tunnels, grays out at the edges. I can feel my chest fluttering, trying so hard to deliver that oxygen, but failing, falling short the way everything…
“Will? Wait, what’s wrong?” Priya’s facing me so she’s the first one to see me flailing for the desk when my knees buckle. As the room spins around me, Jocelyn turns, too, and I feel the vertigo thick and dark in my throat as her scowl morphs into something more uncertain, then melts into fear.
There’s a roaring hiss in my ears, and I hear her words as if from a distance. “Oh my God. Will, are you okay?”
I can’t feel my fingertips anymore. Everything is sepia toned and creeping darker, but there’s no helping it: I gasp out a laugh. And my last thought before I pass out is, isn’t it obvious that I’m the furthest I could possibly be from being okay?
This Is My Brain on Guilt
JOCELYN
Will doesn’t so much faint as crumble onto the Venkatrams’ rug. The fall is slow enough that I catch his head before he hits the ground, and my first thought is, This is the first time I’ve touched him in weeks. I’d forgotten the texture of his hair, the smoothness of his skin.
“Dad! Help!” Priya’s shout, though, brings me back to reality pretty quick.
I just broke Will.
For a moment I just sit there with my hands cradling his head and think about how I’ve never understood how heavy a person’s head is. It just seems so easy for the neck to hold it up, but it’s only when a person’s passed out on your supposed best friend’s dad’s office floor that you realize that it’s basically a bowling ball held up by a lollipop stick.
Meanwhile, Priya’s freaking out for the both of us. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I got a first aid badge in Girl Scouts, but I don’t remember what we’re supposed to do? Do we do chest compressions first? Or mouth breaths?”
“He’s still breathing,” I say, still numb. “I think the first thing we’re supposed to do is call 911.” Maybe the thing that strikes the most fear in me is how lax Will’s face is, erased of any expression. While Priya calls for help from the landline in her dad’s office, I can’t stop myself. I take his hand in mine and fumble at his wrist until I find his pulse, closing my eyes when I finally feel it, steady and firm.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Then I turn to Priya, who’s still giving out directions to the ambulance. “I’m so sorry, Pri,” I tell her.
She doesn’t respond, just puts the phone receiver to her chest. “They say to lay him on his back and raise his legs. Loosen any constrictive clothing.” She listens to the dispatcher again. “No, he’s not bleeding,” she says. “Oh, hey, he’s waking up.”
I turn back to Will, and his eyes are blinking open and closed, deliberate, like he’s checking to make sure the muscles still work. They’re unfocused, blank. Then, in a heartbeat, he gives a start, his gaze sharpens into terror, and he turns his head, eyes darting, scanning the room and trying to place his surroundings.
“Hey, Will. It’s okay. It’s Jocelyn. I’m here. We’re in Priya’s house. There’s an ambulance coming.”
“What?” He gasps and struggles to sit up. “No, I’m fine. You don’t need to do that.”
“Will, you just passed out,” Priya says severely. “I swear to God there were, like, ten seconds where you weren’t even breathing. They’re on the way. Give me your parents’ number so I can tell them to meet us at the hospital.”
“No!” Will scrunches his face, as if to reset it. “I’m fine, guys, I’m breathing just fine. Look, my lungs are great.” He takes in a huge breath, puffing his mouth out like a fish, and lets it out. “Panic attacks aren’t actually life-threatening,” he says, sounding like he’s reciting something from a book.
When the EMTs come in, they find that his heart rate is okay but say that he still needs to be checked out by a doctor. They cart him out in a wheelchair even though he insists that he can walk out by himself, and they tell us that we can meet him at St. Luke’s if we want.
“I can drive you both,” Mr. Venkatram offers. Priya ran for him just after she got off the phone with 911, and he was the one who ultimately contacted Will’s dad. He asked me if he should