Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Sixteen

I rush down the hallway, intent on escape. Or at least, to find something to distract me from the enormous weight in my chest—anger I don't completely understand. 

Except...yeah, I do. Because it's simple. Nothing in my life—not one freaking thing—is the way it's supposed to be. And I'm tired of it.

The glass wall turns to painted concrete, plastered with photographs of students in matching uniforms: sports teams, marching band, cheer squad. And my generalized anxiety turns to specified panic. If I decide to come back here, to attend this school—in just two weeks—this space will be packed full of people who know things about me that I don't know. Things I don't want to know.

"Ally?"

Noah's voice seems extra loud. And my eyes... I close them because of the light. Because it feels like it's...

Crap. I know exactly what this is. I'm starting to get one of my headaches.

As soon as I acknowledge it, my stomach takes a turn. Like it's chewing on the idea of rejecting the bacon cheeseburger I had for lunch. I breathe in, shuddery and weird, as pain pulses my temples. My purse drops to the floor, because I need the heel of both palms to counter the pressure, need my fingers to cover my eyes.

There's a sinking sensation and then my butt touches the floor, and I'm relieved because the feeling was real—actual motion—and not me, losing my mind. I lean back, hoping I'm close to a wall. And I am, but it's wrong. Warm and encompassing. "It's all right, Ally. I'm here."

The wall is Noah.

"You're all right," he says.

No I'm not. There's nothing right about my life now.

"What can I do, Ally? Should I get your mom?"

Normally, I would say yes. If Mom were acting at all normal. But stress is what trigged this. I need to try and relax—and I'll never be able to do that with Mom and Lindsay around. "No. Just..."

Noah shifts behind me and I realized, with a little jolt of mortification, how much of my weight he's supporting. I sit up straight and squint my eyes open. 

"Please tell me what you need," he says, quick and quiet. But there's a waver in his voice, concern bordering on panic.

"I'm okay," I say. Which is obviously not true, but I don't want him to worry. "I just need..." Mom put some of my headache medicine the brown purse.

Did I transfer it to the one Samantha gave me?

"Do you see a flowery purse?" I ask, trying to open my eyes a little wider. If I can take my medicine now, it should ward off a full-blown migraine.

"Right here."

He touches the bag against my hands. I fumble with the side-pocket zipper and yes—thank God—the prescription bottle is there. "Can you break one of these in half for me?" I ask, holding it out for him.

"Oh," he says. "I know what this is. My mom gets migraines. You need a dark room. There's a bed in the clinic, but that would mean going back through the front office."

"No. Please."

The pill snaps and Noah shows me his palm, giving me a choice because the break wasn't even. I choose the smaller half, hoping it will be enough, because I don't want a whole-pill's worth of side effects. He helps me get to my feet and guides me to the water fountain. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the clinic?" he asks, as I slurp embarrassingly loud.

"Completely."

"All right. There's another place we could go. It's a bit of a walk, but I've got you."