I'm Scared of Heights | ONC 2023 ✔️

8) Why Bring the Rain

Winn

The clock reads 3:00 a.m.

If I were brighter, I would flop over and tuck the comforter over my head, but doing so ignores why I stirred.

Nightly, like some ritual, I wake with the same numbing tingle in my leg. Dr. Thomas tells me that the ache will eventually retire with the new treatment. Flinching, my brain registers the child kicking my leg. The said child screams a million reasons why the treatment isn't working, making me want to call my doctor to confirm the validity of the new medicine again. It's the middle of the night. Don't be a bother to anyone.... not Natalie or doc.

Clutching my left leg, I grit my teeth, massaging the area, daring to rid myself of the delinquent child. I hobble to the bathroom, supporting my weight against the beige walls, something I would never do in public. The bathroom light momentarily blinds me, doing nothing to improve my pre-existing headache.

At least I'm not throwing up.

I splash three handfuls of water over my face, which successfully awakens the sharper business-oriented part of my brain. To continue the morning ritual, I fish my business phone from the guest room desk, plopping it onto the bathroom counter while I brush my teeth.

Nothing.

The satisfaction of finishing a gigantic task dissolves instantly, transforming into a mushy abstract. With nothing to do, I flick the guest room light on. The bulb illuminates my stack of books towering over the desk and the dirty laundry piled in my hamper. In the corner, my guitar rests, begging to be played again like the selfish character it is. I oblige, grabbing the instrument along with my green binder labeled BRAINSTORM.

Flipping to the last page in the binder, I note my recent obsession with the pentatonic scale. So, like any loopy musician, I pick the scale in each key that graces my conscious. The practice and rhythmic tune warm my fingers and distract a minuscule section of my brain. In a dazed continuation, I scribble a string of tabs dedicated to the scale. Eventually, the runs become something unharnessed by my brain tentacles or guided by some pre-existing notion. A new song cloud floats through my noodle-infested head, landing in an unorganized series of clumps within my binder.

When my digits cease, a dull ache strikes like a wrong note. The misplayed piece jars my insides and sends a wave of discomfort across the space of my mind. The devious child bashes the keyboard thrice more, causing me to double over and clasp the abused area. There's no evading the little devil.

The clock reads 7:01 a.m.

The time I usually leave for school. What if I skip today? Maybe go to the park next to the library until my shift at Fizzy's? I shake my head in the mirror, grabbing the makeup primer. I can't skip. First, I have to tutor juniors in physics this morning and then math this evening. If I don't help, particularly the juniors, no one will.

My feet plod against the hardwood floor as I shuffle past my old room, pulling a blue flannel over my shoulders. In a trance, I grab a granola bar and a banana, driving one-handed to school. Which probably isn't a brilliant idea. Who am I kidding? It's a terrible idea, like Friday when I stuck my head out the window. But here I am, pulling into the student parking lot, placing my tag in the window, and downing the two pills.

I'm plummeting myself into a sea of normalcy.

Honestly, it's much easier this way.

Forgetting about the child kicking my leg and the throbbing in my head when peer tutoring or connecting people through Scramble is painless. Instead of my brain insinuating itself into a dark and shadow-filled future, I'm rounding out with the light of people, even if they can't remember my name or our only relation is through tutoring. I'd rather not dwell on bleak thoughts or heinous interactions, especially not the ones I care about, but words don't dissipate. Words never go away, even if a speckle of light peeps through the creaks in a wall. After all, light is everywhere. People are everywhere. Even the most socially unacceptable light of the word.

There is always light. Always. Even in the most twisted people.

Sometimes, you have to take the lid off the candle.

It only takes a few seconds to change someone's day. Why bring the rain?

The clock reads 2:19 p.m.

Idly, I toss my green pen, arriving in my AP Lit class with the clique inside a clique of academics. The tallest of us, and the history buff of the group, muttering something about the alliances in World War One.

The final bell sounds, and a stout woman with graying hair, strolls into the room. There's a gigantic contrast between this woman and Ms. Stevens, our teacher fresh out of college and the subject of multiple conversations I would plug a kid's ears for.

The older woman plants herself ahead of the projector, her smile wrinkling her forehead. "Boy, am I ready to get out of here!" The woman chuckles while drawing her shawl closer. "I'm goin' to call role, so y'all better listen up."

While Mrs. Cadwell, as the whiteboard reads, rounds off the list, managing to soar over the letters "a" through "d" in twenty-two minutes, I squirm in anticipation. The seconds fill with Mrs. Cadwell's insightful proclamation of who may be related to whose grandmother, grandfather, or some oddball cousin. She's right each time, living up to the rumors, which makes me figuratively bite my nails. Snap.

"Winslow Elsher," Mrs. Cadwell calls.

"Present." I hoist my hand in the air like a white flag. All the while cringing at my given name and hoping she won't recognize my name from a batty source.

Like the guy next to me, realization sparks in her eyes upon uttering my last name. "Do you happen to be related to Polly Tabet? If I recall correctly, her daughter married an Elsher."

"Yeah, she was my grandmother," I reply, tugging at my sleeve. With a gulp, I dare to look the woman in the eye. My classmates view the scene curiously, some snacking on double chocolate granola bars leftover from school breakfast. I doubt some of them knew my real first name...

Mrs. Cadwell's eyes glow in glee with the discovery. "Oh, my! Such a small town! Say, how's Polly fairin'? Last I heard, the poor dear had cancer. Your mother must be busy as a bee taking care of her! I hope she's okay."

She doesn't know. Everyone here knows except her.

Physically, I can't force myself to breathe. There's a moment where I'm in space between the present and a replay of the past. It's like Mrs. Cadwell has knocked the wind from my lungs. The act should be impossible with words, but the sensation doesn't exit the arena. If anything, the invading force shouts a warcry. My mouth dries as my eyes pass over the room. Some jaws drop, others glare, and many sigh in dismay at Mrs. Cadwell's phrase. They pity me. It's a hard pill to swallow. Oh great, that's literal and figurative.

How do I answer that? There isn't a good answer.

My heart beats in my ears, pacing the race of my mind. "They both passed." I seal my eyes shut and relay the rest of my county-wide not-new news, "They passed away seven years ago of cancer."

"I'm so, so sorry to hear that." The woman's voice is distant. One thing is for sure, like almost anyone else, she's thinking of how "terrible" my life must be and is staring at me with downturned lips and softened eyes.

The clock reads 2:55 p.m.

As scheduled, fifteen stacks of binders crash to the floor, rounding out the school day and burying my conscious mind.

At least Mrs. Cadwell didn't mention Dad.

If I have learned anything from Natalie, unsaid things don't mean they're unthought things.