Page 111 of You Spin Me

She doesn’t say anything, so I add, “I mean, you seem pretty together, so I figured you must have seen somebody.”

“Oh, I have. You should probably interview a few people to see if they?—”

“Listen,” I interrupt her. “Did they help you with your… issues around your, uh, accident? And the treatment and everything after?”

“He did.”

“Then that’s all I need to know. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Chapter33

Be sure to catch all the live coverage and full-color commentary of the one hundred and fifty-fifth annual Fool’s Parade on Boston’s own Landsdowne Street, this coming April first, only at WBAR, 101.7 FM.Waah, waah, waah.What did you say? It’s only the fifth annual? But it says here—Waah, waah, waah.No, I’m the one who looks like an idiot. Yes, I know they can’t see me, but—You know what? You’re so smart, you read the damn thing. I quit.SLAM.

JESS

It’s been a great week back at the station. When I finally talked to Jones—which I had to do as a part of my treatment—he was very accommodating about me taking time off. In some ways, asking was the hardest step. Asking for help, asking for what often feels like special treatment, takes me back to school and all the times teachers shook their heads or sighed with impatience when they heard from my parents that I’d need extra attention. They weren’t all like that, of course, and I realize now that they were likely overworked and underpaid. But at the time, it made me feel like a problem.

So I stopped asking.

I’m starting to get, however, that asking for help doesn’t make me weak or needy. It makes me human.

I still have a lot of work to do, but the stint at the body dysmorphic disorder clinic both blew my mind and jump-started the journey of putting it back together again. I’ll be making bi-monthly trips down there for some time to continue the cognitive behavioral therapy as well as meeting with a local therapist. The big difference is, unlike the anorexia treatment I went through at fifteen, this work makes sense to me. I mean, it’s fucked up that my brain can somehow pull a fast one on my eyes, but knowing that I’m not the only person who thinks like this? It’s a massive relief.

It’s been especially nice working at the station again because it’s really the only thing I’m doing. Besides helping me wrap my mind around the fact that my breasts are not my enemy, my therapist is trying to get me to accept that I don’t have to go at everything at full speed all the time.

On top of all that, the goofiness level around here has risen to an all-time high as we get ready for the Fool’s Parade. Tomorrow, April first, is the biggest day of the year for Porky and Rocket. They’ve pulled out all the stops creating promos and writing the script for the parade, in which we’ll do color commentary as if we were watching a parade marching down Landsdowne Street. Of course, there is no parade; it’s one giant April Fool’s joke, but it’s become quite the tradition. This year, I get to be a part of it.

Still, it’s not the same without Cal around. We haven’t talked since I left for Rhode Island weeks ago. I was not only surprised that he wasn’t here when I got back, I was disappointed. I had myself all worked up to have a big talk and start figuring things out now that I’m on the path to better mental and physical health. I even wrote him a couple of letters while I was away, also part of the process of working through some of my fears. But he’s gone away to summer camp, according to Jones. Which is odd, considering it’s still March.

When I enter the breakroom to stash my lunch, I’m surprised to see that they’ve added a mailbox slot for me. There’s even mail in it. Like, a lot. I’m hit by a flash of anxiety at the thought of all the reading that’ll mean, but drawing on my new CBT practices, I slow my breath and rearrange my thoughts. I don’t have to read them all right this minute.

Curiosity gets the better of me, though. I have time to at least look through them since I’m actually early for my call time. It’s amazing how easy it is to be on time when you don’t cram too much into your day or spend hours changing clothes to try to change your silhouette. So I sit at the table to see if there’s anything in this pile that’s from a certain someone.

CAL

It’s a beautiful spring morning—a time of day I’ve begun to actually enjoy. On our walk to the station, Blondie and I take a long-cut through the Fens, where she’s greeted lovingly by the fans she accumulated before we went away to camp. From retirees working in garden plots to kids at the playground, everyone’s happy to see her again and accept her doggy kisses.

There’s a buzz behind my solar plexus, but it’s a good one. Excitement about starting anew. My steps quicken as we turn onto Landsdowne Street. I want to do some more research before my interview with the band members of R.E.M. later today. And of course, there’s the big “parade” tomorrow, which’ll happen during my timeslot for the first time ever.

Reminding myself to check my mailbox—not only am I expecting an EP a friend overnighted from a station in Seattle, but I’ve got new burn camp pen pals I’m hoping to hear from—I cut left instead of right when we enter the front doors of the station. Suddenly, Blondie whines and sprints ahead, startling me enough that I drop the leash.

When she darts into the mailroom ahead of me, I hear a voice that has me sprinting to catch up.

JESS

I’m sorting through the envelopes, searching for Cal’s name in the upper left-hand corner, when I hear a dog’s whine and the skittery clicks of nails on tile. Shifting in the chair, I don’t have time to get up before Blondie launches her upper body at me and covers my face with kisses.

“Whoa, whoa. I missed you too, sweet girl.”

And then the face that I’ve missed more than I could ever have imagined appears in the doorway.

“Jess,” he breathes.

“Cal.” Suddenly feeling uncertain, I’m grateful for the large dog in my lap.

“Blondie, off,” Cal says sharply. With a whine, she obeys.

So much for the buffer between us.

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