Checked Again (7 page)

Chapter
6

tuesday
and wednesday

AFTER
LAST NIGHT’S CARROT CAKE dessert, my weight is just about back to normal. That
means back to normal eating today. Back to fourteen hundred calories.

It’s
quite relieving. No more pressure of weighing less than usual…no more wondering
if I ought to try to maintain the new, four pounds under normal, weight and
just start eating less calories each day. Too much extra stuff to think about.

{Enter
David Bowie again…this time with Queen and
“Under Pressure
.
”
}

I
already have plenty of extra stuff to think about…like last night…his
eyes…having to make an impossible appointment decision…

Oh,
and also clouds…I’m now supposed to be thinking about clouds as I sit here,
back in poetry class. As usual, I have nothing but suckful sentences written on
the paper in front of me. A poet I am not. Clearly.

As
the “sharing” part of class commences, I lower my head and pick off my nail
polish. When the girl next to me reads one of her masterpieces, I have to bite
my lip to keep from laughing at her ridiculous stream of rhyming words. It’s
like some Dr. Seuss book on crack.

Dr.
Emery is falling all over herself in love with it, however. Her opinion isn’t
really to be trusted, though; she did just tell me minutes ago that my poetry
portfolio looks “enlightening” and “thought-provoking.”
Sure it does.
Fortunately, Dr. Emery hasn’t asked me to “share” any of my portfolio
brilliance during class. She also hasn’t called on me to read my cloud poetry.

She
dismisses us about twenty minutes early, and I head home to continue reading
Anna
Karenina
. I get lost in the book for most of the day. Of course, it takes
me longer than usual to read since I keep thinking about last night…and also
because I have to stop every hour or so when a different family member calls to
check in.
I wonder how long this phone babysitting
schedule will go on. A couple more days? A week?

{The
Police sneak in with a super stalkery
“Every Breath You Take
.
”
}

Melanie’s
call comes right before I’m about to start preparing to leave the house for 
Professional Writing Lab I. Our conversation lasts a little longer than my
conversations with my other family members because she has a bunch of Jared
information for me…information about him breaking up with teeny tiny
non-breakfast-eating girl…information about him already meeting a new girl
(which is unreal—it’s only been three days since that breakfast).

Melanie
and I hang up after dedicating a reasonable amount of speculation to the
duration and consistency of his new relationship. Then I move on to my
thirty-three checks. I have less time than usual to complete them, but I get
them done. And then I’m off to class…for once, not to hear a special publishing
presentation. That’s finally over.
Thank God.
For the next few weeks, we
are researching assigned topics that deal with contemporary issues.

Dr.
Harper hands me my topic slip after he comes over to my desk to ask how I’m
feeling. I don’t tell him that I’d be feeling a lot better if he wasn’t
standing so close to my desk. It’s not his fault that he’s invading my personal
space bubble—he doesn’t know how big my bubble is…that it’s at least triple the
size of the socially accepted one.

I
tell him that I’m feeling fine, and soon he’s on his way to help another
student. After he’s gone, I glance at the paper he’s left on my desk. My topic.

Teen pregnancy

I’m
supposed to research teen pregnancy.
Fabulous.
I’m sure I’ll come across
no mention of STDs or blood or anything in my research.
UGH.
I could ask
for a new topic. But then I’d just be inviting Dr. Harper back for a visit in
my personal bubble…and he’ll probably just have me research contagious diseases
or murderers or something. Forget that.

Time
to get to work. Some students are heading to the front of the room to grab
actual encyclopedias and reference books.
Seriously?
Who researches like
that now? Forget that too.

I
came prepared. I brought the netbook that normally just sits in my closet. I
haven’t had to use it for quite some time, not since last year when I had a
class that met in a computer lab. After the first day of that class, after I
was told that we would be required to use computers every day in class
(computers that had been touched by countless students), I went out to buy my
netbook. Obviously a no-brainer.

I
pull the netbook out of my purse and start to work, reading articles and taking
notes, picking at my nails, and closing my browser window every time it looks
like disease rates might soon be mentioned.

