Page 15 of The Misfit

“Salem?” Noah’s voice carries through my bedroom door, followed by his signature three-knock pattern, something he started doing after I came home from the hospital. “Mom wants to know if you’re eating dinner with us?”

I’m not really hungry, but it’s probably a good idea to eat something since I know my nerves will be too shot to eat at the party.

“Yeah, just … give me a minute.”

“Are you okay in there?” The door is partially open so of course my seventeen-year-old brother, Noah, peers in, all protective concern wrapped in a hockey player’s frame. His eyes catch on my party preparation spread.

Lifting a brow, he asks, “Going somewhere?”

“Yes. I think. I haven’t officially decided yet.” I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting my sweater until it hangs exactly right. The soft gray material is clean and fresh from the package. I ordered three of the same ones last week, making it much easier to decide what to wear. “Bel invited me to her place. Just a small thing. I want to go, but I also don’t, so the verdict is still out on whether I’m actually going somewhere or not.”

Noah’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bel Thompson?”

“Yes, and before you start—I know. I’m probably going to hate it. But Dr. Martinez says exposure is important, and Mom’s been worried I’m not being social enough and?—”

“Hey.” Noah cuts me off mid-ramble, his gaze softening. “There’s no need to justify what you’re doing. I’ll support you no matter what, so long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal or candy corn.”

“What if I’m doing illegal stuffwithcandy corn?” I wiggle my eyebrows playfully.

Noah smirks. “Then I have no idea who you are. And I disavow any knowledge of you as my sibling.”

“Rude.” I grin back at him.

“Oh, stop. You know I’m always here for you. Just … text me if you need an escape plan, okay?”

The anxiety I was feeling before Noah entered the room has disappeared.I can do this. I can be normal.

“I know, I know. All it takes is one message, and you’ll swoop in with some tragic story about our pet chipmunk dying.” I pause and press my lips together. “And I love you for that, but I have to try, have to make an effort. I’m terrified, but I’m even more frightened of being this way for the rest of my life.”

“Children!” Mom’s voice floats up the stairs. “Dinner’s getting cold!”

“Coming!” Noah shouts back, then gives me a pointed look. “Got it. You’re going to try to conquer your fears. Now what about Mom? Do you want to deal with her excited hovering or do you want me to tell her?”

I tip my head back and groan.

“I take that as my cue to tell her.” Noah laughs.

Looking back at him, I nod. “Yes, you do the dirty work. I’ll be down in a minute. Just need to …”

“Check everything three times?” His smile is gentle. “Take your time. I’ll save you from Dad’s meatloaf and any lingering questions.”

Noah is a true hero. The best brother ever.

After he leaves, I find myself staring at my reflection again. My chest is hollow as I force a ragged breath into my lungs. The girl staring back at me is half the person she used to be, her perfect edges now cracked with sharp, jagged pieces sticking out, threatening to slice anyone who might get too close. Tears sting the back of my eyes. Sometimes I wish I was still the girl I used to be—carefree, bright, open—but then I rememberthatnight and the reason that girl is dead and buried. Maybe this is what I deserve.

No. That’s wrong.I’m more than this debilitating disease.

So as much as the annoying voice in the back of my mind tells me to stay home, to hide under the blankets with a book, to stay in my comfortable bubble, I remember my therapist’s words.“There is no room for comfort when you’re trying to grow.”

“You can do this.” I hype myself up. “It’s just a party. No, a get-together.” I pretend that minimizing is helping.

Just a party.I snort in response to my own thoughts. If it were as easy as being just a party, I would have already attended a dozen or more. The last time I went to a party, I hid in the pantry almost the entire time. My phone buzzes, and Bel’s name flashes across the notification screen with an incoming text.

Before I can check it, I hear my mother’s delighted exclamation from downstairs.

“Salem’s going to a party? Another one? That’s so exciting!!”

I close my eyes and count to three. You’d think she’d be like other parents with warnings about drinking and drugs. But nope. I suppose at twenty-two, still at home, not done with college, she is hoping for normal as much as I am. After a few more seconds of self-pity, I check my supplies again for safe measure and then head downstairs to face my family’s well-meaning but overwhelming support. Sometimes I think their careful optimism is harder to handle than if they just treated me like I was broken.

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