Free Farsighted (Farsighted Series) by Emlyn Chand Page B

Speaking software for stuff like this, but I don’t feel comfortable voicing the words of my mystery aloud. The last thing I need is for Mom to overhear and start worrying about me.
    “What are you doing?” Dad asks, entering my room and sinking down onto my bed. The worn mattress lets out a springy sigh.
    “Homework,” I answer, slamming my laptop closed. Yikes, that was too close of a call.
    “Can we talk?” Dad runs his bare feet along the carpet. Static sparks cross the floor and hit my toes with a light tingling sensation, dulled somewhat by their travel.
    “Yeah, go ahead.”
    “Good. Your mother sent me in to ask you what you want for your birthday next week.”
    “Oh, nothing, I’m fine,” I say, thankful Dad is not here to grill me about my problems again. I’m not ready to share.
    “You know I can’t bring that answer back to Mom. Try again.”
    I turn around in my desk chair, so I’m facing Dad, and tap my chin with my finger. “How about new boots? I hear mine are a bit scuffed.”
    “New boots? Are you sure you don’t want something more fun? Like perhaps a video game or a pony or whatever kids like these days?”
    “A pony, Dad? Really?” I shake my head. For a moment, Dad is back to his old, dorky self, if not a bit more charming than usual. I had really started to miss him lately. Inadvertently, my thoughts wander back to Dax. What must his father be like? What kind of father blames his son for something he didn’t do and tries to send him away?
    Dad coughs, introducing a change in his voice—the accent is back. “I mean it. You need to come up with something more interesting than boots. Perhaps your friend Dax has a good idea. Mom says you two are getting quite close.”
    My head reels. How on earth would Dad know about Dax? I just found out about him—nobody else should know.
    “You know,” Dad falters, “your friend Brady seems to always have the latest trendy things. Maybe you should ask him for a few ideas.”
    “Brady is not my friend,” I fume. “You know that!”
    “Fine, fine. Sorry.” Dad stands to his feet and heads for the door. “I’ll tell Mom you want a stylish new pair of boots. And maybe a book—sound good?”
    “Great,” I fume, still angry at Dad for asserting that Brady and I are friends. As soon as he leaves, I print out my notes on Dax, stuff them in my backpack, and delete the file from my computer. Brady? Come on! Even Dad should know better. It’s not just that he thinks we’re friends. It’s that he obviously doesn’t care enough to pay attention to my life. Out of everything, that’s what hurts the most.
    ***
    Dax’s mind forces itself into mine again the following afternoon while I’m sitting in a cramped bathroom stall, willing my bowels to empty between second and third hour classes.
    “Bring in the patient,” a deep echoing voice commands. Someone scuffles out of the room, dragging feet across the floor.
    A cautious knock at the door comes a few moments later.
    “Dax, this is Dr. Merton,” the female shuffle-walker says. “Let’s try to be a bit kinder than usual, hmm?” The door closes, and she walks out, leaving the doctor alone with Dax.
    Dax sits in his chair with a thud and presses his fingernails into the wooden seat, creating a sound not unlike nails dragging across a chalkboard.
    “Now we both know why you’re here,” Dr. Merton says placidly. “You might as well submit to treatment.”
    Dax snorts and grinds his teeth so loudly even I can hear. For a moment, it feels like I am right inside his head, sitting on top of his brain.
    “As a minor, your parents decide whether or not you undergo treatment. Since they’ve already consented, treatment is inevitable. It would be so much easier for us all if you didn’t spit on the nurses when they come to give you your injections, if you swallowed your pills like most of the other patients. If you behaved.”
    “I won’t take anything. I’m not crazy,” Dax says