Out of My Mind (2 page)

When the fog cleared and I was able to understand them the strangers bombarded me with questions: Did I know my name? Did I remember what happened? How bad was the pain on a scale of one to ten?

A deer in headlights. That’s how I looked, according to Mom.

I remember touching my head but instead of feeling my smooth blond hair, bandages scratched my fingertips. My beautiful long hair was gone. Tears burned my eyes. I missed my hair.

I shook off the memory of waking up from the coma and glanced up.

Now J.D. is standing at the edge of his front porch staring at me. His dark hair falls into his eyes. It’s almost longer than mine. My gut clenches with anger.

“What are you looking at?” I challenge.

He doesn’t answer, just stands there in his baggy jeans and black T-shirt. He’s probably amazed that his victim lives. Sort of.

“Jerk.” I head for the car.

“So, should we start at Nordstrom or Forever 21?” Mom asks, walking up beside me.

She spots J.D. and her face hardens. With a hand on my shoulder she guides me to her Neon parked in the driveway. I try not to pull away. I wish I could find comfort in her touch, I really do.

“That boy should be in jail,” she says, shooting daggers at him with her perfectly made-up eyes.

But he isn’t in jail because he claimed it was an accident. He didn’t mean to hit me.

Yeah, right.

J.D. Pratt nails me with his car and is sentenced to probation and community service.

Yet I’m forever changed. Damaged for life.

We get into the car and Mom sighs. “I wish we could move.”

Not an option. I know they’ve borrowed against the house to pay my hospital bills. They’ll probably be digging themselves out of debt for the next thirty years. I never see Dad anymore. He works overtime every chance he gets.

“That boy upset you,” Mom says. “I’m sorry.”

I’m tired of people being sorry.

“It’s not your fault. Besides,” I force one of those bright smiles I’ve been practicing in the mirror, “I’m tough.”

Or I’d like to think I am, but as I get closer to the first day of school I’m not so sure. There are moments when I feel like I’m going to completely lose it, sudden, unexpected moments that I don’t see coming.

Not good.

My cell vibrates. Taylor’s blinding smile fills my IPhone screen. I don’t answer, I’m not sure why.

“I love school shopping,” Mom says, trying to make conversation.

“Me too,” I lie.

I’ve only been out a few times since my recovery, and this is my first trip to the mall. I don’t know why I’m anxious. It’s just the mall.

“Maybe you’ll see some of your friends at the mall,” Mom offers.

Right, friends who think they know me, but really know a perfect version of me that no longer exists.

I pull my IPod out of my purse and stuff the buds into my ears. I’m not in the mood for small talk with Mom since it usually ends up with an interrogation about why I haven’t spent much time with my friends since my recovery. The truth is, its exhausting having to keep up the pretense around them, choosing my words carefully and smiling on cue.

Every day I feel a little closer to being my old, perfect self but I’m just not there yet.

And school is two days away.

With a sigh, I close my eyes and crank the music. I am so screwed.

* * *

The mall is packed. Talk about overstimulation. A low-pitched hum tweaks my nerve endings.

As we hover just inside a boutique store, I half listen to Mom’s suggestions about clothes. I’m getting better at reading her cues. Do I like the yellow tank? Purple sweater? A cute pair of flats would go great with jeans. I gauge her enthusiasm to make the right choice. She knows what I like. A good thing since I can’t remember specifics about the photos I just saw at home.

Pathetic
.

I catch myself. I’ll never get back to my “old normal” if I keep beating myself up. What I need is a small notebook so I can write everything down. That’ll help me remember the important stuff like what I normally wear and what I like to eat.

As Mom sorts through a rack of cotton shirts, I glance across the mall at a store called Zumiez. Dark T-shirts with strange curvy designs hang in the window. They fascinate me.

Suddenly Taylor and Andrea block my view.

“Catherine, yay!” Taylor throws her arms around me and squeezes.

I grit my teeth. My skin’s on fire. She jumps back and scans me from top to bottom, assessing my wardrobe choices. A frown curls her lips as she eyes my sweatpants.

“I need new jeans,” I offer.

“Obviously,” she chuckles.

“Catherine!” Andrea squeals and hugs me. I’m going to die. I smile over Andrea’s shoulder at Taylor, who wears yoga pants, UGGs and a zip up hoodie over a tank.

