a mixture of concern and amusement.
“I got it, Phoebs. As long as they give me extra whipped cream, I can handle it.”
Once we get to the rink, it hits me that I’ll be seeing half the town tonight. Classmates I’ve gone to school with since kindergarten who haven’t seen me in months. It shouldn’t come as any surprise either that nearly all of them follow me on social media, or heard something about what happened. Most of them ask about the crash, and how I’m doing. Only one girl straight up asks me if I’m with Beckett Steele, and I can answer honestly at least. But it seems like everyone is looking at me differently, wondering about me and everything they’ve heard or seen on social media. I’m far from celebrity-status, but to my small town where not a whole lot happens, the small bit of notoriety I’ve apparently managed to gain makes me interesting.
It doesn’t bother me as much as it might have once upon a time, but I don’t think it’s because I’ve gotten any tougher. I think it’s only easier because I know it’s going to be over soon. Except, knowing it will all be over soon doesn’t make me feel good either. Instead of anxiety over the unwanted attention, I’m feeling subdued. It’s a new feeling for me. I thought I wanted to go back to how things had been before Beckett Steele, Brazen, and professional skateboarding came into my life. But I don’t know if that’s possible anymore. It feels like I’m giving up.
I keep a smile for my friends and parents. Maybe there’s something to this “fake it till you make it” thing. I decide to give it my best shot for the rest of the vacation. I start watching TV with Mom and Dad in the evenings, but after ten minutes, my head always starts to hurt. My parents have been worried, and I don’t want to freak them out. I try to get up to make popcorn or close my eyes without them noticing, but I’m not fooling anyone. When Mom brings me to my doctor’s appointment a week later, she calls me out. “You need to tell her you can’t watch TV for very long.”
“You noticed that? Yeah, it just gives me a headache.” It’s more like a head-splitting pain that pulses behind my eyeballs, but Mom doesn’t need to know that.
“Let’s go to the library after this. We can get you some books to read instead.”
“Sure.” I’m feeling guilty for being such a downer during my time with my parents, so I’ll do whatever Mom wants me to.
Mom’s pulled up in front of the offices to drop me off, but I decide to ask her if she wants to come in with me. “I know you’re worried it’s something more serious. Last time the doctor made it pretty clear all this stuff is normal after a major concussion. You can ask her questions about it if you want.” Maybe it will put her mind at ease. Hopefully it won’t have the opposite effect.
“You don’t mind?”
“No, that way I won’t have to repeat everything to you later when you ask me a million questions,” I joke. It’s partly true though.
Mom sits quietly while I tell the doctor what’s changed since last week: I’m not sleeping quite as much, but still more than usual. With more activity though, I’m getting worse headaches.
It’s not until the doctor starts asking about my anxiety that I question whether I should have brought Mom in. She knows I used to get panic attacks, and I told her I had a couple “mild” ones at school with all the adjustments. I didn’t tell her I think that’s why I crashed, and fortunately that doesn’t come up.
“No anxiety. Actually, I’m not feeling much at all except sort of sad. I let myself have a little pity party last week, cried a lot, and thought that’d be it, but I’m sort of stuck in that mode.”
“What about when you spend time with your friends and family, does that help?”
“Yeah, a little, but I’m not really myself. I’m just kind of a downer all the time. I think it’s because I can’t skateboard and I don’t know when I’ll be able to again.”
“That could be part of it, but we can’t change that. Not yet, anyway. Sometimes moods are affected by concussions. I really encourage you to keep getting out, spending time with people.”
“But what about the headaches?”
“It sounds like