Girl Against the Universe (2 page)

Dr. Leed is listening to wailing guitar music on his phone and eating an In-N-Out burger when I arrive for this week's session. He quickly tidies his desk and slips his phone into his top drawer.

“Sorry,” he says, rotating his chair around so he's facing me. “I usually grab dinner before your appointment, but I got a bit behind schedule today.”

I shrug. “It's fine.”

“What about you? Are you fine?”

“Yep.” I fidget with a strand of black hair that's escaped from my bun, twisting and untwisting it around my finger.

Dr. Leed tries the same exact series of questions this week about the accidents and the fire and gets the same (lack of) response from me.

Halfway through the session he gives up and grabs a magazine from a small table.

I glance over casually when I think he's not looking.
“
Science
, huh?” I say. “I had you figured as more of a music magazine guy.”

“You think you got me all figured out, do you?” He smiles slightly. “What about you? What do you read?”

“Novels. A lot of action/adventure stuff. Oh, and nonfiction survival guides.” When you've got luck like mine, you can never be too prepared for impending disaster.

Dr. Leed and I chat about books for a few minutes, and just when I'm thinking I might like him—a little—he glances at the clock. “We're running out of time. You want to talk about why you're really here?”

And just like that, something inside of me slams shut. “I'm here because my mom says I have to be.”

Dr. Leed drums his fingertips on the edge of his chair. “Well, if you're going to be stuck here every week for a while, why not talk about things? I can help you if you let me, Maguire.”

I shake my head. “No one can help.”

“Why's that?”

“Because the Universe hates me.”

My head hurts all over. I tug the ponytail holder out of my hair as I hit the waiting room. Dark curls spill across my pale shoulders. I rub my scalp with my fingertips and then reach down to tuck my mystic knot amulet back under the neckline of my shirt. The mystic knot is a Buddhist symbol of luck that I bought online after the roller coaster accident.
It's supposed to bring positive energy to every aspect of your life. I wear it 24-7—when I'm sleeping, when I'm showering, even in gym class.

Especially in gym class. High school gym can be dangerous.

I cringe at the thought. I can't believe how fast the summer flew by. It's almost time for school to start.

As I cross the waiting room, the receptionist waves and Perfectly Assembled Boy glances up. He gives me a longer look this time—so long that I start to feel a little awkward. I peek back at him as I open the door to the hallway.

“Your hair,” he says finally. “It's so . . . big.”

I get this sort of thing occasionally, normally from friends of my mom. I've got one of those manes that everyone likes to ooh and ahh over but no one really wants for their own. Thick black hair that hangs past my shoulders in corkscrew curls and sticks out a few inches from my head if I don't tame it down and tie it back. Kind of like that old-school guitarist Slash, only I'm a lot smaller than he is, so my hair looks even bigger. I almost always wear it in a bun.

I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, unsure of exactly how to respond, or if I should even bother. “Yeah, okay,” I say finally.

“It's like it has its own life force,” the boy continues. “Very stellar.”

“Thanks . . . I think.”

He hops up from his chair. “Can I touch it?”

“No,” I say, a bit sharper than I intended.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry. Stupid question. But if you ask me, you should wear it down all the time.”

“No one asked you,” I say. But I give this boy a quarter smile too.

Dr. Leed has that same screeching guitar music playing this week as I shuffle into the office. I wonder if it's him, and he's reviewing his performance from last night's band practice.

His brown eyes follow me from behind his glasses, like he's analyzing everything—my clothes, my posture, the way I walk. I slide into the chair and affix a neutral expression to my face.

“Let's talk about something you said last time,” Dr. Leed starts. “You said the Universe hates you. What did you mean?”

“I mean I'm unlucky. Bad stuff happens around me.” I fold my hands in my lap. “You're risking your life just by being in this room with me.”

“Maguire, you're not responsible for the car accident or the roller coaster malfunction. Remember what I said about survivor's guilt the first session.”

I wasn't paying much attention during the first session, but I think he said it was a form of PTSD. “Yeah, but you weren't there,” I say. “You don't get it.”

“I understand why you feel the way you do, but there's a difference between correlation and causation. Do you know what that means?”

“It means just because I was present at an accident doesn't mean I caused it. But going rock climbing was my idea. The amusement park was my idea. Everyone else got hurt or
died
.” My voice rises in pitch. “And those aren't the only instances. And all the events have only one thing in common: me. What other explanation is there besides that it's my fault, that I'm . . . cursed or something?”

“Maybe you would've gotten hurt too, but you actually have really good luck?”

“Nope. I tested my positive luck.” I pull a midsize spiral notebook out of my purse. The words “Luck Notebook” are scrawled in black ink across the cover. “The front part is all the bad things that have happened over the past few years, and the next section is where I entered a hundred contests trying to see if maybe I was lucky and had just been spared. And after that is where I spent an entire summer trying every ‘de-curse yourself' spell and product I could find on the internet.”

