But then, something changes in the air and, for no apparent reason, I become overwhelmed with anxiety.

I’m anxious at the idea of talking to her. Anxious at the idea of talking to anyone.

What if she starts asking questions about why I am here and what I am doing and why I am all alone?

No, no, I can’t.

I can’t talk to her.

The room seems smaller, shrinking somehow, and suddenly I am terrified of any interaction whatsoever.

I won’t be able to explain myself.

She’ll judge me.

She’ll know.

As if by a kind of catapult, I shoot myself out, in one fell swoop, out of the café and into the street. I don’t look behind me, for fear she might say something to bring me back.

No, I can’t talk now.

I can’t do any of that yet.

I look down at the sidewalk as the few townsfolk walking around come by. No, don’t talk to me. Don’t make eye contact. Leave me alone.

It’s a strange sort of thing to describe, this sudden fear. It started to happen after—

It started to happen after the thing that cannot be said.

There is no understanding of it and no history of it.

There is only one certainty to it.

It’s crippling.

I had the idea that I would go into the little used bookstore in town, but now that seems impossible. A ludicrous idea! Then I will be begging for a conversation.

No.

No, not that.

Best to just turn around and go straight back home.

There, I’ll be safe.

Chapter 15

Halfway back to the house, the memory keeps trying to claw its way out of its little box in my head. But I won’t let it. And this time I have a strategy. I’ll take out just the part I like, like a scientist examining a specimen. A good part. I’ll start with that. Then I’ll put it back down on the shelf before the bad part. A selective memory. A spotlight shone on just one teeny-tiny instance.

And this is the part I choose:

It’s sophomore year at Lincoln Southeast High. The two middle schools, Irving and Pound, have coalesced into one school, this high school. Everyone is still trying to find their footing. How do I fit in here? Who am I? Am I a loser? Am I one of the cool kids? Are they the cool kids? Wait, if they are the cool kids, what does that make me?

You get the picture.

I was in a precarious position. Even though I had come from a slightly normal, not horrible echelon at Pound Junior High . . . Irving was considered the cooler school. By default, they would be the cooler kids. And we unfortunate Pound kids? Well, we could only hope. Maybe, just maybe one of the Irving kids would “choose” us. Maybe they would lift us up out of the depths of mediocrity. Maybe . . . but it was a long shot.