and press my lips back together. “Yes, I’m okay. Margie’s waiting in her car downstairs. I’ll go straight there.”
He holds his hand out and says, “It was very nice meeting you, Lily. How do you feel about coming back next week?”
I watch Dr. Pratchett for a minute. There’s no pity in his eyes, only kindness and concern. I wonder if maybe he can help me stop seeing Hank and hearing the bees. Maybe Dr. Pratchett can help me not go crazy all the way. His office full of leather furniture, the spicy-like-Christmas smell, these help me decide. I guess if I have to see a doctor he’s a pretty good one.
“Okay,” I say and shake his hand.
Dr. Pratchett looks pleased and gives me a card with his number on it, says call him anytime I need to, then shows me a secret door that looks like a wall. It leads out into a hallway doubling back on his front entrance. I guess this is so his crazies don’t run into each other in the waiting room. I wonder if he thinks we’ll compare notes.
I make the turn, zoom past Dr. Pratchett’s office again and get to the elevator. Shiny metal doors distort my too-pale face, twisting it into something not quite right. There are sharp cheekbones where soft fullness was before, my brown-black eyes made bigger by the paleness that surrounds, by the pounds I’ve lost from not eating, not sleeping, keeping watch. My lips are white and pressed tight to keep it all inside—the buzzing and the memory of that night. With all the paleness, with the hollow and nothing left, with Mack and Darcy just around the corner, or the psych ward if I keep seeing not-Hanks, I am nothing but a living ghost.
A bee starts up. Just one. A baby learning to fly, knocking around in my head, letting me know the quiet wants to come. Pretty soon the bee wants to invite friends, to get the buzzing going full blast so I can’t ignore it.
I look at the lit-up number circle above the elevator so I don’t have to see my living ghost face, so I can try not to hear the buzzing. The elevator is stuck on the thirtieth floor when I hear Dr. Pratchett’s office door squeak open down the hall. I step forward fast and flatten my back against the elevator’s cold steel. He wouldn’t hear the bees, but he’d know by my face, tell Margie, say I need to be near people who can look after me better.
The door squeaks closed again and I peek down the hall to make sure. Shut tight. I lean against the elevator again, its chill seeping through Mom’s sweater and into my body.
Six
I’m thinking about taking the stairs when the elevator doors finally open behind me. I stumble backward, sit down hard and lose my breath.
Someone’s laughing and leaning over me. “Are you okay?” he asks.
He’s beautiful and smiles like he doesn’t know there’s ever been anything but happiness in the world. He’s taller than I am and his eyes are green and they’re full to the brim with light and so much life. He’s a good tether, this boy with the dancing eyes, the wide, easy smile. He makes the knocking-around bees go for now.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again as I get back on my clumsy feet. His voice is deep like a man’s, but I think he’s around my age.
“Yes,” I say.
He holds out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Nick Anders.”
His skin is a light cocoa color and reminds me of chocolate chips melted in a pot on the stove. I think his parents must be black and white—Yin and Yang to make a beautiful boy with brown skin and light eyes. His hand is soft and warm and tingly with little sparks I don’t expect. “Like Nick Andros.”
“Who?”
I shake my head. “Fictional character. I’m Lily Berkenshire.”
“Do you live in the building?”
“People live in this building?”
Nick tilts his head. “Yes,” he says. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“Are you visiting someone?”
“I’m visiting a doctor who wants to talk about cats and tin.” I glance away from Nick’s big smile,
He holds his hand out and says, “It was very nice meeting you, Lily. How do you feel about coming back next week?”
I watch Dr. Pratchett for a minute. There’s no pity in his eyes, only kindness and concern. I wonder if maybe he can help me stop seeing Hank and hearing the bees. Maybe Dr. Pratchett can help me not go crazy all the way. His office full of leather furniture, the spicy-like-Christmas smell, these help me decide. I guess if I have to see a doctor he’s a pretty good one.
“Okay,” I say and shake his hand.
Dr. Pratchett looks pleased and gives me a card with his number on it, says call him anytime I need to, then shows me a secret door that looks like a wall. It leads out into a hallway doubling back on his front entrance. I guess this is so his crazies don’t run into each other in the waiting room. I wonder if he thinks we’ll compare notes.
I make the turn, zoom past Dr. Pratchett’s office again and get to the elevator. Shiny metal doors distort my too-pale face, twisting it into something not quite right. There are sharp cheekbones where soft fullness was before, my brown-black eyes made bigger by the paleness that surrounds, by the pounds I’ve lost from not eating, not sleeping, keeping watch. My lips are white and pressed tight to keep it all inside—the buzzing and the memory of that night. With all the paleness, with the hollow and nothing left, with Mack and Darcy just around the corner, or the psych ward if I keep seeing not-Hanks, I am nothing but a living ghost.
A bee starts up. Just one. A baby learning to fly, knocking around in my head, letting me know the quiet wants to come. Pretty soon the bee wants to invite friends, to get the buzzing going full blast so I can’t ignore it.
I look at the lit-up number circle above the elevator so I don’t have to see my living ghost face, so I can try not to hear the buzzing. The elevator is stuck on the thirtieth floor when I hear Dr. Pratchett’s office door squeak open down the hall. I step forward fast and flatten my back against the elevator’s cold steel. He wouldn’t hear the bees, but he’d know by my face, tell Margie, say I need to be near people who can look after me better.
The door squeaks closed again and I peek down the hall to make sure. Shut tight. I lean against the elevator again, its chill seeping through Mom’s sweater and into my body.
Six
I’m thinking about taking the stairs when the elevator doors finally open behind me. I stumble backward, sit down hard and lose my breath.
Someone’s laughing and leaning over me. “Are you okay?” he asks.
He’s beautiful and smiles like he doesn’t know there’s ever been anything but happiness in the world. He’s taller than I am and his eyes are green and they’re full to the brim with light and so much life. He’s a good tether, this boy with the dancing eyes, the wide, easy smile. He makes the knocking-around bees go for now.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again as I get back on my clumsy feet. His voice is deep like a man’s, but I think he’s around my age.
“Yes,” I say.
He holds out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Nick Anders.”
His skin is a light cocoa color and reminds me of chocolate chips melted in a pot on the stove. I think his parents must be black and white—Yin and Yang to make a beautiful boy with brown skin and light eyes. His hand is soft and warm and tingly with little sparks I don’t expect. “Like Nick Andros.”
“Who?”
I shake my head. “Fictional character. I’m Lily Berkenshire.”
“Do you live in the building?”
“People live in this building?”
Nick tilts his head. “Yes,” he says. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“Are you visiting someone?”
“I’m visiting a doctor who wants to talk about cats and tin.” I glance away from Nick’s big smile,
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