Until It Hurts To Stop

Until It Hurts To Stop - Chapter 16

Sixteen

When I get home from Crystal, I head down to the basement to work on the wooden box I’m making for Dad’s birthday.

A couple of days ago, I put on the hinges. Now I open and close the lid, marveling at the smoothness of the motion. The lid isn’t crooked; the hinges don’t balk or wiggle. I made one of these for my piano teacher when he stopped teaching me, as a good-bye present, and that time it took me forever to get the hinges right. At least there’s something in the world that I’m getting better at.

Thinking of my piano teacher reminds me of what he used to tell me when I had trouble with a piece of music: go slow, break it down, practice it over and over.

And then I realize that’s exactly what Nick was coaching me to do, when he told me to move one foot at a time, one hand at a time. If I’d stayed with it, if I hadn’t insisted on turning around, would I have broken through?

Maybe. I’m not sure I could have forced myself to stay in that terror. Even now, with no mountain under my feet, nervousness tickles the back of my throat, threatens to trigger my gag reflex. I swallow.

I send Sylvie a series of texts describing my panic on Crystal, asking what’s wrong with me, asking if she thinks I’ll get over it. When she doesn’t answer, I call her.

“Oh—Maggie,” she says. “I got your messages. I’m sorry you had such a bad day.”

I launch into the story again, trying to make her understand the height and steepness of the rock, the closeness of the edge, the power of the wind. She reassures me, says all the right things, but her voice is thin and uncertain, distracted. “Are you busy?” I ask her.

“Sorry, I’m—kind of—upset. I had a fight with Wendy last night.” She laughs uneasily. “It was so ridiculous.”

“What about?”

“Honestly? It was like—whatever I said all night bothered her. She wasn’t happy with anything. But the actual fight was about whether a dessert fork goes on the left side of the plate or at the top of the plate. My cousin’s caterer had put the forks on the left, and—well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Ohhh.”

“I know, right? It’s insane. I wish I knew what’s wrong with her lately.”

“Have you asked her?”

“Of course! She keeps saying there’s nothing wrong, that she just has a lot of homework and a lot of commitments.”

“I’m sure it’ll blow over. Maybe she had a headache or a test coming up, or something.” I can’t really understand why Sylvie is worried. Everything has a way of working out for her; everyone loves her. She’s been with Wendy for more than six months, and they’re perfect together. Unlike some people I could name, Wendy did not avoid her for two days after their first kiss, did not leap gratefully on a “let’s be friends instead” message. It’s going to take a lot more than dessert forks to tear them apart. “It’ll work out.”

Sylvie sighs. “I hope so.”

“So listen, do you think I’ll get over this panic attack or whatever it was?” I ask, and we talk about that for a few more minutes before hanging up.

My mind is not on colleges, but at dinner Mom reminds me she’s waiting for my list of the ones I want to visit this year.

“I’ve started looking,” I say. “But I don’t have a list yet.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“Relax, Mom, we have time.” I wish Dad were here—he might act as a buffer between us, get her to ease up a little. Remind her that it’s only September of my junior year. But he’s working late, tending the grid again.