Page 28 of Theoretically Straight

I squirm in my chair. This morning just keeps getting weirder by the minute. “That sucks,” I mutter.

“It does,” Mom agrees. “Your panic attacks were very specifically linked to large crowds and overstimulation, so it was easy for us to resolve. Apparently, the Sheppards are having a hard time pinning down Ruthie’s triggers.”

I nod, shuddering slightly at the memory of the last panic attack I had about six months ago. It was a Phantogram concert—I should have known better, but it was a relatively small venue, so I had been confident that I would be fine. I was very wrong. I don’t remember much of that night—just fragmented flashes of Harrison tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me out of the crowd like I weighed nothing at all, Elise cradling my head on her lap while dabbing my face with wet paper towels, and Oliver yelling at any poor soul who came within twenty feet of me.

It was awful, but my closest friends were there for me when I needed them most. Lessons were learned, too. I haven’t been permitted to go to a concert or any place with a large crowd ever since. And while I’ll always feel a little sad missing concerts, I’m perfectly okay with avoiding anything like that happening again.

“Her doctor wants to put her on medication, but she’s so young,” Mom continues. “So, for now, they’re praying for a better solution.”

I frown. “Isn’t she like…twelve?”

Mom narrows her eyes at me. “Yes, but that’s still way too young to be on anxiety medication. She’s just a little girl.”

I open my mouth to object, then think better of it. What Ruthie’s parents do for her anxiety is none of my business and definitely not worth arguing with my mom about on a Sunday morning. Besides, I’m not even on anxiety medication myself, so what do I know?

“But Mark and Sarah remember when you were having panic attacks, so they’ve been coming to your father and me for advice. I just wish there was more we could do to help them. I remember how terrifying it was to…” she trails off, gazing at me sadly. “To watch your child experience such immense fear and have no way to protect them from it. It’s just…awful.”

I chew on my bottom lip, not sure what to say. “Yeah. I–I’m sorry I put you through that.”

Mom shakes her head urgently. “Oh, my darling, don’teverapologize for that. None of that was your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. And besides, we worked through it as a family and made it through the other side, right? Those panic attacks are ancient history.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Ancient history.”

She’s quiet again for a few moments, her eyes still studying me, and I almost think she’s going to start crying until she inhales sharply and shakes her head. “Anyway, I don’t want to hold you up by getting too emotional.” She waves her hands, feigning dismissiveness. “You go on and get ready for church, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, making my way to the sink, where I load my bowl and spoon into the dishwasher.

Before I can turn towards the stairs, my mom places a hand on my shoulder and pulls me in for a hug. “Just a real quick one, I promise. I love you, Theodore.”

I return the embrace, rolling my eyes while she can’t see me. “Love you, too, Mom.”

“I’m proud of you, you know that?”

“I know.”

She releases her grip on me and smiles warmly as she pulls away. “Good. Now, be free,taku tama.”

I return her smile before swiftly bounding upstairs.

Man. Sundays are so weird.

Monday, September 11

The cafeteria is especially loud today. Or maybe it’s that I’m not quite reacclimated to the noise levels after my Sunday of laying around my room reading boys’ love manga and listening to lo-fi.

“Freddy, for the last time, I’m not possessed.” Wren sets their tray down across from me, followed quickly by Freddy beside them.

“You say that, but how can we trust you? You sneezed like, eight times during the tour. And as we all know, sneezing is the sound people make when they’re trying to expel a demon from their body. That’s why everyone is supposed to say, ‘bless you.’”

Wren unscrews the top of their water bottle before brandishing it toward Freddy in a threatening maneuver. “That place was so dusty, half of the freaking tour group was sniffling and sneezing. I’m surprised they didn’t try and sell us antihistamines out back.”

“There was that guy selling t-shirts out of the back of his car. They looked pretty cool, right, Caleb?”

“Huh?”

I look up from my untouched lunch. Wren raises an eyebrow at me while Freddy is full-on staring me down. “What is up with you today?” he asks, unzipping his lunch bag. “You’ve hardly said a word, even when Ms. Gerty fell out of her chair in the middle of World History. I fired off that great quip about her not wanting to be upstaged by the fall of Rome, and you just sat there.”

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to shake whatever weirdness is weighing down my thoughts. It’s like I’ve been in a fog ever since I left the tour on Saturday. I blame it on the numerous toxic chemicals I was undoubtedly exposed to in that basement. Who knows what all I inhaled down there?

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