Page 53 of Not Made to Last

“Miss T,” Oscar says in greeting. “This is Olivia Mitchell. She’s starting today, so I thought I’d introduce you first.”

“Olivia!” she sings, standing and pushing her hand out for me. “I’m Miss Turner, the school therapist. I think you’re on my list this year!”

I take her hand just as Oscar says, “She prefers Ollie over Liv, just so you know.”

“Noted,” Miss Turner responds, nodding and releasing my hand.

I open my mouth to reply, but Oscar’s too quick. “I have to show her the rest of the school!” He’s already pushing me out the door, both hands on my shoulders, walking me backward. “Later, Miss T!”

He waits until we’re both back in the hallway before closing the door behind him. After adjusting my bag on his shoulder, he asks, “Ready for the tour?”

27

Olivia

I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder at the ripe old age of ten. I hated the label, but too many incidents at school forced my grandparents to get some answers. Personally, I think I just like to be prepared for anything. Prepared probably isn’t the right term. It’s more like I need to be in control of everything. Which, even I can admit, is a dumb take on life. Especially since I know firsthand how little control we have over anything.

I didn’t go on any form of medication until after my grandparents died, and even then, I hated the way they made me feel dependent on them to function like a regular human. Needless to say, I wasn’t on them for very long.

Growing up, my grandma found ways to help me cope emotionally, and my grandpa was in charge of giving me physical tasks, mainly in his workshop. We’d discovered early on that keeping my hands busy meant my mind was, too, and that helped not to derail every single one of my completely rational thoughts.

Since they’re no longer around, I’ve had to double down on the use of my coping mechanisms and force myself to see the signs before I spiral.

What some people might see as simple, everyday tasks can set off a chain of thoughts so chaotic that I don’t even realize I’m mid panic attack until it’s too late. Something as basic as parking in an unknown area has set me off before. Dominic, who used to believe that my anxiety was nothing more than a fear of failure (or, more specifically, a fear of not making my absent mother proud), was in the passenger’s seat at the time of said parking lot meltdown and witnessed, for the first time, what it was like to be around me when I couldn’t do something as fundamental asbreathe.

From that moment on, he’s made it his mission to make sure I never find myself in that position again. If we’re going somewhere new, he’ll usually drive for the first time. And if, for whatever reason, he can’t be there, then we’ll sit on Google Maps and plan itprecisely.Satellite view. Aerial view. Street view. Whatever it takes to make sure I’m comfortable.

I say all this as an insight into how prepared I was to enter St. Luke’s Academy today. I’d downloaded multiple maps of the school and studied them as much as I’d studied for my SAT prep exam years ago. I’d been waiting almost three years for today, and I was determined not to let my stupid anxiety break me.

At least on the first day.

I tell all of this to Oscar (minus the parts about Dominic and taking years off) as he skims over my schedule, and clearly, it’s an over-share, because he glances up from the paper when I’m done talking, his eyebrows drawn. He doesn’t speak. Not right away.

I rock on my heels in the middle of the hallway just outside the cafeteria and bite my lip, look anywhere but at him.

From my peripheral, I see him fold my schedule in half once, twice, then hold it out between us. I take it from him, shove it into my hidden skirt pocket. “Ollie,” he says, and I hesitate to meet his eyes. When I finally do, he smiles—that soft, warm, welcoming smile. “I hope saying this doesn’t minimize what you’ve been through, but I get scared sometimes, too.”

“Of parking lots?” I joke, and his grin widens.

“Not of parking lots, but of—” He breaks off when his phone rings, and he’s quick to reveal it from his pocket, then curse under his breath when he sees who’s calling. “Sorry,” he tells me, then answers the call. “Coach?”

I don’t hear the words that are spoken on the other end. I just hear the loudness of them. Oscar’s entire body turns rigid, his jaw set in a way that switches him from comforting tocold. “Yes, Coach,” he says into the phone. “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up and spins on his heels, saying over his shoulder, “We need to make a slight detour…”

Even if I hadn’t memorized the school’s layout, I could have easily assumed where we were going based solely on who Oscar had just spoken to.

The athletic department at St. Luke’s takes up about a quarter of the school grounds. And that wasbeforethey had the new basketball stadium built over summer break. Now, St. Luke’s is home to a total of three basketball courts appropriately named Old Gym, New Gym, and the brand-spanking-new Mega Gym.

Dumb name.

According to the information I found online, the Mega Gym is for games, the New Gym is for practice, and the Old Gym is now for… wait for it… thegirls.

You gotta love blatant sexism.

These are the thoughts that sit stagnant in my mind as Oscar and I walk side by side. Oscar doesn’t speak. Not once. He walks, determined, even though his head is lowered, and he remains that way until we get to a set of large, wooden double doors. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even warn that I’m about to get an eyeful of shirtless boys lifting weights.

I quickly avert my gaze.

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