Katie McGarry - Crash Into You

Paper crinkles, and I peek to see her examining everyone’s sheets. “It’s the same answer, but half done.”

West relaxes in his seat, totally unaffected by her accusation of copying. “We’re a group. I think that’s expected.”

“Then explain it,” she says. “Explain how you solved half the answer.”

West’s mouth pops open, then he shuts it. “Rachel was in the process of explaining it to us. See, we were a little lost, and we didn’t want to hold her back so she went ahead with the work and stopped halfway so she could teach us.”

Our physics teacher’s eyes settle on me. So do West’s and Ethan’s. So do the eyes of their friends and of everyone else who has made fun of me since middle school.

“Well then, Rachel.” In an overdramatic swooping motion, our teacher gestures me toward the front of the room. “Since you’re so generous, why don’t you go to the board and teach the rest of the class how to complete the first half of the equation?”

Blood and heat rush to my face. Besides the fact this is one of my worst nightmares, I’m not even sure if I have the equation right. What if I’m wrong? What if I fall apart? At least with the speeches I can prepare for the impending meltdown.

This...this is out of nowhere. Begging for a way out, I frantically glance at West and Ethan. West locks his eyes on the floor while his fingers drum against his desk in an angry rhythm. “That is not necessary.”

“I think it is,” says Mrs. Patterson. “Unless you want to explain the work, but keep in mind, what goes on that board is your group’s grade.”

West jerks in his seat. Ethan leans over and whispers, “He’s going to blow.”

West is one detention away from suspension, a fact Ethan and I have helped hide from Mom, and Ethan’s grades have dropped this semester. He can’t risk a bad score. “I’ll do it.”

West’s head shakes back and forth, heat from his anger creating small red circles on his cheeks. Ethan kicks at our brother from underneath the desks. The two share a look, and both immediately focus on the floor.

When I reach the board, my body trembles as I grab the dry erase marker. I clear my throat twice and perspiration forms along my hairline. A couple of girls in the corner giggle.

My voice breaks as I incoherently explain how I solved half the equation. Due to my quaking hand, the numbers barely resemble squiggles. I clear my throat again, this time tasting bile. I inhale, only for the air to stop before reaching my lungs. My palms sweat, and the marker slips from my grasp. It taps the floor twice before rolling under the teacher’s desk. The world becomes a tunnel. Around me, laughter erupts.

“Rachel.” Mrs. Patterson sounds distant, almost like an echo. “I was wrong. As the teacher, I should be showing the class.”

My breathing is short, shallow, and my head has that floating feeling like when I’m sick with a fever. A buzzing noise fills my ears. Everyone stands and gathers their things. I try to suck in air, but my lungs won’t expand. If I can’t breathe, I’ll die.

Ethan appears in my line of vision. “She’s fine, Mrs. Patterson. Aren’t you, Rachel?”

I nod. No, I’m not fine. Ethan wraps an arm around me and ushers me into the hall. Cold metal supports my back. A hanging lock digs into my kidney.

West appears in the tunnel. “What the hell, Ethan? I thought she was over this shit.”

“Break into her locker and get her stuff,” he says. “We need to get her to a bathroom.”

* * *

Lunch is me, West, Ethan and a bottle of Sprite. Because West plays every sport imaginable, he was able to sneak us into the guy’s changing room. Sitting on an old jersey that had been stuffed into the abyss of West’s locker, I glance at the toilet bowl containing the remnants of breakfast.

Confident I’m going to survive, I flush the toilet and peek at my two brothers, who have hovered over me since the end of third period. “See,” I say with a raspy voice. “No blood.”

But my throat is raw and sore. If I continue to vomit with the attacks, it won’t be long until the blood vessels in my throat crack.

Holding on to the stall door, West’s knuckles turn white. “How long?”

I drink slowly, buying myself not nearly enough time. West’s fingers tap a death march. He isn’t going to let this go. “It never stopped,” I answer.

His head whips to Ethan. “And you’ve been in on this?”

Ethan won’t stop staring at the toilet. “For a few weeks.”

I wince when West slams the door against the neighboring stall. “She was in the hospital over this shit. Do you want to watch her body waste away again?”

Tears threaten my eyes, and I rub at my nose. “Just stop.”

“Stop!” West shouts. “Why should I stop? You’ve been lying!”

