Free To Feel Stuff by Andrea Seigel

‘d’ because he says that’s his way of illustrating ‘that certain men are gods.’”
    â€œWhat a dickhead,” David said about me.
    In hindsight, I should have agreed and told them I was sorry, but instead I said, “Neither of you came to my performance last night.”
    â€œWe meant—” Marna started.
    â€œI can’t help it,” I apologized. “I want to do this. But I really can’t.” Then, pushing my back as hard against the wall as it would go, I said, “I’m feeling distant from you.”
    I looked hard into their faces, and I was figuring the physical space between us like time had suddenly materialized and dropped a chunk of itself into the infirmary. This is the best way I can make you understand what was happening then: I was at the head of the room, and they were near the mantel, and we were two different film frames from two different days, weirdly spliced together to form an optical illusion. I felt like if I tried to talk to Marna and David more, if I tried to explain, my voice would have to travel back twenty-four hours. And my words wouldn’t make sense, and when the two of them replied to me, I swear I thought I wouldn’t have a clue what they were talking about.
    Marna redid the braid in her hair and watched me. I was out of my mind, and I felt so, so watched. David picked up a
National Geographic,
exhaled, and violently flipped through it without even looking down.
    Finally, Marna snapped her rubber band and let go. “Do you just want us to leave?”
    That’s when I opened my mouth—or I guess I should say that’s when my mouth opened itself, because that’s more what it was like. Anyway, I sang,
“If I stay here with you, girl/Things just couldn’t be the same,”
then stopped.
    The heater clicked.
    David dropped his magazine on the floor. “‘Freebird’? You’re singing ‘Freebird’?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with ‘Freebird’?” I asked, but I should have known.
    â€œListen, just because you’ve decided, for whatever reason, that your respect for us has flown out the window, does not mean that we deserve that disrespect, or that we have to stand around here and take it. You fucking cripple, I hope this is the drugs talking.”
    â€œSuddenly ‘Freebird’ is a sign of disrespect? It’s a beautiful song.”
    â€œLet’s just go,” Marna said. She looked scared.
    â€œAnd it expresses everything I want to get across right now,” I went on.
    â€œI know you’re going to snap out of this,” said David, and he threw one arm up on the wall and tucked his head under it, reminding me of a duck. “And when you do, I hope your apology, long or short or even fucking sung to me, is a good one.” Then he turned toward the wall completely and his neck bristled at me.
    â€œLet’s leave. He’s sick,” Marna said, pulling on the hem of David’s coat. She wouldn’t look at me when she reported, “Your dad will be here this afternoon. Your mom said she’ll be calling and updating you on the plans.”
    â€œMy dad’s coming?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s coming here to get you and take you home.”
    â€œHmm,” I said, to cover my own fear. I was thinking about going home and looking at my parents and brothers, and feeling like I wasn’t a part of their group either. I knew they’d encourage me, tell me that I was going to recover and that the worst was now over.
    What I thought in that moment, though, was that yes, maybe the worst was over, as far as there was a very slim chance of someone racing up to me during the next month and attempting another swipe at my knees. But what was really hurting was that a whole new worldview had taken me over, and that was a different kind of injury.
    I glanced over to the other side of the room for you, but all that was there