Emmy Levine Saves a Life

Chapter 7

By the end of the school day, the rain is coming down in sheets, soaking the earth thoroughly in a heavenly shower.

My shoes squelch through the mud as I wave to Nolan, bypassing the busses in favor of the parent pick-up loop. My mom's red sedan is there waiting, four cars back. The window is rolled down and I can hear her music from here. I stifle a groan, embarrassed that I'm feeling embarrassed.

I climb in the passenger seat and roll the window up quickly, eying the other students who have turned to see where the music is coming from.

My mom, of course, just rolls down her own window, shooting me a smirk.

"How was school?" She asks, and I purse my lips. I hate when parents ask that. They don't want the truth — it was a major drag and I couldn't wait for it to be over. They want to hear that I got 100% on all my tests or I made a new lifelong friend or I found my life's passion in art class.

So I shrug, earning myself an eye roll. I respond by hitting the volume button, shutting the music off.

"You're grumpy today," Mom says, flipping on her blinker and pulling out of the line. She turns us around the loop, stopping behind a long line of parents waiting to turn onto the main road.

She's not wrong, I am feeling grumpy.

The school day had been pretty average — maybe even above average because Gran packed Nolan a few bucks to buy us cookies at the school store. It doesn't sound like much, but those cookies are unreal.

Plus, Nolan had pretty much dropped the topic of the fire by that point, instead ruminating on an upcoming paper he was anxious about.

I didn't turn anything in late or bomb any quizzes — to my knowledge — but still, I feel weirdly angry, like I want to lash out at anyone who comes near me.

Mom gives me space, opting to hum to herself rather than overtly 'poking the bear,' as she often says. We drive down Main Street like that, in relative silence.

The announcement that cross-country tryouts had been pushed back again came between 4th and 5th periods, and I shot my mom a text letting her know we didn't have to cancel my therapy session.

Ugh, I think. It's not that I don't like therapy, I'm just not in the mood for it. It's not fair that Hope only has to go every other week, but I have to go weekly.

My parents thought that it would be a good idea for me to go more frequently because of my disorganization and social anxiety. Oh, and to help me cope with having a birth defect. They don't say it, but I know that's one of the reasons.

Mom flips the blinker again and turns into the parking lot of the small strip of office buildings where my therapist's office is located. We pass two other therapist's offices and a local dentist's office before pulling into a parking space.

Mom is already pulling out her book when I hop out of the car. I peer back at her and she shoots me a forgiving smile. My stomach clenches with guilt.

I slam the door, but not too hard, and take the steps up to the office.

Inside, a receptionist behind a long curved desk gives me a friendly wave and I nod to her, shuffling past to the waiting room. The room is designed to be as homey and cozy as possible: beanbag chairs, a family movie playing, even a snack table. I lean over and grab a granola bar, my stomach grumbling from the long stretch between lunch and the end of the day.

I bite into it, chewing as quietly as I can. My therapist, Cass, comes a few moments after I finish, ushering out another client with a warm smile. I tuck the wrapper away in my jacket pocket and stand up.