18 Thoughts (My So-Called Afterlife Book 3) (11 page)

My feet slipped on the last step before reaching the top. Nate rescued me with his quick movements, hugging me. There was no reason for me to keep holding on to him, but I did anyway. His arms were so warm as he clutched the back of my shirt, and his heart pounded against my chest like a drum. My heart fluttered in response. I let go immediately, refusing to make things more complicated between us. Robotically, I led him toward my office.

“Like what?”

“I can’t name any off the top of my head, but I’m sure there are a million.”

“Well, I’d say it has a million advantages.”

“Like what?”

“Exhibit number one, the lunchroom just now. I’ll always know when you’re in trouble and need my help.”

“I don’t know. Nothing feels right anymore.” I looked down at my watch, calculating the minutes until school ended. “Obviously, I don’t have any delusions about dating Conner. I don’t even want to talk to him ever again.”

“You want some advice?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I figured. And if I knew what was good for me, I’d keep my mouth shut because him acting like a jerk brings the odds in my favor. But from what I can gather from your thoughts, it sounds as if he’s been a really good friend of yours for over a decade. Maybe you owe it to him to not give up on your friendship so easily.”

I sighed. “You’re right. Just this morning, I resolved not to be angry with him. But now I just hope I can keep myself from killing him and his latest bimbo.”

“Jealous much?”

“You know, you have your moments where you rate a ten on the jerk meter, too.”

“Touché.” He closed the distance between us. “But I find your feisty side sexy.”

Groaning, I quickly opened the door to the empty journalism room, then made my way to the back office.

“So you seriously do have your own office?”

I chuckled morosely because I doubted his surprise. “I share the space with Nic. We both write for the paper. We were going to share the coveted titles of business managers for our student publication this year because it’s a really big job getting enough ad space to pay for all we want to do, but when Conner got struck by lightning on April first… it just made me think, go big or go home. So I told Mrs. Cleveland I wanted to run for editor-in-chief, and we didn’t even have to vote. Everyone on the paper thought it should be me.”

He leaned forward, studying an article I’d written about prom styles through the ages pinned to the bulletin board. “This was from April’s issue. I’m guessing it’s the last article you wrote?”

“You’d be correct.”

Shuddering, he said, “You didn’t go to prom.”

It wasn’t a question. Slumping down in the desk chair, I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

After a painful few seconds, Nate slipped his arm around my shaking shoulders. “Olga, I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. Nobody should be under this much stress.”

“You should leave. I’ll be fine.”

He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “I don’t want to leave. Maybe I can help you figure things out. Just last night, Conner was himself and wanted you to promise to not give up on him. The Olga I know, the one full of faith and hope, wouldn’t throw in the towel so quickly.”

I stared at him. “You didn’t listen in last night, did you? What do you do, stand outside my window so you can hear my thoughts or something?”

He leaned back. “What? No! But the scenario has been on instant replay in your mind all day. Kind of hard to ignore.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” My voice came out hoarse. “But how could you help me figure things out?”

With his jaw set in thought, he answered after a minute. “We should probably start with Googling the side effects of coma patients.”

He flipped open the laptop, then asked me for my password. Embarrassed, I told him Conner99.

“Why the 99?”

Bringing up Google, I typed in my search. “It’s the year we met.”

There was a lot to sift through during the twenty minutes we had left for lunch. The sites mentioned a variety of personality changes we’d seen in Conner—everything from disinhibition, impulsiveness, childish behavior, lack of initiative, and inappropriate sexual activity. The last one seemed especially accurate. What I wanted to know was when this side effect would switch off so I could have my best friend back. But, of course, there were no real answers for timelines. Some stated a few weeks, while others seemed to think two years, and some stated the side effects could be irreversible. The advice was to be patient with the person, not make a big deal out of their behavior, and direct them toward the appropriate doctors for help. Overall, there was little reason to hope. Frustrated, I snapped the computer shut as the bell rang.

“Are Conner’s parents taking him to the doctor for help? Maybe they could prescribe some meds to get his behaviors in check. I mean, he’s basically destroying himself. They have to see that, right? No matter how happy they are to have him back.”

I slung my book bag over one shoulder. “When he visited me last night, he said they had staged an intervention with a therapist. But what I don’t get is why he’d be himself last night, then back to jerkface Conner today.”

Nate nodded. “Dr. Judy. I see the same therapist.”

My mouth fell open. “Is she like the only therapist in this town or something? My mom has been trying to get me to her office for months.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But whatever is going on with Conner can’t be fixed with therapy alone. Maybe he has a bipolar disorder, or maybe schizophrenia, or maybe something we haven’t thought of yet. I can eat lunch with you in here every day if you want to avoid Conner and do some research.”

Opening the door, I was taken off guard by a group of five guys huddling together in the hall, all laughing at my dating profile. Nate whispered something to a nearby teacher standing in her doorway, and then she yelled at the boys to put their phones away.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. We walked in silence to fifth period. His mind seemed distracted, his gaze anywhere but on me. Maybe he was looking for other guys with their phones out so he could bust them, too. I hoped he wasn’t looking for Conner so he could punch him again.

When I arrived at my Multivariable Calculus class, Nate followed me in.

“What are you doing? You’re not in this class, are you?”

He hit his forehead with the heel on his hand. “Oh, right!” The bell tolled five times, the sound of a ship, reminding us Grand Haven was the Coast Guard capital of the good ole USA. “Well, if you need me, all you need to do is think it, and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Okay, thanks.” As I took my standard spot in the front row, I couldn’t help but grin as he waved at me through the small window of the door before taking off for his own class.

