Chapter 1: When Panic Attacks
Oh god oh god oh god oh god. And now of all times. It had been a full twenty four hours and he had to go and lose his shit now of all times. His heart-rate continued to pick up speed, beating in his chest like he was running a marathon, though he was still sitting in the same chair he had been for the last hour. It was seventh period, physics, and he was in the middle of the classroom and if he got up to leave everybody would look at him as he awkwardly wove through all the tables to get to the door. He could feel his vision going all tunnel-like and his palms sweat. He was possessed by an even worse thought: throwing up, right here, in front of the entire class. He stood up and began moving to the door, awkwardly shuffling so as not to touch any of the students at their desks, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.
"May I ask where you're going, Mr. Hansen?" Mr. O'Byrne asked from behind his desk where he had been grading assignments while the class worked.
"Bathroom." The word was so choked coming out of his mouth it barely sounded like a word at all, a sort of guttural, wrenching noise. In fact, he didn't even make it twenty feet from the door of the classroom before it felt like all the blood had drained from his head and he had to sit down on the ground in the hallway. He curled up in a ball, leaning against the wall so as not to fall onto his side.
It was the note. He had tried to diminish its importance, to 'just let it go', to imagine the worst just like Dr. Sherman said and then imagine himself dealing with that and moving on, proving it was completely possible. But Connor hadn't shown up to school today, and he still had the note, and in his mind Evan was crafting a million ways that the two could be connected. He could imagine Connor telling Zoe, twisting it like Evan had some dirty fantasy for her.
Didn't he though? Watching from afar, too afraid to even speak to her, yet somehow hoping she would rescue him from his own mind without any prompting on his part? He could imagine her reacting in disgust. Or, possibly even worse, confusion. Because no matter how many times he imagined them talking easily, comfortably, safely, the fact of the matter was they were strangers. He could imagine her saying "who?" when Connor read her the note, unaware that he was the very boy she had apologized to on Connor's behalf earlier that day. He could imagine her walking up to him in the hallway, slapping him in the face and screaming "how dare you!", in front of everybody, humiliating him, and—
Deep breaths. It's a panic attack.
He had seen Zoe that morning though, early at school just like him, hunched against her backpack, guitar case in one hand and some sort of breakfast sandwich wrapped in a paper towel in the other. She hadn't seen him. He had ducked behind a row of lockers to ensure that, of course, but nonetheless, no reason for this terror. He felt the nausea swell up in his stomach again and forced himself to uncurl his body and put his head between his knees. He counted to two for every breath in, then out to an increasing count, first two, then three, then four. When it came time for five he couldn't do it and a dry sob wracked his chest. It was futile. Until he knew the fate of that note he was going to be a wreck.
"Hey, are you ok?" Dear god. It was like reality was trying to make his worst nightmares come true. He opened one eye against the too-bright fluorescent lighting of the hallway and, craning his neck upward to avoid straightening his back, saw Zoe's very-concerned face peering at him. She was squatted down about two feet away, maintaining a safe distance yet leaning forward until her face was looming in his still-tunneled vision. He flinched away and she rocked back on her heels, aware her closeness had worsened things.
"Fine. I mean, I'm fine. I'm ok, really, I promise." He forced the words out between breaths, hoping the act of speaking didn't cause his stomach to reject its contents out of hand.
"You don't look very ok." He kept his eyes closed but felt a stir in the air and smelled something sweet, like peaches and maybe gardenia. He squinted against the lighting and saw she had sat down against the wall next to him, legs splayed out in front of her. "I'm just gonna stay here. You focus on breathing. Don't mind me." She didn't look at him as she spoke, letting him handle himself. Or maybe she couldn't look at him. God knows he looked pathetic, hunched over like this, in the middle of the hallway.
He fought to get his breathing under control and then wiped his damp brow. Dear god, if he had been worried about shaking her hand when his was sweaty, he can't imagine how bad this is, with his face streaming sweat, mid-anxiety attack, and her sitting not a foot away from him. He wedged one eye open and looked over at her again, but she was sitting in the exact same position, eyes closed, back against the wall. Serene.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you. You… you don't have to stay. I'm sorry this must seem so weird…" he trailed off as she lolled her head towards him and opened her eyes. Was she smiling?
"I sat down of my own accord I believe. And being alone during a panic attack is never fun. I'm happy to stay. And it's not weird. Want to tell me what triggered this one? You obviously don't have to." She turned her head back and closed her eyes again. He continued to focus on his breathing, trying not to let the fact that she had just asked him a direct question disturb him. If he tried to speak now there was still a definite danger that he might vomit. She didn't push it and just sat there, unmoving, letting him breath. As the attack faded he could open his eyes fully and turn to look at her. Yeah right. Telling her was out of the question.
In a flash he imagined her reaching out and giving him a hug, holding him in their school hallway, just the two of them, sharing this. He shook it away and internally berated himself. Like she'd ever look at you like that. Like she'd ever think of you as anything but some weird, awkward, obsessed stalker. He pressed his fingers to his temples and massaged, trying to quell the inner voices. He couldn't stop them though, especially not when they were right. Not when he was sitting here having a panic attack about a note he wrote about her and the very real fear she might find out. What sweet irony that she was asking him about it now, completely oblivious. At least he knew she didn't know. She wouldn't be this kind to him if she did.
"I uhh, I just wasn't feeling well. I'm fine now, really. Sorry." She looked at him skeptically.
"You don't look very fine. In fact, you look even more stressed than you usually do." He inwardly wondered how stressed he usually looked. Was it the fidgeting? He couldn't stop that, even if he tried. No amount of medication would ever do that. She seemed to notice him flinch at that one too. "Uhh, not that you usually look too stressed or anything, just that you always seem a bit down, and this is making me think that maybe everything isn't ok, and I just wanted you to know you're not alone. Like I'm here right now."
He looked over at her again and met her worried eyes with his own, not flinching away from the eye contact. She looked unsure, nervous. And worried.
"I'm fine, I swear. I'm sorry to have bothered you." He looked back down at his hands, breaking the eye contact.
"You apologize a lot. And you don't bother me." Immediately she was back to her cheery demeanor, the previous moments unsureness past.
"Sorry. I mean, uh," he paused. "My bad?" She laughed.
"Don't worry about it. If you're feeling better, I'm going to actually go to the bathroom, like I told my French teacher I was about fifteen minutes ago." She rose and dusted off her butt and the back of her legs.
"Uhh, Zoe? I have a weird question for you." He said the words before he had a chance to stop himself.
"Yeah?" shit shit shit shit.
"Uhh, why wasn't Connor at school today?" If he couldn't ask about the note, that seemed like a safe alternative.
She paled and creased her brow at him, her posture suddenly defensive. Whereas before her presence had been calming and soothing, bringing him down, now it felt almost hostile, tense and somewhat frightened. Like a deer in the headlights.
"He's uhh. . . he's sick. Don't worry about it. Bye." She rushed off before she had even finished speaking, her words echoing from over her shoulder. Of course he had ruined it. Did he ever do anything but ruin it? And what did that mean? Did she know about the note after all? Somewhere inside himself he felt the urge for another panic attack come on, but his exhausted body let it pass and he slumped against the wall. What happened? Why did she dodge that question?
As the post-panic-attack endorphins flooded his body, he felt tears well up inside. He felt the cold wall against his back and tried to choke them down. All his hopes pinned on Zoe, and he had to go and have a total freak-out in front of her, lose his cool and somehow piss her off. Way to go, Hansen.
