Page 112 of Encounter

By Friday morning,I transformed into a shaky mess. I kept tripping over my feet, felt nauseous because of the knot twisting in my stomach, knocked my phone off my desk twice, and almost got run over by a car on the way to school.

A message buzzed on the phone in my pocket as I was about to go for lunch.

Zola was as supportive as one would’ve expected once I told her I decided to take part. She had some doctor’s appointment that had been planned for months, so I couldn’t get her next to me to calm me, but still found it soothing that she was going to be in the audience at least.

Hopefully not to see me fail. God, why did you have to open your stupid mouth about this?!There was no way to back out now, which was what drove my anxiety the most.

I decided to skip the last class and aimed for the bathroom, because I felt like a panic attack was going to roll over me any second. My hands trembled and my back was soaked with sweat, courtesy of the hot flashes.

I needed a moment to sit down, enclosed and isolated, before heading home to practice the composition one more time.

My fingers were probably going to start cramping, and my brain seemed to be building resistance to hearing the first few keys after how many damn times I played it over and over again, but I had to make sure. Had to make sure I didn’t magically forget the song I had known like the back of my handand loved for the past five years.

Lost in my thought, I barely stopped when the bathroom doors opened in front of me. Stumbling back, I moved away for the people to leave, and nearly got a heart attack when Blake and his goons strolled toward me.

Fuck, not him again. Not now.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Blake snorted at me with a grimace. I probably looked like death. Sweaty, pale, wide-eyed death. “Probably going to jerk off in there, freak.” I stood my ground, but instead of bothering to push me or do anything else, Blake only bumped into me with his shoulder as he walked past.

After the fight, he’d been... different. Oh, his burning hatred for me was still alive and well, but it was missing the spark. Like he couldn’t be bothered to do more than call me names anymore. He didn’t even ask me for more school help.

Did it really work?

The awe over that whole situation managed to occupy my mind for only a moment. As I turned back to the door and slid into the bathroom stall, I was right back to the panicky, anxious place, head full of worries and tragic scenarios.

Locking the door behind me, I sat on the closed toilet and put my hands into a prayer position, rubbing the middle of my forehead with my index fingers.

Breathe. Just breathe. You can do this.

I attempted to remember how the hell I managed to deal with these contests when I was younger. They were more important to me back then—Dad still had some faith I could go places with my talent.

I was good, and I won quite often, but as soon as I moved into county and state levels, the kids going against me were brutal. They were prodigies, with solid, trained minds of professionals who went after the winning prize like a bloodhound after a rabbit.

I was incompetent in comparison—shaky, overthinking, throwing up in the morning. Somehow, I only now realized that before Dad lost patience with me and pulled me out of those contests, I started cutting. Wasthatwhat started it? The pressure of it all?

Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

I should pull out. Dad won’t show up anyway, so there’s no point, right?

Trying to do anything but to spiral further into my destructive ideas, I pulled out my phone and rested my hands over my knees to stop them from shaking. Instinctively, I went to message the only person I knew had the power to calm me down—my safe harbor.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Count to five. Relax.

The phone buzzed with a response, so I opened my eyes again.

Even though his message drew a smile over my face, I still hung my head down with a desperate snort. Oh, how much I wished I could borrow some of Chast’s carefree attitude and confidence. Only a shred of it would go a long way for someone like me.

As much as he believed in me, imagining myself on the stage made me want to vomit. Pushing my glasses up and rubbing my eyes, I breathed through another wave of trembling passing through my torso, followed by a hot flush.

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