Page 22 of Impossible

Iwakefeelinglikea phone left in rice overnight. Not even rice, more like those little desiccant packets that draw the moisture out of dried goods. I am crackly and stiff, my skin stretched to parchment over my bones. Every movement is creaky and painful. My face is itchy with dried tears.

I pulled myself together long enough for Leon to leave yesterday, then promptly fell to pieces once more. The tears didn’t last long—I couldn’t even say why I was crying. None of it feels real.

The day looming in front of me is daunting. Empty, with no plans and no friends and no rehearsal or admin work to fill it. I am meant to have a purpose; I work, I learn, I rehearse, I laugh at the right times and tell the right jokes and get the right answers and reap the rewards in red circled 100’s and busy groupchats and audience applause. Even in my gap year I’ve been taking classes online, trying to figure out what I might want to major in should the pipe dream of college ever come true for me.

I wonder what Cam and Rose are doing with their morning ahead of rehearsal at noon. Probably brunch—Rose loves to drive off-campus for Saturday brunch. They split where they go, sometimes to bougie suburb brunch spots, sometimes to divey places that don’t card so they can get bottomless mimosas.

I never joined those outings—even the seediest brunch spot was out of budget for me, and I hate spending money on food I’m only going to pick at anyway. I usually stayed in bed, resting and conserving enough energy to survive a six-hour rehearsal later.

So, all things considered, other than the change in location, my Saturday morning isn’t very different from how I would usually spend it.

I roll over and try to sleep more—I don’t know what time it is, I just know I don’t want to be conscious yet. It’s no use though—my brain has awakened. Everything is fractured.

My anxiety transmutes to anger when I’m too tired to sustain it any longer. How could they do this? Just drag me out of my own life and dump me here with no explanation. How is this fair?

An all-too-familiar stomach ache comes on. The kind I got when my parents first dumped me at Adams eight years ago. I thought I’d see them at Thanksgiving. I thought they’d answer my calls. I thought that I’d see my little sister Lise again. I saved every art class project for her, so she could pin them up on her corkboard wall in her bedroom at home and have something to remember me by when I went back.

They didn’t answer. I never saw her again. She’s twelve now, and if you asked me to pick her out of a line-up, I’m not sure I’d be able to.

I’m working myself up quite nicely when a knock sounds on my door.

My things hadn’t yet arrived when I fell asleep yesterday, so I’m in my crumpled clothes still. I get out of bed and stagger a few steps before the headrush hits. My brain goes ice-cold, my vision going entirely grey and fuzzy, little artifacts floating in my vision when I try to stand.

“Hold on,” I mumble, bending over at the waist to try and get blood back into my head. My fingers and toes tingle and for a sweltering moment I think I’m going to vomit.

“Indigo?” a feminine voice sounds from the other side of the door.

“Just a sec!” I call. I try straightening again—every inch my head rises is accompanied by a matching increase in static in my eyesight. My pulse throbs in my ears. I need to drink some water. And eat.

It isn’t going to get better. I stagger to the door, white knuckling the bed to stay semi-upright. I open it and then turn and slump into the small chair at the desk. Instant relief. Until the spinning sets in. I squint my eyes, trying to block out the way the room is swinging from side to side in front of me.

I can vaguely make out a small woman standing there. She smells of strawberries and cream; those little pink and white swirled hard candies, not the real deal. I loved those candies when I was a kid—my mom used to clean an office that had them in a bowl upfront for clients. I wasn’t supposed to go with her to cleaning jobs, but childcare was expensive, and I would always sneak a handful until a secretary yelled at me one time. After that I stayed home alone. I think I was six.

There are two cardboard boxes at the woman’s feet and a tray in her hands. A large book sits on one side, a takeout container and bottle of water on the other.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah.” My voice is tight with the effort of not keeling to one side. The dizziness is swinging my head in circles. The silence is awkward. I am clearly not ok. “Just a little light-headed,” I amend. “It’ll pass.”

“Maybe breakfast will help.” I smell her even more strongly as she comes closer. Then I smell the container—eggs and bacon and maple syrup and pancakes. I can make out each scent individually without needing to look. There’s also something sweet and fresh. She opens the container and I see that it’s a little bowl of mixed berries, frosted with cold next to the steaming hot eggs and pancakes and bacon.

I’m starving. The food smells criminally good, and I fully intend to eat some of it, just not with her watching me. I take the bottle of water instead, downing half of it in one long gulp.

Then I really look at her. She’s tiny, maybe five feet tall, and she has a curvy, hourglass figure. Dark brown curly hair and pale rosy skin. She’s pretty. I don’t meet her eyes.

“I’m Ms. O’Brien, one of the instructors here. I teach omega physiology, behavior, and psychology classes. How are you doing?”

I shrug.

“Do you prefer to go by Indigo or Indie?” she asks.

“Indie.”

“Ok. Well, Indie, I just wanted to come say hi. Usually newly awakened omegas take my 101 class together, but that’s targeted at eleven- and twelve-year-olds. You’re a bit of a unique case. I talked to Headmaster Wilder and he agreed that since you’re on a compressed timeline, we can do private tutoring instead. I’ll be able to teach you the basics so you don’t get blindsided by your heat. Does that sound ok to you?”

“Yeah, I guess. What’s the book?”

The cover is mostly blue, with a group of smiling kids in a yellow framed image in the center. They are in neon windbreakers and baggy jeans. The title reads,The Basics of Omega Physiology, Behavior, and Psychology.It looks like the textbook for my Spanish class, outdated and retro.

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