Every Last Word Read Online Free Page B

under my eyelashes. “Sometimes. Is it that obvious?”
    “You can take in a lot of information from a few lockers away.” She scoots back into her chair and slides down, kicking her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles,
mirroring my posture exactly. “You know what you need?” I don’t answer her, and after a long pause she says, “Nicer friends.”
    “Funny. My psychiatrist has been saying that for years.”
    As soon as the words leave my mouth, I suck in a breath. No one outside my family knows about my psychiatrist. She’s not my biggest secret, but she’s right up there with the rest of
them. I look over at Caroline for a reaction, expecting a biting comment or a condescending stare.
    “Why do you see a psychiatrist?” she asks, like it’s no big deal.
    Apparently I’m not keeping secrets from her, because words start spilling out on their own. “OCD. I’m more obsessive than compulsive, so most of the ‘disorder’ part
takes place in my own head. That makes it pretty easy to hide. No one knows.”
    I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud.
    She’s looking at me like she’s actually interested, so I keep talking. “But I obsess about a lot of things, like guys and my friends and totally random stuff.…I sort of
latch on to a thought and I can’t let it go. Sometimes the thoughts come rapid-fire and cause an anxiety attack. Oh, and I have this weird thing with the number three. I count a lot. I sort
of have to do things in threes.”
    “Why threes?”
    I slowly shake my head. “I have no idea.”
    “That sounds pretty horrible, Sam.”
    Sam.
    Caroline’s looking at me as if this whole thing is completely fascinating. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, exactly the way my psychiatrist does when she wants me to
keep talking. So I do.
    “I can’t turn my thoughts off, so I barely sleep. Without meds, I don’t get much more than three or four hours a night. It’s been that way since I was ten.” Now
there’s a hint of sympathy in her eyes. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. “It’s okay. I’m on antianxiety meds. And I know how to control the panic attacks.”
At least, I think I do. It’s been a little harder since the bizarre impulse to slash the Valentine’s Day roses.
    “I started seeing a psychiatrist when I was thirteen,” Caroline says matter-of-factly. After a long pause she adds, “Depression.”
    “Really?” I ask, resting my elbow on the armrest between us.
    “We’ve tried different antidepressants over the years, but…I don’t know…sometimes it feels like it’s getting worse, not better.”
    “I was on antidepressants for a while, too.” It sounds so strange to hear myself admit all this. I’ve never talked with anyone my age about this stuff.
    Caroline reclines into the chair and smiles. She looks pretty when she does. She’d be even prettier if she would just wear a little makeup.
    I bet I could help her.
    I no longer have plans to be at a fancy spa with my four best friends this weekend. I don’t have any plans at all. “Hey, what are you doing on Saturday night?”
    She crinkles her nose. “I don’t know. Nothing. Why?”
    “Want to come to my house? We can watch a movie or something.”
    Maybe I could talk her into letting me give her a mini-makeover, too. A few highlights to give her hair a little dimension. Some concealer to hide the pockmarks and blemishes. Nothing dramatic,
just a touch of color on her cheeks, eyes, lips.
    Caroline pulls a pen out of the front pocket of her baggy jeans.
    “I’ll text it to you,” I say, reaching for my phone.
    She shakes her head. “Technology is a trap,” she says, waving her pen in the air. “Go.” I give her my house number and street, and she scribbles it on her palm and
pockets the pen again. Then she bounces up from her chair so quickly, I jump in my seat. She backs toward the stage, places her hands on the surface, and with a little hop, she’s