As
soon as class ends, I walk slowly to the parking lot, enjoying the unseasonably
warm fall weather. My phone buzzes as soon as I get into my car. I pull it out
of my purse.

It’s
him.

Unknown
Number.

Count.
Open…already knowing what the message will be about.

You haven’t called
to take that appointment yet. Dr. Grove can only hold it for a couple more
days. If you don’t take care of it by Thursday morning, you can expect a call
from Annie.

{The
Police begin
“Every
Breath You Take”
again—this time with a special verse for Dr. Blake.}

I
throw my phone back into my purse, angry at the clinical tone of his text. I drive
home and start my night preparations right away. When I finish, I try once more
to throw my hamper-sitting pajamas into the washer…but somehow I instead end up
crawling into them once again before falling asleep to a fall casserole special
on television.

7:30
A.M. WEDNESDAY MORNING. I WAKE up to a program about breakfasts wrapped in
bacon…wrapping calories around calories around calories. Very disturbing.

Also
disturbing? The faint smell of him on my skin.

I
leap out of bed, mentally chastising myself for being so weak in the
pajama-wearing department. I change into a new (freshly washed) pair of pajamas
and head to the thermostat. And morning preparations are under way.

Well,
I think they are under way…but then I’m interrupted three times before I can
even start sorting the items in my still pretty full (still full of food that
Mom made Mandy buy) refrigerator.

Dad
is my first interruption. He calls as I’m brushing my teeth. Just a quick
check-in. I’m pretty sure I hear him typing as we talk. He’s probably reporting
the call via email to Mom since she can’t really call during the day when she’s
teaching.

I
wonder what he reports. The tone of my voice? How many rings it takes before I
pick up? I’m sure there’s a special form or something to record all of this
information. Melanie probably made one…

Before
we get off the phone, I thank Dad for calling and checking in. I tell him that
I really do appreciate all of the phone calls. And I do. I know I’m lucky to
have a family that cares…really cares. And I want Dad (and the rest of them) to
know that. But I also want him to write down that I said that—it has to score
me mad points on the form.

I
hang up with Dad wondering if there is some sort of a point scale on the form
(if there really is a form). There almost has to be a point scale. Otherwise,
how will they ever measure my progress? How will they decide when I don’t need
to be evaluated by the form anymore?

With
these thoughts in mind, I finish brushing my teeth and begin straightening
pictures.

And
then my phone makes a couple noises I haven’t heard in quite a long time, so I
stop to pull it out of my pocket.

It
seems that Melanie is checking on me through Words with Friends again. Tricky.
Tricky. Tricky. She has played a word for over fifty points, and she’s also
sent me a message.

How
is it going?

I
respond quickly…trying to look good for the form.

Fine
:)

She
writes back a couple times, telling me about work, asking me if I’m going to
take my turn in our game. I haven’t taken a turn in weeks. And she only took a
turn just now as a means of stalking me…

I
don’t call her on it, though. I know that she cares…that she doesn’t mean to
act like a stalker. I tell her that I’ll take a turn soon. Then we say our
goodbyes, and I go back to my picture straightening.

My
next interruption comes as I’m sweeping the floor. Another phone call.

Thank
God I check the caller ID before I answer. And thank God I took the time to
program this number into my phone.

Dr.
Gabriel.
Ugh.

Send
to voicemail. Send far, far away.

I
check his message right before I begin working on the refrigerator. He’s hoping
I’m feeling well…reminding me to get some rest in between classes…oh, and he’s
just going to hold his office hours in the writing center again tonight…in case
I need some relief…and so he can run something by me…

Fabulous.
He’s going to
be stepping all over my personal space in just a few short hours.

And
there won’t be anyone there to save me this time…

Those
sad blue eyes pop back into my mind…as does the fact that I still haven’t
written back to his cold, detached message. Nor have I called Dr. Grove’s
office to take that appointment. But I don’t intend to take that appointment…or
any appointment at all. I just haven’t figured out how to get away with that
yet.