“It’s so good to see you.” Andrea releases me and I take a step back, trying to hide my discomfort.

“You too.” I force another smile. These are my friends, the girls who will help me get my life back.

“You are
not
going to believe what happened,” Taylor starts. “Kyle broke up with Andrea, Brandon hooked up with Camille, and are you ready for this?”

I wait.

“Alex joined the Army,” Taylor says.

I glance at Andrea who shakes her head in confirmation.

“What the—”

“Lame, right?” She interrupts me. “He’ll finish his senior year and head to boot camp.” Taylor leans close so Mom can’t hear. “I think he’s doing it to get Lucy Frye in bed.”

“That’s twisted,” I respond with an old, favorite expression I relearned from watching video of last year’s dance competition.

Mom walks up to us holding two shirts in my new size: extra small. Thanks to the coma diet I lost what little padding I had.

“Girls, what a nice surprise,” Mom says.

Uh, really Mom? It’s pretty obvious I’ve been ambushed and she had something to do with my friends’ sudden appearance.

“What do you think about these?” Mom holds up a pink and a blue tank.

“The pink one, definitely,” Taylor says. Andrea nods.

Mom looks at me.

“Pink’s great.” I shoot a quick glance across the mall at a black shirt in the Zumiez window.

“Are you girls excited about the first day of school?” Mom asks.

“Definitely,” Taylor says, smiling at me.

“Are we catching Mickey D’s before school?” I ask. After all, I do remember some stuff.

“You bet.” Taylor looks pleased that I remembered.

We haven’t hung out a lot since the accident. Sure, part of that’s my fault, but I also think she’s worried I might have a seizure and embarrass her in public or something.

“Six forty-five pick-up?” Taylor asks.

“Cool.”

Taylor quirks her eyebrows and I wonder if ‘cool’ is an approved expression.

“Can we borrow your daughter, Mrs. Westfield?” Andrea loops her arm through mine. I try not to cringe.

“Sure. Meet me back here in an hour.”

“We can drive her home,” Taylor offers.

Spending time with Taylor and Andrea will be a good dress rehearsal for school, yet anxiety flutters through my stomach.

“You okay with that?” Mom asks, like I’m seven and going to a friend’s house to play.

“Sure, go home. I’ll see you later.” I pull away from Andrea and start walking.

“Catherine?”

I turn and Mom hands me a debit card. “It’s got a two hundred dollar limit. Find something pretty.”

Mom hesitates, smiles and takes off towards Macy’s. It wouldn’t surprise me if she secretly stalks us.

“Only two hundred?” Taylor scrunches her nose. “Guess we’ll be cruising the sale racks.”

As we head for Nordstrom I shove the card into my purse, feeling guilty. Two hundred dollars is a lot of money for our family right now.

“Hey, you okay?” Taylor asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“You seem,” she glances at Andrea, then back at me. “Different.”

What do I say to that? I
am
different, in ways no one can possibly understand. I know I don’t.

I shrug. “Guess I’m a little nervous about school.”

“Don’t be.” Taylor loops her arm through mine.

Is all this touching really necessary?

“We’ll take care of you,” Taylor assures.

For some reason, that doesn’t comfort me.

* * *

Taylor and Andrea pick out trendy clothes in bright colors for me to model. The yellows and greens irritate me, but I force a smile, pretending to be into it.

I buy a pair of jeans, and a few tops. In less than an hour, Taylor and Andrea burn through half of my debit card. I keep a small balance on it in case I find something I really want.

We wander into Lush Cosmetics and the powerful smells trigger a headache. I’ve had my share of those. Hate ‘em.

“Raspberry Tart, you’re favorite.” Taylor shoves a pink bath bar in my face.

“Awesome.” I bite back a cough. “I’ll be at Silver Works. Come find me.”

She nods and is distracted by a bubble bar demo.

I rush out of the store and stand in the center of the mall. Look around. Try not to be overwhelmed. The sounds, eye-catching window displays and hordes of people wandering the mall are freaking me out.

Take a deep breath. Don’t panic
.

I ride the escalator to the second floor and hesitate in front of Silver Works. In the mirrored display I see Zumiez. I’m drawn to the dark colors.