Dr. Leed takes the notebook from me and skims through it, pausing briefly in the middle. He shakes his head. “Look at
all these websites. Who knew de-cursing was such a booming business? Tomato juice bath? Isn't that just for if you get sprayed by a skunk?”

“There's a lady in Alabama who swears by it.”

He flips back to the beginning of the notebook. “So before the fire there was the car accident, the roller coaster, and then a bit later an issue at a birthday party?”

I nod. “I went to my friend's sleepover party and everyone but me got sick. And then for a while nothing major happened, but there were smaller things, like the time some Rollerbladers fell down while I was running past them.”

“Okay, but maybe these events were just an unfortunate set of circumstances? You were in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Well, if so, people should probably not be in the same place as me. That's like being hit by lightning five or six times.” Only it's not. It's worse. It's like being with your friends and family and watching
them
get hit by lightning while you just stand there, unscathed, wishing you'd never suggested leaving the house in the first place.

“So you really believe that you're . . . cursed?”

“I know it sounds crazy.”

“‘Crazy' is a word that has been overused to the point of becoming meaningless,” Dr. Leed says. “It sounds like a lot for any one person to deal with.”

“All I know is my being around other people puts them at risk.”

“So then how do you handle that?” he asks.

“I keep to myself,” I mutter.

Once I accepted the fact that I was bad luck, I shied away from group activities. And groups. And activities. I started spending a lot of time in my room, tucked under my covers reading books. There's only so much damage a book can do, and I wasn't worried about hurting myself. Accidentally hurting yourself is way better than hurting other people.

Sure, I got lonely for a while. But getting invited to slumber parties just wasn't worth the stress of wondering if I might accidentally burn down the house with my flat iron or be the only survivor of a freak sleepover massacre. And loneliness is just like everything else—if you endure it long enough, you get used to it.

Perfectly Assembled Boy is in the waiting room again, this time looking a little less perfectly assembled. He's wearing shiny basketball shorts and a hoodie. His wet hair is slicked back behind his ears, making his blond streaks look painted on.

He looks up from his magazine and catches me staring. “You can take a picture if you want,” he says, his voice perfectly level.

“I'll pass,” I snap as I hurry for the door. What an ass. It's not like he wasn't checking
me
out last week, talking all that crap about my hair.

I switch my phone off silent as I head for the stairs. There's a text from my mom. I swear under my breath as I
read it. I dropped her car off for routine maintenance at the shop across the street before my appointment, but it turns out they found a bigger problem and are going to keep it until tomorrow. My stepdad is working late, and Mom won't be able to pick me up for an hour and a half. If I were normal, I would just take a bus or a taxi home.

I am not normal.

I text her back and let her know it's no problem, that I'll just find a place to read and she can text me when she gets here.

I find a comfy chair in a deserted corner of the lobby and drop my purse on the small wooden table next to it. As I settle into the chair, I do what I call a five-second check. I scan the furniture, the floor, the ceiling, and everywhere in between. There are people going in and out of the bathrooms, but no obvious hazards. No lurking strangers. When you're a disaster magnet like me, it makes sense to constantly be assessing your environment for danger. I'm not too worried about anything bad happening inside Dr. Leed's inner office because it's just the two of us, but any time I'm stuck in public I try to do a quick check of my surroundings every few minutes.

I knock three times on the wooden table and then pull the book I'm reading out of my purse. I open to the page where I left off and set my special Irish-penny good luck bookmark on the table. Seven chapters and seven five-second checks later, I'm just about to get to a really
good part when a shadow falls over my page.

“You're still here.”

I look up. Perfectly Assembled Boy has materialized in front of me. For being about six foot five, he's shockingly light on his feet.

“Um . . . yes.” I turn to the next page of my book with a meaningful flourish and start reading, but my eyes trace the same sentence over and over because the boy isn't leaving.

He sits down in the chair next to me, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “You don't know who I am, do you?”

I peer over at him. “Should I?” Maybe his comment about taking a picture was serious. I try to reconcile his image with everyone I've seen on TV recently. Nope, no matches.

“No.” He grins. Perfect smile 2.0. I have the sudden urge to buy toothpaste. “I was hoping you didn't. Do you want to go somewhere?”

I snicker and then realize he's serious. “Like, with you?”

“No. All alone. I want this corner for myself.” He rolls his eyes. “Yes, with me.”

I think for a second about what life must be like for this boy, someone who can sit down next to a total stranger and ask her to go somewhere like she's a friend. How does he know I won't tell him to get lost? How does he know I won't accidentally get him run over by a bus? “Sorry. No can do. Waiting for a ride.”

The boy runs a hand through his hair. It's mostly dry now and it sticks up in awkward sandy peaks. “Call your ride
and tell them I'll drive you home.”

