The Book at the Top of the Closet

Chapter Thirty-Two

I shove the book back in my bag, tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. The way Aria wrote about walking away, about maybe not coming back... it sounded like she might be suicidal. I'm afraid to read more, to read the way she felt. More than anything, I'm afraid that if I keep reading, I'll find the last thing she ever wrote. Suddenly it feels very wrong to have this journal. No matter how much I've thought about where Aria is now, I don't think it had fully sunk in that this isn't just a book. It's a real person's thoughts, and she might not even be alive anymore.

With nothing else to do while I wait, I pull out my notes and try to focus on the test I'm about to take. My mind won't grasp the words on the page, though, and I can barely concentrate well enough to even remember what the exam is over. By the time the door opens and I find a seat in the classroom, I'm relieved to be forced to focus on something other than my own worries. Still, my hand shakes as I hold my pencil, staring down at the exam and trying to make sense of it.

I fight my way through the test, struggling to keep my focus. Every few minutes I get distracted again by the thought of the journal in my backpack and what terrible things it might say. Irrationally, I have this urge to pull it out and keep reading. Some part of me is compelled to find out for certain what happened to Aria. As if my own curiosity can only be satisfied by bearing witness to whatever the journal contains.

These thoughts will plague me for a while, and I'll find myself almost reaching for my backpack before I wrest my thoughts back to the exam in front of me. I barely finish the test in the allotted time, and I'm the last one to leave the classroom. The knots in my stomach tighten as I leave, partially because I'm worried I didn't do well on the test, and partially because without any more tests to study for, there is nothing to distract me from Aria's journal.

#

Back at my room, I text Veronica and ask if she can come over for just a few minutes. When she arrives, I'm halfway done packing up my stuff. Veronica steps over a box and grabs me around the waist, squeezing me into a tight hug.

"What was that for?" I ask.

"Looked like you needed it." She gives me another good squeeze and steps back. "Well, we survived the semester. Why do you still look so stressed?"

"I think maybe Aria killed herself. And I don't want to know for sure because right now I can hope she didn't but if I find out more or find like her last words or something... I know this sounds stupid but it's like knowing it for sure will make it more real." I look up, meeting her eyes, and she scrunches her face at me, concerned.

"Maybe we should read it together. What if we-" Veronica stops when she sees the look on my face.

"No. I can't read it, I don't want to know anymore. Just take the journal, get rid of it I don't want to look at it ever again." My heart jumps in my chest, and I feel like I'm going to throw up if I don't get rid of the book right now.

"Okay, calm down babe, take a deep breath."

"I'll calm down when the book is gone."

"Alright fine, give it here." Veronica holds out her hand and I give her the book. She starts flipping through it, but I guess my distress is palpable, because she closes it again and shoves it into her book bag.

"Sorry for calling you over here just for that, I know you probably need to pack too," I say.

"No worries babe. We don't technically have to be out of our rooms until the end of the day tomorrow. Plenty of time to pack and keep you from having a total breakdown." Her voice is light, but I feel a pang of guilt for being such a burden.

"Sorry," I mumble again.

"Oh don't make that face. You know I love you," she says, almost like she's read my mind. I smile, glad to have a friend who makes me feel so much better than normal. Veronica picks up an empty box and starts helping me pack, and for a few moments standing in my room with her, I feel content.

Eventually she heads back to her room, needing to do some packing despite her statement that we still have plenty of time. An hour after she leaves, I get a text from her that feels like a rock bouncing off my guts.

There's something in the journal you have to see. Come over?

I text back immediately:

No. I told you I don't want to know.

She won't let it drop though, and I can't stand arguing, so I turn my phone off and curl into bed with a book I haven't packed yet. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to distract myself enough to stop my anxiety from eating me alive.

Wrapped up in the blanket, I read tales of magic and heroics. For a little while, I let myself daydream about what I will do with magic if I get good enough at it. I imagine a life without worrying about panic attacks happening at the wrong time- maybe even a life without panic attacks at all. I think of the peace and quiet and of properly paying attention in class, and of going on dates without worrying they'll find out I'm not normal. Maybe it's not as glamorous as the magic in the books, but all of that sounds pretty magical to me.