{Demi
Lovato begins her refrain to
“Heart Attack
.
”
I’m not sure
what she’s suggesting…that I’ll have a heart attack if I have to go to another
appointment, or that I should fake a heart attack to get out of going to the
appointment. Hmm…if I fake a heart attack, I’ll just have to have more
appointments—to check my heart and to check my brain because, really, who fakes
a heart attack? And after all of those extra appointments, they’ll find out how
crazy I am and then just send me right back to Dr. Blake. Damn it. Not going to
work, Demi. Not going to work at all.}

Back
to my morning preparations.

Somehow
I manage to finish with no more interruptions. Then I get through a couple
hundred pages of
Anna Karenina
, only having to stop once when Mandy
pokes her head in my room. She says she only came home to change clothes since
it’s so warm out today, but I’m not buying that. I’m sure she’s just following
Mom’s
Callie’s crazy—let’s stalk her
schedule. I’m positive that this is
the case when Mandy hands me a little white bag, saying she passed by an
awesome new bakery on her way home.

I
thank her, put the white bag on my desk, and tell her she looks pretty adorable
in her new outfit—a little blue dress and matching sandals. She then heads out
and I keep reading, not opening the bag of, I’m sure, a zillion calories
sitting beside me.

Soon
it’s time for my leaving-the-house preparations. Before I start them, I change
into a lighter shirt and grab a pair of flip-flops from my closet, figuring
that the writing center will probably be pretty warm. Since it’s October, I’m
sure no one will think to put on the air conditioning…

And
I don’t want to sweat. And then stink. And then have to sit and dream about
showering the entire time that I work…not that I don’t normally dream about
showering for at least part of my shift—but not the whole time.

Flip-flops
on.

Thirty-three
checks completed times three.

Out
the door.

Handle
twist. Handle twist. Handle twist.

Chapter
7

rain

I
WAS RIGHT. THE WRITING center is pretty warm. It’s also rather packed once
again. As I walk up to my desk, I look around carefully at each computer chair,
looking out for any surprise guests.

There
don’t seem to be any.

Unfortunately,
Dr. Gabriel catches my eye as I look around, as though he figures I’m looking
for him.
Gross.
I give him a quick nod and head to my desk. Fortunately,
he has a line of students waiting to talk to him, so he doesn’t follow me.

But
he’ll be up here eventually…

I
try to push that ugly thought out of my brain as I check my computer for
tickets. When I see that I don’t have any, I pull out my Kindle to continue
reading…but, really, my eyes won’t focus on the screen in front of me. They
keep floating up to the main door. Every time I hear the door click open, my
head gets all fuzzy and I look up, hoping that Dr. Blake doesn’t show up
again…hoping that he does. This goes on for hours. Looking at the door…trying
to look at my Kindle...pausing to deal with the few tickets that come in…then
looking at the door again.

And
then all of a sudden, my little routine is over and Dr. Gabriel is standing in
front of me. I pick at my nails underneath my desk as he pulls up a chair right
next to me.

Please
don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t—

“Calista,
I know you’ve had a rough couple of weeks,” he starts in a whisper, making it
overly obvious that he is trying to be compassionately discreet. I bet he uses
a variation of this technique to get some girls into bed with him. It’s a
creepy technique—just as creepy as everything else he does.

He
continues. “Now, you’ve gotten through a few full days this week, and, well,
I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

As
he speaks, I look forward, out at the rows of computers and working students. I
only have one more nail to pick off. If he asks me to go out on a date with him
or something, I might have to start working on the red polish on my exposed
toenails…

He’s
still talking. “So I’ve arranged to make next week a lot less stressful,
perhaps even a bit enjoyable.”

Please
don’t ask me out. Please don’t ask me out. Please don’t—

“I’ve
signed you up to attend a writing conference with me and—”

I
look up at him in nervous surprise, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Now,
before you say anything, Calista, I want you to know that I’ve already taken
care of everything—plane tickets, hotel rooms, registrations at the most
popular presentation sessions. You don’t have to worry about a thing. You—”

He’s
still talking, but I can’t hear him anymore. My stomach starts caving into
itself as little drops of moisture begin to form in the corners of my eyes. I
know exactly what conference he’s talking about. My English professors keep
talking about it. It’s a major writing conference. Only a few select students
will get to go. And it’s in Florida.

I
try to speak, to cut him off, but my throat is impossibly dry. No words will
come out.

