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According to Kevin, about once a month one of the junior scientists decides they want to leave science and has this storm of guilt and second-guessing. They come to the Hello Hello, and Doc Matapang just lets them sit and babble. He feeds them and listens until the dam breaks, and he soaks it all up until they feel better. I am afraid he’s about to do that to me. I’m afraid he’ll try and it won’t work. I’m not like a dam. I’m like a glass. If I break I’m going to be broken forever. I don’t want to say hi to him. But I don’t manage a getaway before Doc appears from the back room, wiping his big
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My fingers are numb. That’s a sign of stress, which I know because I’ve been in therapy for, like, two hundred thousand hours.
“Simon—Kiddo, wait.” I freeze up. I like Kevin’s dad. I’m not afraid of Kevin’s dad. But when I freeze it feels like fear. “Let me make you something.”
“Something terrible happened to you.” “Yeah.” It’s only one word but it cracks. “Yeah.” “I’m very sorry.” I look down. “Me too.” “‘Halo’ means mix,” he tells me. “So ‘halo halo’ means all mixed up, more or less.” I kind of nod. I think he told me that once, or Kevin did. It isn’t news, anyway.
He taps his fingers lightly together, pad to pad—it’s an echo of how Kevin laces and twists his twiggy fingers together, but it’s both stronger and softer. Doc Matapang is a big man, but he moves so delicately, like he’s never hurt anyone in his life, and never could. “Come Sunday,” he says. “Don’t stop coming.” That’s a nice thing for him to say, but it would be better if Kevin said it. It would be better if Kevin said it, but Kevin is gone.
We’ve been at it for an hour and collectively we’ve reached the Mojave Desert. And we are going to die there. It’s hot and humid, with clouds and a lot of wind. Wind should feel good when you’re running, but this wind feels as hot as dog breath. It sucks. At least it’s hard for people to gossip when we’re all gasping for air.
Everybody expects Agate to be bad at gym, because she’s fat or whatever, but she’s not, not really. She knows what her body can do and she just goes ahead and does it, even if she does turn flamingo pink under her cloud of carrot orange hair. Two weeks ago, one of the other girls called Agate a hippo. Agate told her that hippos can charge at thirty kilometers an hour, and that hippos, not tigers or anything, are the large animal that kills the most humans. Then she smiled so big her molars showed and went back to running across Utah.
Ugh: The water is probably hotter than I am.
“Keep your feet moving, VZ,” Ms. Hafsaas scolds. (She’s the kind of teacher who likes to call kids by their last names, though apparently Van der Zwaan is a little much.) “You don’t want your muscles to cool down.” “I don’t feel like that’s going to be a problem,” says Agate, but she stops toe-bouncing and starts to sort of jog-bobble in place. “Did you know that the risk of dehydration actually increases when it’s humid?” “Agate, I am your health teacher.” “That doesn’t mean you know things,” says Agate, bobbling away. “And this thing is interesting because it’s counterintuitive.” Oh boy. I
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The light is weird all of a sudden, sort of green and tumbling, and when I look up past the table and Ms. Hafsaas’s looming whistle and nose, the trees are weird, too. The leaves on the silver maples are turning downside up, like they’re looking skyward and holding their breath. Hercules barks once and for just a second the whole world falls still. Sirens. I slam into the sidewalk before I even know what the sound is—I’m just down. The sirens are loud like the end of the world. Someone grabs my arm. I crab away, my chin scraping on concrete. I clamp my teeth together so I won’t make any
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I close my eyes again. I can’t breathe. My chin is scraped and my heart feels like it’s got claws.
The siren is incredibly loud. It’s so loud that it could drown me. I can’t breathe and the air feels green and weird. “You are having a panic attack but also there is an actual tornado,” says Agate. “Can you breathe? Keep breathing. I asked my sensory processing specialist to tell me about panic attacks so I could help you and I learned that telling you to breathe is the best thing. Please keep breathing. I would like that very much.” Okay. Breathing. In for five. I try but when I get to hold for six I can’t hold my breath. I gasp and gasp. In for five. Five things you can see. I am lying on
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“Your assumptions are bad and your analysis is bad and I hope you feel bad,” Agate snaps. Her grip hasn’t shifted. For all I know she’s never going to let go and that’s fine. I feel like without her I might just float right out of the world.
I don’t want to go out there. I have a confused idea that there will be police cars and media trucks. Like there were in Contact. Like there were that day in Eagle Crest. I know that’s not true but I keep thinking it. I also know my parents are probably on their way here at supersonic speeds. Anyway I’m not going out there. Hercules is quiet, leaning on my leg. He’s probably feeling worn out after the fuss. He’s still pretty little.
My voice sounds hoarse, like I’ve been screaming. I hope I haven’t been screaming.
Her fingernails are short and raggedy but also painted a weird color that catches the light and looks sometimes lavender, sometimes sea-foam green, like mermaid scales.
Panic attacks and trauma reactions are two different things and I feel like I should say that, but it’s complicated.
“Jasper and Coral will come find me here,” says Agate. “That’s the family emergency plan.” Family emergency plans. You’d think my family would have one, except basically our plan is run to each other and hold on for dear life, and it’s not working right now. My parents are still not here. The school is almost empty, and with the power out it’s dim and quiet. There’s no hum from the air conditioner, no chatter of voices. A fire truck goes by, a few streets away. We listen to the siren fall, and Agate squeezes my wrist. “I’ll stay,” she says. “Okay.” I put my other hand on Herc’s head, squeezing
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Saint Barbara—the person, not the church where my dad works—is the kind of saint who is called a virgin martyr. The virgin martyrs were girls who were supposed to get married but didn’t want to get married. Now, these days, if you don’t want to get married you just do your thing, no big deal. But when the Romans were still in charge, refusing to get married was reason enough for someone to feed you to the lions or chop you up with a sword or something else awful. A surprising number of girls chose option B. It kind of makes you wonder about how bad Roman boys were, to be honest. Anyway, there
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