The Moments

Chapter Nine

JORDAN WILLS

Talking to her is like coming up for air after being held underwater for all too long. The burning in my chest from lack of oxygen fades to this incredible buzz of excitement. I am talking to a girl who is destined to die, but she makes me feel alive. I'm on cloud 9.

I write her number in pen on my forearm, trying not to shake as I scribble down the numbers. I give her one last parting smile, a very genuine one, then I head off to my appointment. If I don't show up, Dr. Moore will call my mom and then even if I get my phone fixed, I'll be grounded from it forever. I realize that for the first time in my life, I have a use for the thing.

As I walk to her room, I move with undeniable confidence. A strange sense of purpose with every step. After my little episode the other night, I've felt not good. That's the only way I know to describe it. Dark, maybe. Just unhappy. With no way to clear my head, all I could do was drown in it.

Then I spoke with her.

Madelyn Sheen. No, I do not know her. I know so little about her, but for a moment, she was an escape. For a gracious moment, I wasn't thinking of getting away from here, abandoning this, I was thinking of getting to know this person. That was wonderful. I wish I could feel that way forever, but the closer I get to Dr. Moore's office, the more that energy drains from me.

By the time I get to her door, I am still beaming, but there is an underlying dismay. I knock gently and the door swings open before I can put my arm back to my side. She is standing there, tall, confident, plain. I smile at her too because I feel like she might need it. She returns the smile but hers is all Botox and fake joy.

Once the typical greetings are out of the way, she sits down and shuffles through her files. She moves with such efficiency, she never pauses, never has to look for things or think of what to do next. Her slender fingers wrap around my file and she flips it open in front of her. I see her skim it, but I can't imagine there's much in there.

"Anything you'd like to talk about today?" she asks and I get déjà vu.

"Yes," I declare. "Yes, there is something I'd like to talk about." I didn't know I was going to say that, but as the words leave my mouth, it feels appropriate.

She looks briefly shocked, but immediately masks her surprise. I don't think she wants me to know that she is confused by the way I think. It's fun being a Rubik's cube for somebody else to solve. It's fun to watch them try.

"What is it you'd like to discuss?"

"A girl. A girl I have developed a connection with based off absolutely nothing." Now I'm saying things I know sound crazy just to bother her.

She writes something down. I can hear the pen scratching against the paper. It reminds me of the deposit of ink as it is put down in messy handwriting when I write songs. I suddenly have the urge to be plucking a guitar. A melody pops into my head.

"Tell me more about this girl. How did you meet?"

The melody is slow at first, I can almost feel myself humming it. The steady vibration of perfect pitch against my lips. I like this song playing in my head. I'm surprised that it's unwritten. I feel myself respond to Dr. Moore, but I have no idea what I say because this catchy ass tune is playing in my head, much louder than our conversation.

"Often when we meet somebody in a moment of vulnerability we feel as though a connection has formed even if it's not real. Are you sure this isn't just the illusion of a connection. Maybe more of an emotional attachment?"

Now lyrics are popping up, a beat, a rhythm. I start tapping my foot and patting my knee. I'm trying to imagine a chorus, I am still speaking to Dr. Moore, but it's as though I am one person split in half. In my head, I am making music. Making art. In the real world I am making small talk. Making boring, unbearable, awful conversation.