“My mom's not going to go for me taking off with some strange guy.” Not to mention I would never go for that. Since the accident, I've only been in a car by myself or with my mom. And the only reason I can bear it with Mom driving is because for a while I had no choice. I couldn't exactly drive myself around when I was eleven. Still, my pediatrician had to give me sedatives for several months just to get me near a car without having a major panic attack.

“Okay.” The boy points across the lobby. “There's an ice-cream shop over there. Come there with me instead. Plenty of people around to keep you safe from this
strange guy
.”

I flinch. I walked past that shop on my way into the building. It was packed. Way too many opportunities for people to get hurt. “I can't. I'm sorry.”

My eyes skim past the boy for another five-second check. Furniture fine. Floor fine. Ceiling fine. A lady and her toddler are making their way down the hallway. The little girl's sparkly shoes are moving too slow for the rest of her body. Just when I'm positive she's going to trip, her mom bends down and scoops her up in her arms. They disappear into the ladies' restroom.

The boy is talking. Apparently he's been talking, but I haven't been paying attention. I generally tune people out when I'm doing my checks.

“Am I hideous to you or something?” he asks.

Some girls might find him less appealing today, without his hair product and two-hundred-dollar jeans, but I sort of like his dressed-down look. And that smile is growing on me. Definitely not hideous. “No . . . I just don't know you.”

The boy hits his forehead with his palm. “That's why we're going to get ice cream.”

“I can't. It's nothing personal. I don't really hang out with people.”

He tilts his head to the side. “What do you hang out with?”

“Books, mostly.”

“Okay. Well, I know when to give up.” He gestures at my novel. “I'll leave you two alone together. Same time next week?” He holds his hand up for a fist bump.

Gingerly, I press my pale knuckles to his overly tanned ones. “Same time next week.”

He turns and strides across the marble floor of the lobby toward the ice-cream shop, his hair flopping with each step. For some reason, I miss him a little after he's gone.

But before I can even finish another chapter, he's back, a cup of ice cream in each hand. “I got you vanilla,” he says. “You seem like a girl who plays it safe.” He sits down in the chair next to me again.

“You got that right,” I say. “And playing it safe does not involve being accosted by random strangers.”

“I'm not random. I'm the guy after you at Daniel's office.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You call Dr. Leed Daniel?”

He mimics my eyebrow and scornful tone. “You call Daniel Dr. Leed?”

“I don't really call him anything. I try not to talk much,” I admit.

“Oh, so you're one of those. Perfect. You don't have to talk much to me either.” He thrusts the ice cream in my direction. “Here. Take this in exchange for putting up with me for a few minutes.”

“What is your deal?” I take the paper cup he's offering. The ice cream is starting to melt. “I thought you knew when to quit.”

His cheeks go pink—I've touched a nerve. “Sorry. It's just, you seem normal, and I need to hang out with someone who doesn't know who I am.”

“Why?”

“For my homework.” He pauses. “You know—the shrink homework.” Without waiting for me to respond he says, “Are your sessions different? Do you not get homework?”

“None so far.” Is this what I have to look forward to? Shrink homework? On top of the school homework I'll have soon?

The boy taps one foot against the tile floor. “Mine go like this: Small talk. Then I discuss how I'm doing with my goals. Then I think up more homework assignments while Daniel flips through the latest issue of
Guitar Player
. Basically he makes me do all the shrink work and the client work.
Pretty clever on his part.”

“
Guitar Player
—I knew it!” I say. “What is he? Full-time psychologist, part-time rock star?”

“No idea,” the boy says. “But I'm supposed to find someone who doesn't know me and hang out with them, and since most people know me, I had to seize this opportunity.”

“Who
are
you?” I take a small bite of ice cream, doing another five-second check as it melts on my tongue.

He shakes his head. “Nope. That'll wreck things.”

“This is really good.” I take another bite. “Are you, like, famous . . . or infamous?”

The boy grins. “I would say neither, but certain people would disagree.”

“Boy band singer?” I ask. “Reality TV show contestant?”

He shakes his head.

“Failed child actor? College basketball star?”

“Ha. You're getting warmer.”

“I give up. You're not even going to tell me your name?”

“I'd prefer not to.”

I shrug. “Works for me.”

And so the two of us sit there for a few minutes, eating our ice cream and making vague noises of approval. The boy slides my book out of my hand. He flips it over and makes a face. “A book about a boy with mad cow disease? Sounds uplifting.”

“You'd be surprised.” I peek over at his cup. “You got yourself vanilla too?”

He nods. “I'm more of a mint chip guy, but it's good to do something different now and then.”

I think about that for a second. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

The boy gives me another smile and the temperature in the room goes up a couple of degrees. “Do you want to see where I was going to take you?” he asks. “You totally missed out.”

“Oh yeah?” I finish the ice cream and set my empty cup on the table between us.

He pulls out his phone and swipes at the screen. A folder of images pops up. “Yeah. My friend showed me this place up the coast that you can only get to when the tide is low, this little rock island. Dolphins hang out there a lot.” He hands the phone over to me.