Tamara Ireland Stone

He laughs. “I made you feel normal? You do realize I’m pretty far from normal, right?”

“I don’t care,” I say, brushing my lips against his. “I like you too much. Remember?”

I kiss his dimple first, and then I cover his mouth with mine, kissing him, thinking about how perfect he is, maybe not in every way, but in every way I need him to be. And I’m so relieved when he kisses me back. I feel the thoughts that have haunted me for the last four days pop like bubbles, disappearing into the air, one by one.

“I like you too much, too,” he says.

“Still?” I ask.

“Still,” he says with a huge smile on his face. “Way, way too much.”

I shouldn’t be reading the notes

Breathe. Find a new thought.

If I cut it once, I’ll keep going. I know I will. I’ll move on to the next rose, and the next one, and I’ll keep cutting until there’s nothing left but a huge pile of stems, leaves, and petals.

After that, I’ll massacre those syrupy sweet, carefully written notes. Every single one of them.

God, that’s so twisted.

Then I’ll take the scissors to Olivia’s ponytail and cut right through that hair tie.

Shit. New thought. New thought.

“How many thoughts does the brain automatically deliver in a single day?” Mom moves on to facts to help me center myself.

“Seventy thousand,” I whisper as tears splash onto my jeans.

“That’s right. Do you act on seventy thousand thoughts a day?”

I shake my head.

“Of course you don’t. This thought was one in seventy thousand. It’s not special.”

“It’s not special.”

My psychiatrist nailed it back in June, when I practically floated into her office and announced that I’d taken my last final. She strode over to the minifridge, poured sparkling apple cider into two plastic champagne flutes, and said, “To the triumphant return of Summer Sam” as we clinked glasses.

But it’s coming to an end. In two weeks, I’ll be back in school, Cassidy will be in L.A., and Brandon will be at college. I’ll be missing them, along with my early morning dives into lane number three.

I’ll be Samantha again. And more than anything, I’ll be missing Sam.

My cell phone chirps and I pull it from my pocket to check the screen. “Alexis wants a ride to school today.”

“Why?” Mom asks as she fills a bowl with cereal for Paige. “She knows it’s against the law to drive with passengers in your first year.” Of course Alexis knows the law, she’s just surprised I’m following it since most people don’t.

I text her back, telling her I can’t give her a ride because if my parents found out, I’d lose my car. I hit SEND and flip the phone around so Mom can read the screen. She gives an approving nod.

Earlier this month, on my sixteenth birthday, Dad took me to the DMV to get my license, and when we got home a few hours later, there was a used Honda Civic parked in our garage. It was totally unexpected, and it meant so much more than regular transportation to me. It meant Mom, Dad, and my psychiatrist thought I could handle it.

“My locker has been there since freshman year, but we haven’t formally met or anything. I’m Caroline Madsen.”

I take her in, starting with her feet. Brown hiking boots. Baggy, faded jeans. An unbuttoned flannel shirt that might be considered cool if it belonged to her boyfriend, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. Underneath it, her T-shirt reads, WHAT WOULD SCOOBY DOO? That makes me laugh to myself. I continue up to her face. Not a stitch of makeup. A purple-and-white-striped ski cap, even though it’s the end of August. In California.

“Samantha McAllister.” The final bell rings, signaling that we’re both officially tardy on the first day of school.

She tugs on her shirtsleeve, uncovering an old, beat-up watch. “We’d better get to class. It was nice to meet you, Sam.”

Sam.

Last year, I asked the Eights to call me Sam. Kaitlyn laughed and said that’s her dog’s name, and Olivia said it’s a guy’s name, and Alexis declared that she would never, ever go by Alex.

I watch Caroline round the corner, and by then, it’s too late to correct her.

“Have you been crying?”

I sink down farther in my chair.

“Guy trouble?” she asks.

“No.”

“Girl trouble?” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye.

“No. Not like that. But, well…actually yeah, sort of.”

“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.