blink them away quickly. Breathe deep.
When Emerson lets go, she helps me into a chair. Then she makes me a toasted bagel with butter, my favorite. I try to eat it. I take one bite. Chew slowly, willing the nausea to calm down. I try to swallow, but the bread claws at my throat. Almost chokes me. I grab the glass of milk Emerson has just poured. And I drink the entire glass. I look up to see Emerson watching me. She stands and heads to the fridge. Comes back with vanilla yogurt instead. I take the spoon she offers, dip it into the shiny, whitish mass in the cup. The yogurt slides down my throat. Soothing it. Cooling it. I nod. Then I smile. “Much better.”
Emerson grins and munches her bagel. We eat together. It feels peaceful. Normal.
After breakfast, I make my way back to my room. I am less nauseated now but still gripping the wall. But better, definitely better. I lie down on my bed. Close my eyes. Breathe.
I can get through this, I tell myself. I know I can.
Mom comes in to check on me. She writes a note to say that she has to take Emerson to school and then she is working at home so she can keep an eye on me. I nod and smile, pretending to feel much better than I really do. Mom kisses the top of my head.
I close my eyes, will my body to rest. To heal. So I can get back to normal. This time, I don’t dream of Hayden. I dream of bees flying into my ears, blocking them. I try to swat them away, but they keep coming until I can no longer hear anything but their buzzing. Then the bees swarm my throat, choking me. Stinging me. They make my throat swell up. I can no longer speak. Or sing. My head is filled with buzzing. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.
When I wake up, it’s afternoon. The clock on my bedside table reads 3:30 . I can still hear the bees in my ears. Feel them in my throat. I am disoriented. Confused. My head aches. The phone glows in the shadowed room, daring me to touch it. I am treading water in this sea of darkness, but a teeny tiny part of me fights for survival. For the light of hope. That part reaches for the phone. For a connection to the world outside.
I click to read the text messages. The first one is from my mom.
Just wanted to tell you how much I love you. I am so proud of you.
Not much to be proud of. But I save it anyway. The next is from Lily.
Stella, I’m so sorry. I would do anything to change what happened. If you need anything, please let me know. You’re my BFF.
Another is from Kace.
I hope you get better soon. Drama isn’t the same without you.
Then there are messages from people I don’t even know. They say Feel better soon! and We miss you! They’re like Hallmark texts. Lots of happy faces and exclamation points. I wonder if Emerson passed out my phone number on flyers.
My dad has sent me one as well.
Hope the surgery went well. See you later today. Love you.
A couple more from Mom checking on me from the car when she’s gone dropping Emerson off and then later, picking her up from school.
I come to the last one.
How are you?
It’s from Hayden.
I don’t know how long I sit staring at the message.
Then I answer. Better. I’m going to be ok. I don’t hit send though. To anyone else—to Lily, Kace, Emerson, even to my mom—this is my response. But for some reason I can’t begin to understand, I don’t want to pretend with Hayden.
I erase the message. I type a different answer. An honest one.
Afraid.
Afraid of not being brave enough. Afraid of losing hope. Afraid of never hearing again. Afraid of life without Someday Broadway. Just afraid.
Send .
I stare at the phone. As though anyone would actually respond to that message. I want to call it back, erase it.
But it’s too late.
I sigh and leave the phone on my bedside table.
In the bathroom, I leave the light off while I brush my teeth. Better not to see myself in the mirror. If I don’t remind myself of what happened, I can keep living inside this bubble of silence.
I climb back into
When Emerson lets go, she helps me into a chair. Then she makes me a toasted bagel with butter, my favorite. I try to eat it. I take one bite. Chew slowly, willing the nausea to calm down. I try to swallow, but the bread claws at my throat. Almost chokes me. I grab the glass of milk Emerson has just poured. And I drink the entire glass. I look up to see Emerson watching me. She stands and heads to the fridge. Comes back with vanilla yogurt instead. I take the spoon she offers, dip it into the shiny, whitish mass in the cup. The yogurt slides down my throat. Soothing it. Cooling it. I nod. Then I smile. “Much better.”
Emerson grins and munches her bagel. We eat together. It feels peaceful. Normal.
After breakfast, I make my way back to my room. I am less nauseated now but still gripping the wall. But better, definitely better. I lie down on my bed. Close my eyes. Breathe.
I can get through this, I tell myself. I know I can.
Mom comes in to check on me. She writes a note to say that she has to take Emerson to school and then she is working at home so she can keep an eye on me. I nod and smile, pretending to feel much better than I really do. Mom kisses the top of my head.
I close my eyes, will my body to rest. To heal. So I can get back to normal. This time, I don’t dream of Hayden. I dream of bees flying into my ears, blocking them. I try to swat them away, but they keep coming until I can no longer hear anything but their buzzing. Then the bees swarm my throat, choking me. Stinging me. They make my throat swell up. I can no longer speak. Or sing. My head is filled with buzzing. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.
When I wake up, it’s afternoon. The clock on my bedside table reads 3:30 . I can still hear the bees in my ears. Feel them in my throat. I am disoriented. Confused. My head aches. The phone glows in the shadowed room, daring me to touch it. I am treading water in this sea of darkness, but a teeny tiny part of me fights for survival. For the light of hope. That part reaches for the phone. For a connection to the world outside.
I click to read the text messages. The first one is from my mom.
Just wanted to tell you how much I love you. I am so proud of you.
Not much to be proud of. But I save it anyway. The next is from Lily.
Stella, I’m so sorry. I would do anything to change what happened. If you need anything, please let me know. You’re my BFF.
Another is from Kace.
I hope you get better soon. Drama isn’t the same without you.
Then there are messages from people I don’t even know. They say Feel better soon! and We miss you! They’re like Hallmark texts. Lots of happy faces and exclamation points. I wonder if Emerson passed out my phone number on flyers.
My dad has sent me one as well.
Hope the surgery went well. See you later today. Love you.
A couple more from Mom checking on me from the car when she’s gone dropping Emerson off and then later, picking her up from school.
I come to the last one.
How are you?
It’s from Hayden.
I don’t know how long I sit staring at the message.
Then I answer. Better. I’m going to be ok. I don’t hit send though. To anyone else—to Lily, Kace, Emerson, even to my mom—this is my response. But for some reason I can’t begin to understand, I don’t want to pretend with Hayden.
I erase the message. I type a different answer. An honest one.
Afraid.
Afraid of not being brave enough. Afraid of losing hope. Afraid of never hearing again. Afraid of life without Someday Broadway. Just afraid.
Send .
I stare at the phone. As though anyone would actually respond to that message. I want to call it back, erase it.
But it’s too late.
I sigh and leave the phone on my bedside table.
In the bathroom, I leave the light off while I brush my teeth. Better not to see myself in the mirror. If I don’t remind myself of what happened, I can keep living inside this bubble of silence.
I climb back into
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