I
can’t do this. I can’t get through this. I—

“Now,
Calista,” he stops rambling about his trip arrangements and raises his voice to
a slightly louder level. “I’ve already talked to your graduate advisor. Dr.
Hause.”

What?
Why would—

“She’s
thrilled that you are getting this opportunity so early—most graduate students
don’t get to fulfill this conference graduation requirement until their last
semester of classes.”

I
know. I have prayed and prayed that the requirement will disappear by the time
I make it to my last semester…or that a conference will be held for the first
time ever on the campus at Pierce…or that—

He
cuts into my thoughts with more horrible information. “Dr. Hause has taken care
of the university’s credit paperwork, and—” He pauses as though he’s about to
tell me the best part yet. A big smile spreads onto his face. “Dr. Hause has
helped me to get both of us excused from classes at the end of next week, which
means we can leave next Thursday morning and make it for the preregistration
seminars.” He keeps talking…about how he can pick me up on Thursday morning to
take me to the airport…to get on a plane…to go to a hotel…to—

Oh.
My. God.

The
moisture in my eyes isn’t only in the corners anymore.

I
have to get out of here. But he won’t stop talking. He has to stop. He has to
stop. He has to—

My
phone buzzes. I hear its muffled sound coming from my purse, which is sitting
beside me.

Without
a second thought, I pull the phone out of my purse, excusing myself and
stopping Dr. Gabriel mid-sentence.

And
then I look at the ID screen.

One
of my tears falls right onto my phone…directly on top of the words “Unknown
Number.”

I
can feel Dr. Gabriel staring at me, waiting for me to answer my call. And the
phone—it keeps buzzing beneath my fingers.

It’s
too much…way too much.

{Jordin
Sparks fades in with
“No
Air
.
”
}

I
don’t know what to do…except to stop the staring…and the buzzing…

So
I do that. I answer the call with a tiny hello.

“You
haven’t taken that appointment yet, Calista.” The detached voice on the other
end of the phone replaces some of my tears with dry anger.

I
clear my throat, trying to steady my voice. “Um, well, I can’t talk now because
I’m still at work and, well—”

I
am cut off by Dr. Gabriel, who is now holding his watch up by my downturned
face. I mumble “excuse me” into the phone and listen to Dr. Gabriel as he
whispers entirely too close to my face.

“It’s
seven fifteen, Calista. Your shift is over. You can go ahead and finish your
call. We’ll talk more about our arrangements later.”

I
nod slightly without looking up at him.

And
by some miracle, he moves his face away from mine, pushes back his chair, and
goes away.

I
breathe in a small, relieved breath.

The
relief lasts for about a third of a second.

“Calista—are
you there?” His voice. On the phone.
{Jordin Sparks starts crying out her
refrain.}
I keep the phone on my ear, but I don’t respond. I have to get
out of here…as far away from Dr. Gabriel’s conference discussion as possible. I
gather my purse with one hand and head to the entrance, using the bottom of my
flip-flopped foot to push open the door and lead me outside.

And
now it’s starting to rain. Of course.

“Calista?
What’s going on?” He’s still here. Right in my ear. His voice sounds so cold,
though. So not him.

The
rain is picking up. If I can just get to my car quickly, I should be able to
beat the downpour that is inevitably coming. I whisper to three and start to
run, breathing heavily into the phone and focusing intently on the parking lot
ahead. The rain gets heavier. I don’t have a lot of time. I pick up my pace,
pressing the phone against my head and pulling my purse closer to my side.
{Jordin
gets louder and louder.}

“Calista?”
A pause. “Calista?” His voice gets less doctory with each call of my name. My
breathing gets heavier as I run even faster. Large droplets of rain begin to
create little puddles of slop around me. I lengthen my strides and jump over
the disgusting pools of water, careful not to splash my almost naked feet.

The
puddles are multiplying, though, and they are growing in depth and
disgustingness. I frantically try to move around them, running even faster than
before and jumping over—

“Callie?”
He sounds like him. Like the real him.

