She rubs my back and says, "You're gonna be fine, baby." But it starts up again. I can't breathe, there's too much tears, and she says I'm hyperventilating. It's hard to catch my breath but I know I have to. My cheeks feel hot, it's all bubbles and snot and salt.
There are always transitions and some are worse than others. As a thirteen-year-old it's hard to process. The end seems bleak and right around the corner. I don't know that school hardly matters, that the little red letters, they don't matter. They aren't who I am.
I'm crying because I never had to try. I was always the best and it was always easy. And now things are difficult. Wasn't it always supposed to be like this? "Breathe, baby, breathe," she says.
And eventually I do. I calm down, I blow my nose, I splash cold water on my face. I have my first panic attack out of the way at thirteen, I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. And now I know I have to try. That the pluses won't come as readily as they did before, as I always knew, or thought, they would. Maybe that's why I'm crying. Maybe I just don't want to try. Why should I?
She keeps rubbing my back. It feels good. It's after the storm, when everything is quiet and still. There's a deep sense of relief, this powerful feeling in my stomach. Or maybe I'm just hungry for dinner.
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