I glance around for Mom or my friends. Don’t want to get busted. With a rush of excitement I weave through the flow of shoppers and dart into Zumiez. An odd feeling settles in my stomach. I don’t belong in here, yet I can’t leave.

“Can I help you?” a clerk says. She’s about my age with dark make-up and a pierced eyebrow.
Goth girl.
I hear Taylor’s voice, even though she isn’t here.

“I need a shirt,” I blurt out. I’d been keeping a lid on it for over an hour with my friends, carefully choosing my words, mapping out sentences in my head before letting them tumble past my lips.

“Okay,” she smiles. “Wanna narrow it down for me?”

“Dark.”

“Brand?”

I shrug. She’s asking too many questions.

Goth girl motions me toward a rack. I glance over my shoulder. No sign of Taylor or Andrea.

“These are on sale, twenty percent off. Hurley, Alpine, Circa. For your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Brother?”

“No, why?” I ask, sorting through the rack.

“You seem like more of Forever 21 type.”

“Yeah?” I’m getting angry. Not sure why, other than everyone thinks they know me so well, yet since the accident I have no clue who I am.

It makes me want to hit something, scream…

Cry.

Crap, I need to get out of here before I lose it.

“Never mind.” I turn away from the rack.

“Hey, sorry. Wait, don’t leave.”

There’s something in her voice, compassion, I think. I turn around. She shares an apologetic smile.

“Come on, I’ll help you find a shirt,” she offers.

As I wander to the rack I’m distracted by a grey knit beanie on the counter.

“Those look really cute on.” Goth girl grabs one and hands it to me. “Check it out.” She points into a mirror.

I tentatively try it on and like what I see. I’m someone else. I’m confident and tough, not confused and fragile.

“Get me a shirt,” I order. “I mean, thanks for the hat, but I need a black shirt.”

Need? Why do I need it so badly? And where the heck would I wear it? Obviously not to school.

Goth girl pulls a black shirt off the rack. “You could definitely rock this one.”

A swirly white design stretches across the front. It’s unusual. Bold.

She holds it up to me and tilts her head. “Not bad. What do you think?”

She’s looking at me, waiting.

There’s no warning this time. No five or even three-second delay.

Air rushes from my lungs and I’m suddenly standing in a dark parking garage leaning against a post. I see Goth girl walking toward a white compact car. A man, cloaked in shadows, stands on the other side of the car smoking a cigarette. He creeps me out.

Goth girl approaches the car, distracted by a phone call.

“Mom, I’m fine. Save me some casserole. I said I’d do it.”

The guy tosses his cigarette on the ground and steps towards her.

Goth girl has no idea he’s there.

He’s too close.

She glances up. Gasps—

“No!” I scream.

And I’m back in Zumiez, gripping the glass countertop by the cash register.

“Hey, you okay?” Goth girl asks.

I nod. Can’t talk yet. Can barely breathe.

Another HULU. They’re getting more intense. I wonder if there’s a drug to numb that part of my brain and stop this from happening. Maybe I should tell my doctor. Brilliant idea. They’ll re-admit me to the hospital, which means no school, no boyfriend, and no cheer.

No life.

“How much?” I ask.

“The shirt and the beanie?”

I nod.

“Thirty-four fifty-three,” Goth girl says.

“Thanks,” I croak, fear strangling my voice. The hallucination was so real that I can still smell the cigarette smoke.

It’s probably that completion thing the doctor talked about, or my brain putting random information together and making up stories. I saw a news flash last night about a woman being mugged at the mall. My brain is replaying it, that’s all.

I hand Goth girl my debit card. I don’t chance looking into her eyes again.

“Need a bag?” she asks.

“No, thanks.” I’ll bury it in my Macy’s bag beneath the clothes Taylor picked out for me.

“Are you lost?” a male voice says.

I figure he’s talking to someone else. I glance over my shoulder to see if my friends are looking for me.

My eyes lock with J.D. Pratt’s. He stands there, cocky as hell, holding a Wicked G Energy drink.

I snap my attention to the clerk. I’m going to be sick. All over her glass counter.

And I think I’m ready for school? I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Hey, J.D.,” Goth girl says.

“Morgan,” he greets.

“Here ya’ go.” The clerk aka Morgan hands me the receipt.