I
stop mid-leap, surprised by the kind tone of his voice. Before I know what is
happening, my foot rushes to the ground and my right ankle twists out in an
unnatural position. It twists further as it lands on the ground, slipping on
the wet sidewalk beneath me.

In
full panic mode now, I yank my foot back the other way, trying to regain my
balance before I fall.

And
it works.

But
the little toe thong in my flip-flop snaps out of the base of the shoe.

A
small sob breaks through my lips as I look down at the gigantic hole in the
bottom of my flip-flop. I’m not going to be able to fix it…and my car is still
pretty far away.

I
stand there in shock, my legs parted awkwardly in my emergency balanced
position. Rain pouring over me.

{Jordin
sings her refrain again and again and again.}
He…still on the phone…calls my
name over and over and over. And he still sounds like him…the him who held my
hand and massaged my shoulders and—

“Callie—I’m
on my way. Don’t hang up.”

I
don’t hang up. I don’t move. I stand, my face covered with rain…and tears…and
frustration.

“Breathe,
Callie. Just breathe.”

I’m
trying to breathe, Dr. Blake. But there are puddles of germs surrounding my
feet.

Okay.
I’ve got to try to get out of this mess.

After
a slow count of three and a forced, belabored inhale, I squeeze my toes, trying
to clench the little broken piece of flip-flop plastic…trying to see if I can
somehow manage to hold the shoe together and walk.

I
try one step, but I can’t do it. The flip-flop falls, and my foot crashes back
down to the ground, splashing my toes with puddle water. My chest tightens,
turns into a stone. My stomach starts making gurgling noises. My brain begins
spinning.

Anything
could be on this sidewalk, floating around in these puddles of water. Spit.
Gum. Cigarette butts. Band-Aids.

I
feel the rising in my throat only a second before I begin throwing up, adding a
whole new level of disgusting to the ground beneath me.

What
germs are on this sidewalk…in this puddle? What germs are touching my foot
right now? If I have any tiny little cuts somewhere on my toes, different
diseases are probably starting to—

My
reflexes fling my head down, and I start throwing up again. Another sob flies
out of my mouth as I finish. I lift my head up to the sky to let the rain pour
over my face and—

“Callie?
Callie? Hold on. I’m almost—”

He’s
here.

I
feel him. I smell him. I breathe him.

Standing
right in front of me.

{Damien
and Jordin now sing at the same time—both fighting to be heard.}

I
lower my head slowly, rain and tears streaming over my face.

Our.
Eyes. Meet.

I
inhale slowly.

His
eyes…his eyes seem to understand. They understand everything.

Without
any questions or words or even syllables, he lowers the phone from his ear,
putting it into his pocket. He takes my phone out of my hand, off of my ear,
and slides it into an opening in my purse. Then he leans his body down
and…and…he…he…scoops one arm under my legs and…and the other around the back of
my neck. Pulling me against him. So tight. My body starts to shake under the
warmth of his arm…his skin against the back of my neck.

Oh
my God.

He’s…he’s
here…he’s holding me…so close.

My
body, now completely shaking, starts to fall into his—

NO.
No, Callie.

I
do my best to not lean into him as he carries me.

I
close my eyes as he begins to walk both of us toward the parking lot, leaving
my broken flip-flop behind. I keep my eyes shut as he walks briskly ahead. The
skin of his arm burns against the back of my neck. My body continues to shake.
My head repeatedly falls into his strong shoulder, his warm body, but I keep
doing everything I can to pull it back up. Straight up.

I
lose my focus, though, as I begin to feel the rain slide over my foot, my
filthy foot. I’m sure it’s infected already…whatever germs and diseases were on
that sidewalk, in that puddle, have probably already somehow seeped into my
body and started to run through my blood stream, and—

And
I feel another rise in my throat. I spin my head away from him and mumble,
trying to warn him. He stops walking immediately and just holds me in place as
what now almost has to be the rest of the contents of my stomach comes tumbling
out, joining the rain on its travel to the ground.

Eventually,
it stops. The throwing up stops. I stop shaking. I freeze.

I
stay where I am…leaning over, head pointed toward the ground. A repulsive mess.

I
force my mouth open and spit out the words “Just move” as loud as I can manage,
hoping he’ll hear me.