

  “Did I swallow my cigarette?” I mumble in a direction vaguely towards my mom

  “No. Well, maybe. You nded on your face.”

  The toe of my boot catches on the edge of the concrete patio and I have to put my weight on the warm pilrs keeping me up. Work you stupid legs. Work.

  I can already smell the garlic a few feet from the entryway. Humidity and anxious energy seem to blow away with the cool air conditioning flowing through the door as they bring me past the threshold. Exhaustion takes its pce.

  The cool air feels amazing for only a second before it seems to highlight the spots of intense itching from the grass. The back of my neck, my ears, my face and the flesh exposed by the fashionably torn windows in my jeans itch like hell.

  The smell of casserole perks me up a little bit. A chair scrapes against the tile floor and one of them guides me into it, likely my mom judging by the roughness of it. My eyes nd back on the book and then Casey.

  “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Casey says as she pulls out a chair next to me.

  She scoots her chair closer, as if I was going to run away from her or fall to the ground again. I shake my head and lean on the dining table as my mom gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  “Are you feeling okay to eat or would you rather y down for a bit?” Mom takes a hesitant step back toward the kitchen “you haven’t had a panic attack in years, is everything okay? We don’t have to talk about it right now, just… take it easy.” Her eyes don’t leave me as she brings the casserole dish to the table and sets it down in the middle.

  Mom moves the novel to make room for a water pitcher, she ys it uncaringly on the counter before joining Casey and I at the table.

  “You girls don’t have to wait for me, dig in. Brooke, please just eat slowly, but do eat. You need the salt after that.”

  I nod and reach a hand out to scoop some casserole. My hand trembles against the rge spoon as if it were Mjolner, heavy and immovable, unworthy. I retract my hand and pce it in my p, just to wait a moment for a little more strength to come back.

  Casey leans forward and with the confidence of a lion she scoops out a portion of the mixture and dumps it into my pte with a wet sp without a second thought before doing the same for herself. Heat rises to my cheeks. I hope it’s not visible but I know it is. Casey’s proximity warms my arm as she scoots a hair closer as she sits back down.

  Asparagus, peas, carrots, cream of mushroom base, shredded chicken. I examine the casserole, hoping for any distraction from this disaster of an evening.

  “So, Casey, how did you meet my Brooklyn?” The question rings out like a dueling gunshot at high noon