Page 1 of My Heart to Find

CHAPTER ONE

Cara

IF THERE’S ONE PLACEI never want to be again, it’s in this club with the too-loud music and the too-hot artificial glares.

My head pounds, and my vision blurs. A grating sensation—the usual one—fills my head. It feels like a miniscule drill is digging into my skull. I wince as the pain comes. Three flashes of it. The pain is like a volcano, hot and bubbling and consuming, leaving me panting and breathless. Dark spots hover in front of my eyes for a moment. My chest shudders, but it shudders out of sync with the rest of my body, creating a jarring sensation.

I grunt. Well they can’t say I’mboringnow. And I try to focus on that—my triumph at proving River and everyone else who wrote mean stuff about me online wrong. Becauseboring peopledon’t go to clubs.Boring peopledon’t try to dance under bright lights—even if I didn’t quite manage it because I couldn’t go too near other people. Butboring peopleare tucked up in bed at this ungodly hour, not dancing the night away.

Not that I’m dancing. My body’s too broken for that.

Not that I’m boring either—I’m chronically ill. There’s a world of difference. I shouldn’t have let the nasty comments get to me. Jana told me not to. She said I’ve got nothing to prove by coming out here.

But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t live a life where she’s referred to asthe sick girlorthe psychoorthe boring, ill oneor thefaker. And maybe forcing myself to come out to this club with Jana was a bad idea because it could fuel the ‘faker’ rumors, making it seem that I’m actually well enough to be here.

And I’m not.

I’msonot.

“Do you want to go outside?”

I look up. A man’s staring at me from a few feet away—concerned? I mean, no wonder; I have sweat pouring off me. His face is also shiny with perspiration, albeit not as much as I can feel on mine . The flashing lights make his skin look an eerie green, but they also emphasize the strong, heavy features of his face. A slightly hooked nose. Thick eyebrows. He’d be great to draw a caricature of. Could easily be a villain in my cartoon strip.

I breathe deeply. Yes. I need fresh air.

I need to get out of here.

“Definitely,” I shout back, but I can’t even hear my own voice over the pounding music.

I look around. I lost sight of Jana at least half an hour ago. Well, she’s probably outside too. Clubs aren’t really her scene. We’re only here because it’s her cousin’s birthday. And Anastacia is one of those people that you don’t say no to.

The man reaches for my hand—

No!

I flinch as he makes contact. I pull my hand back quickly, and my breathing quickens. He gives me an odd look, then gestures for me to walk ahead of him in the direction of an exit.

I do, the whole time trying to still my racing mind. My fingers feel burnt where he touched them. I want to wipe them on something. Hell, even wash them. But the bathroom here is full of vomiting teenagers, and I can’t go in there, no matter how strong the urge to wash my hands—or to empty my bladder—gets. And I can’t wipe my hands on my dress. I just can’t. Getting outside—into the fresh air—sounds good, even though most of the time I’m scared of the outdoors, of all the dangers it holds. But being outdoors is now preferable to being stuck in here, with sweat particles in the air, and the heavy breaths of clubbers sticking to me....

It’s okay, I tell myself.It’s okay.

I’ll shower when I get home, of course I will. No matter how sick I’m feeling, no matter how much my head is pounding and my stomach’s churning. No matter how much my swollen, aching knees and lower back are begging me to just sit down for a moment, I won’t because I will shower first.

But you won’t be able to get your phone from your bag without washing your hands first.

I ignore that thought. The OCD. It’s controlling, as always. Even out here. Even when I know I’m going to shower and thoroughly decontaminate myself.

I squeeze through dancing bodies, wincing with every accidental contact I make, and then I’m outside.

We’reoutside. The man grins at me, leans against the wall, tells me his name is Rb.

Well, I think his name is Rob. My ears are still ringing and there’s a low roaring filling my head. Could’ve been Bob. Bob—nah, that sounds too old for a man this young. I take a deep breath. We’re the only ones out here. Jana’s not here. My gaze goes back to the door of the club. She must still be in there.

“So,” Rob says. “Nice evening.”

“Y-y-y...yes,” I say, cringing at my usual speech problems. The sounds just get stuck in my mouth. Or sometimes they don’t even get to my mouth; I often can’t seem to translate what I’m thinking into words. But, at least here, I’ll just sound like I’m drunk. This man won’t know I’ve got a severe chronic illness. He’s just Rob. Rob the... I try to work out what his character would be in my cartoon. Rob the Robber? Nah, that’s silly. Rob the... But I don’t know what he’s like, whether he’s a good guy or not, and that’s important in my characters’ names.

Unless I do run with that name. Rob the Robber. Make him a bad guy.

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