“I’m not in love,” I say again.
“And you’re not sick,” she retorts. “So there’s nothing to worry about.”
For the rest of the morning I’m too distracted to read or do homework. Despite Carla’s reassurances that I’m not getting sick, I find myself paying too close attention to my body and how it feels. Are my fingertips tingling? Do they usually do that? Why can’t I seem to catch my breath? How many somersaults can a stomach do before becoming irreparably knotted? I ask Carla to do an extra check of my vitals, and the results are all normal.
By the afternoon I acknowledge in my head that Carla might be onto something. I might not be in love, but I’m in like. I’m in serious like. I wander the house aimlessly, seeing Olly everywhere. I see him in my kitchen making stacks of toast for dinner. I see him in my living room suffering though Pride and Prejudice with me. I see him in my bedroom, his black-clad body asleep on my white couch.
And it’s not just Olly that I see. I keep picturing myself floating high above earth. From the edge of space I can see the whole world all at once. My eyes don’t have to stop at a wall or at a door. I can see the beginning and the end of time. I can see infinity from there.
For the first time in a long time, I want more than I have.
Wonderland
And it’s the wanting that pulls me back down to earth hard. The wanting scares me. It’s like a weed that spreads slowly, just beneath your notice. Before you know it, it’s pitted your surfaces and darkened your windows.
I send Olly a single e-mail. I’m really busy this weekend, I say. I need to get some sleep, I say. I need to concentrate, I say. I shut down my computer, unplug it, and bury it under a stack of books. Carla raises a single questioning eyebrow at me. I lower two nonanswering eyebrows back at her.
I spend most of Saturday suffering through calculus. Math is my least favorite and worst subject. It’s possible that those two facts are related. By evening I move on to rereading the annotated and illustrated version of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I barely notice Carla packing up to leave at the end of the day.
“Did you have an argument?” she asks, nodding at my laptop.
I shake my head no but don’t say anything more.
By Sunday the urge to check my e-mail is acute. I imagine my in-box overflowing with subject-less e-mails from Olly. Is he asking more Fast Five questions? Does he want some company, refuge from his family?
“You’re OK,” Carla says on her way out the door that evening. She kisses my forehead, and I’m a little girl again.
I take Alice to my white couch and settle in. Carla’s right of course. I am OK, but, like Alice, I’m just trying not to get lost. I keeping thinking about the summer I turned eight. I spent so many days with my forehead pressed against my glass window, bruising myself with my futile wanting. At first I just wanted to look out the window. But then I wanted to go outside. And then I wanted to play with the neighborhood kids, to play with all kids everywhere, to be normal for just an afternoon, a day, a lifetime.
So. I don’t check my e-mail. One thing I’m certain of: Wanting just leads to more wanting. There’s no end to desire.
Life is Short™
Spoiler Reviews by Madeline
ALICE’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
Spoiler alert: Beware the Queen of Hearts. She’ll have your head.
Makes You Stronger
There’s no e-mail from Olly. Not one. I even check my spam folder. This shouldn’t bother me and it doesn’t. It doesn’t bother me a lot. In the interest of thoroughness, I refresh my e-mail three more times in about two seconds. Maybe it’s just hiding somewhere, stuck behind another one.
Carla walks in as I’m about to refresh again.
“I didn’t think you’d be able to unearth that thing,” she says.
“Good morning to you, too,” I say, squinting down at the screen.
She smiles and begins her daily unpacking-of-the-medical-bag ritual. Why she doesn’t leave it here overnight is a mystery.
“Why are you frowning? Another dead cat video?” Her smile is toothy and wide, very Cheshire-catlike. Any minute now her body will disappear, leaving just a grinning floating head in its wake.
“Olly didn’t send me any e-mails.”
I believe nonplussed is the word for her expression.
“All weekend,” I say, by way of illumination.
“I see.” She puts the stethoscope in her ears and the thermometer under my tongue.
“Did you e-mail him?”
“Yesh.” I talk around the thermometer.
“Don’t talk, just nod.”
“Sawwy.”
She rolls her eyes and we wait for the beep.
“Ninety-nine point eight,” I say, handing the thermometer back to her. “I basically told him not to write. Am I being ridiculous?”
She motions for me to turn around so she can listen to my lungs but doesn’t respond.
“How ridiculous?” I prompt. “On a scale of one to ten, one being perfectly rational and reasonable and ten being absurd and certifiable.”
“About an eight,” she says without hesitation.
I’d been expecting her to say twelve, so eight seems like a victory. I tell her so and she laughs at me.
“So you told him not to write to you and then he didn’t write to you. This is what you’re telling me?”
“Well, I didn’t say DON’T WRITE in big, bold letters or anything. I just said I was busy.” I think she’s going to make fun of me, but she doesn’t.