“Whatever,” Ethan spits at West. “You pretended not to see it. So did I. Look me in the eye...no, look Rachel in the eye and tell her that you haven’t suspected the truth the entire time. She lied to make Mom happy, to make us happy and you’re pissed the dream is over.”

West takes two steps and stands nose to nose with Ethan. The anger in the air between them is so thick I could gag. They’re the same height, both over six feet. Ethan with dark hair and dark eyes. West with blond hair and blue eyes. Brothers less than a year apart.

West shoves his finger in Ethan’s chest. “You should have told me.”

“Now you know.”

After a few more tense seconds, West eases away. “What now?”

“We keep the secret,” says Ethan. “Mom’s happy. Jack’s working on Gavin.”

West becomes a statue. “She knows about Gavin?”

“Yes. She knows he’s out of work.” Something in the way Ethan overpronounces the words makes me question their meaning, but West is finally calming down and I don’t want to risk another eruption.

West’s shoulders visibly relax. “And the speeches?”

“We help her. One of us should go with her to the speeches and deflect Mom if she has an attack. And Rachel will tell us if her panic attacks escalate to blood.”

West picks up the bag I keep in my gym locker with extra clothes. “I got this for you. You’ve got ten minutes to take a shower and make it to fourth period.”

Both of my brothers stare at me, and I draw my knees to my chest. I hated this feeling back in middle school, and I hate this feeling now. No matter what I do in my life, the two of them will always view me as someone to be controlled.

* * *

By the time sixth period rolls around, the school salivates with the news: recluse Rachel Young is weird again. When I enter the library for my internship, I’m greeted by the sound of giggles. The words whispered between ponytail tosses are not lost on me. “I told you she was strange...” Chuckles and lower whispers. “...completely freaked out in physics.”

Unable to face anyone, I duck into one of the stacks. I suck in a breath, not for an attack, but to stop the tears. Why? Why am I like this?

At the back wall, I sink to the ground and my phone vibrates. I pull it out and see the one person who doesn’t treat me as weird or as incompetent. Isaiah: Look out the window.

My forehead furrows. I grab my pack and walk to the windows overlooking the student parking lot. In the back, Isaiah leans against his black Mustang. My smile automatically appears.

Me: See you.

Isaiah: Skip with me.

Skip. Besides that day with Eric, I’ve never ditched before. But that day was covered with a sick note from Mom. Leaving today would be different. It would be scandalous. It would be...everything I need.

Isaiah

I EASE MY CAR TO the curb, and Rachel dashes out of school like a robber running out of a convenience store, her blond hair trailing behind her in the wind. I chuckle and reach over to open the passenger side. She falls into the car with her cheeks red from the cold. “Let’s go!”

Weaving her hand in mine, I kiss her knuckles and place her palm over the stick shift with my hand securely covering hers. I step on the clutch and apply pressure to her hand so that she’ll shift into First. “You’re letting me drive your car?” she asks.

“Shift,” I correct. “But I’ve never let a girl shift my car before. Feel honored.”

“I do.” Rachel leans over and kisses my cheek. The sweet scent of jasmine and the ocean washes over me. On the open road, the rpms build, and like a perfectly synced machine, I step on the clutch right as Rachel shifts to Second.

The excitement is hard to contain, but it’s weird. I’ve never been eager to share news with anyone, and I want her to be excited along with me. The engine begins to strain, and in effortless coordination, she shifts to Third while I press the clutch.

A stirring in my heart overcomes the excitement for a second. Rachel is perfect for me. She never needs words because she understands my rhythm.

“I passed the ASE certification test,” I say, as if I’m telling her it’s Thursday.

Rachel doesn’t disappoint as she gasps. “Oh, Isaiah! That is amazing. No, fantastic. No...the best news ever. I knew you’d pass. We have to do something to celebrate! What, though? I don’t know. What do you want to do? Whatever it is, it has to be special.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at her. “I’m doing it.”

A grimace stains her face. “What? Driving? You always drive.”

How can she not see it? “I’m spending time with you.”

Silence. Except for the purring of my engine. The floorboard barely vibrates beneath me, and I wonder if she also notices the sensation. I scratch the thought. I don’t have to wonder. Someone like her relishes the feel of a car’s every movement—just like me.