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Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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IF THERE'S ONE thing this year has taught me, it's that anxiety is the brain's shittiest superpower. The ability to bend reality sounds awesome until it's not in my control. If I could fly, or disappear, or jump really high, it'd be great--but instead my chest pounds, my throat closes up, and I am one-hundred percent having a heart attack at the dinner table right now.
Mom and Dad don't notice, even though my pulse thumps in my neck like a mouse trying to dig its way out from under my skin. Charlotte's glued to her phone while Ollie shovels noodles into his mouth like it's his last meal. Nobody knows (or cares) about the red-hot anger burning my face, or the tightness around my heart that could kill me any second. I focus on their forks clinging and the light of the chandelier and anything to keep my mind off what Dad's saying to trigger this.
"I'm just telling you, El. It wasn't your best game. Coach said you seemed"—he spins a forkful of spaghetti—"distracted. Like you weren't giving it your all. That true?"
"No, it was Luke, Dad. He dove for the puck when it was coming right at me. I would've been able to score sooner, but he got in my way."
"That's no excuse. If you and Luke are having problems, you need to keep it off the ice."
"He's always competing with me."
"Of course he is, but are you the best player or not?"
"Adam, please." Mom touches his arm. "It's Charlotte's birthday. Let's take a night off hockey."
It would be nice if we could spend one dinner talking about Charlotte's dance or the fact that Ollie dropped out of college or Mom's cooking show or Constable Wexler's (Dad's) latest arrest. But no, it's always hockey.
Outside, snow falls from the black sky. Candles are lit around the table, and their reflections flicker in the window. I sigh and rest my chin on my palm, my anxiety calming. Okay, I'm good. I'm not dying. It's not a big deal.
A face appears in the window. I blink and she's gone. What the hell? I rub my eyes and blink five more times. Still nothing but the stupid snowman Charlotte drew on the frost. Maybe I am going nuts.
After dinner, I'm about to duck into the living room when Dad gently grabs my shoulder. The redness on his face has cooled, but his eyes beneath his glasses are still clouded with disappointment.
"I wasn't trying to upset you at dinner, El. You know it's because I want you to succeed, right?"
"I know."
"You should come skating with us. It'd mean a lot to Charlie."
I tug my shoulder out of his grasp. At the front door, Charlotte puts on her pink parka, reminding me of when she was the little brat who played Mario Kart with me. My chest sinks, because I'd like to go skating with everyone, I really would, but the thought of getting on the ice again makes me woozy. I need to get Luke out of my head.
