medication?” I don’t notice the surprise and slight disdain that creeps into my voice, but I see Alice’s reaction. She heard it.
Alice stops, her hands fisting on her hips. “Yes,” she says, looking me in the eye. “I do. And it helps a lot.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You meant only crazy people take medication?”
“No,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. “No. I just didn’t realize that you need medicine for something like that.”
“It’s not a choice,” Alice says, her words dripping with rage and pain. This is not the gentle Alice I’ve grown to see as someone who understands me better than most. Not the calm Alice who writes pages and pages in her journals. This is an Alice who is trying her hardest to keep it together. Her thin shoulders are shaking with the effort. “I don’t want to be like this. It isn’t a matter of just trying harder. It’s about using all kinds of techniques. Breathing techniques. Centering techniques. Self-talk and therapy. And yes, medication. Before I started taking my meds, it was hell. And while things are still hard now, I wouldn’t give up a day of medication just so that people won’t judge me. I’m giving my body the support it needs. And I won’t apologize for that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, but Alice’s head is shaking so hard now that I’m not even sure she can hear me.
“I’m heading into town for the day. I’ll see you later,” she says, her eyes firmly trained on the polished blue toenails that stick out of her leather sandals.
And before I can think of the right answer, of any answer, anything to make this better, she’s gone.
I clean our room. I refill our fridge with snacks from the campus convenience store, careful to pick up the chocolate-covered espresso beans I know Alice loves to snack on and the flavored seltzer I’ve learned she likes. And then I wander through town, trying to figure out what else I can do to make things better.
I call my mom.
“Everything okay, sweetie?” she asks. The booming voice of the Cubs announcer welcoming everyone to the game is loud even over the phone, and I know she’s outside Wrigley Field trying to sell her extra tickets for today’s game.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” And I know she means it, truly, though she’s also distracted.
My life in a nutshell.
“Okay.” I sigh, knowing that the sound won’t be audible over the noise on Addison as a Cubs game begins.
“How are your classes?”
I nod. Class, just one class, I want to say. I told her this, but . . . “It’s great. I’m loving my French prof and I’m learning a ton.”
“I’m so glad.” Her voice almost sounds wistful, and I’m not sure what to do with that. “I’m still hoping your dad and I can come out to visit but the summer is crazy busy and . . .”
I know. And she knows I know. And she feels bad that I feel bad and there’s nothing we need to say.
“I have a great roommate,” I tell her, even though usually in the conversation, this would be the point where I’d let her go. “Her name is Alice and she’s from Hyde Park.”
“That’s fabulous. Well, then even if we don’t make it to visit, we’ll at least meet her in Chicago. Maybe you can convince her to go to a Cubs game and she’ll take you to a Sox game.”
It’s all about baseball. As well as my mom knows me, she still can’t hear the different neighborhoods in the city without translating them into fan teams.
But I’ll take a Cubs game and a Sox game if that means I’ve convinced Alice I was being an ass and she’s forgiven me.
“I love you,” I say, and she repeats my words back to me and hangs up. Even if I were in Chicago, I wouldn’t be with her right now. But I don’t think I quite realized how much I’d miss that.
I finally find myself at Tea and Sympathy in the late afternoon, a small teahouse on an out-of-the-way street off the downtown strip. With painted mugs and knitted tea cozies, it screams the perfect place to disappear into. Because in six days, I’ve managed to piss off my roommate, who I love, and my study partner, who I . . . who I . . .
Who is Zeke to me?
Apart from the boy I’ve pissed off.
As I sip my tea, the herbs begin