Mr. Propert wasted no time in calling me up to the Smart Board to work out a problem we had for summer math homework. I breathed a sigh of relief when he declared my answer correct. A calculus theorem I could figure out and prove with no problems or worries. After all, I was captain of the math team, too. But trying to decipher Conner’s new behavior or my feelings for Nate… I didn’t have a clue.

Nate joined me in my journalism office every day the first week of school, even opted for after school detention for the fight instead of serving his sentence at lunch so he could help me. On Friday, we snarfed down greasy cafeteria stuffed-crust pepperoni pizza and sweet potato waffle fries while hovering over Google searches on the laptop together. Today, we even shared a caramel-flavored iced latte. As I ate with abandon, my mind whirled over the endless possibilities.

Throwing his napkin down, Nate belched. “Excuse me.”

“Nice, Barca.” For some reason, I’d started referring to him by his last name sometime during the week. I think it made me feel more like a journalist researching a story, rather than a heartbroken, distraught friend trying desperately to find answers.

“Thank you. So, only ten minutes left on our lunch hour research. What do you conclude?”

I looked around at my desk scattered with notes. “I conclude I know nothing. Maybe the way Conner is acting isn’t so abnormal after all. Maybe it’s just a normal response to a traumatizing event. He may not be someone I want for my best friend anymore, but at least he’s alive, and he seems happy. His parents have him visiting a doctor, that therapist, and the school counselor. I think the best thing I can do right now is wait and…”

“Meditate?”

“I was going to say pray.”

“Oh. Why did you hesitate to say that word?”

I tossed my glasses on the desk and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t know if you have any type of spiritual life, and I didn’t want to spook you.”

He took another sip from the latte, then offered me the last of it. “Don’t I seem like someone who has faith? I accepted the reading your mind trick fairly easily.”

Running a hand through my frizzy hair, I decided to wrap my curls into a bun and secure it with a pencil. “True. So you go to church?”

Nate caught a strand of my red hair between his fingers and tucked the piece behind my ear. What startled me wasn’t the intimate gesture but how natural the touch of his hands on my skin felt. “Olga, I find that, sadly, attending church and having faith seldom go hand in hand.”

“Is that your passive-aggressive way of stating you’re too good for church?”

He frowned. “Not at all. I’m just saying there are plenty of people at my last church who I’d be surprised to find in heaven, and there’s a lot of people I know who’ve never stepped foot in a church that I’d be shocked if they went to hell.”

Slipping my glasses back on, I said, “I’m sure you’re right. Still, maybe you want to start joining me for Youth Alive? It’s a prayer group I lead on campus. We meet every morning in the library before school starts.”

Nate shrugged. “Maybe. Have you ever tried meditation, though?”

“No, have you?”

“Absolutely. I’ve read a lot of psychology and philosophy books that speak about meditating. Actually, the ability to intentionally
not
think about anything for a little while is something I’ve practiced more and more since meeting you. I know you don’t like the weird little brain hack trick I can do, so I’m trying not to. Would you like me to teach you how to meditate?”

“Now?”

“Why not? It decreases stress, and no offense, but you’ve been suffering from a major anxiety problem ever since we met.”

I stretched my head to see out of the office window into the journalism room. Nobody seemed to be spying on us, but I still asked, “Here?”

“Sure.”

I curled up in the desk chair and watched him for a moment. “Okay. What do I do?”

“The first step is making your mind completely blank and empty.”

“How do I do that exactly?”

Nate’s eyes were wide and earnest. “First, I release all my worries from the day. Then, I recite a short, positive message over and over again until my mind grabs ahold of it, and then I get rid of all my thoughts and emotions.”

“I’m having a hard time picturing this working.”

“Look, let’s just start. Practice makes perfect. Start with taking long, deep breaths. Relax and feel any pure energy coming to you until your mind is a blank slate.”

I twisted the Morticia Addams ring on my finger, the one Conner gave me on my sixteenth birthday, while Nate pulled out his phone and played some soft instrumental music.

“To help create an environment of relaxation,” he explained. Putting one open palm on my knee, he said, “Let’s begin then.”

He closed his eyes, and I did the same, placing my hand on top of his. Hearing his deep breaths, I matched his inhales, holding for a count of three, then exhaled. I confessed all my sins to get rid of my worries like Nate suggested, then recited the words of St. Francis because they spoke to me in the moment: “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.” I imagined all my thoughts drifting away in a little cloud high into the sky until it disappeared.

And then.

I’m sitting on the couch in Kyle’s living room. Music throbs in my ears and shakes the halls as Nate belts out the lyrics that Conner wrote for the Cantankerous Monkey Squad song, “Return.” I glance at the people gathered for the first house party of the school year. Mostly the stoner nonconformists clique litters the green carpet, moshing as Nate hits all the right notes. I notice a cheerleader named Brittany sitting on a Detroit Lions inflatable chair in the corner, practically foaming at the mouth while she watches Nate sing. Tammy passes around a plate of cookies in the kitchen off to the left. Dave, a guy from my Driver’s Ed class this semester, offers me a beer, and I turn him down. Several people on the back porch play a drinking game called Quarters by the Keg.

Nate walks toward me after he sets down the microphone, his eyes pleading. “Olga, I always see you.”

He extends his hand, and I take it, letting him lead me toward a bright light.

The vision left abruptly, and Nate and I opened our eyes, gasping.

“What the heck was that?” I shrieked.

“No clue.”

“So you saw that, too?”

“The party scene? Yep.”