FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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THE FACE OF EVERY MEMBER of my family hovers above me, plus Charlotte's best friend, Maddy, who's had a weird crush on me since forever. Feelings I obviously don't return, but her presence adds another layer to the embarrassment.
"My poor baby," Mom says and places an ice pack on my forehead. I can tell she's holding back what she really wants to say, which is probably excess concern. I'm stretched out on the living room couch, boogers streaming down my face. Yeah, only I'm dumb enough to pass out in the snow and give myself a cold. I guess Mom noticed I wasn't in my room last night (yet somehow didn't see Charlotte was gone) and ran through the neighbourhood in a frenzy trying to find me. I can only imagine her horror upon seeing my corpse in Finley Park this morning.
"God, Mom," Ollie says, "stop treating him like he's five."
"I second that," I mutter. For once, my big brother and I agree.
"That's it." Mom points her finger in the air. "We can't go to Cuba. El, we aren't leaving you like this."
"Mom, I'm fine. It's just a cold."
Charlotte stomps her foot. "If we don't go to Cuba because El's a moron who passed out in the snow, I'm going to scream."
"We're going, we're going," Dad says. "But El, I'll be calling Coach Andrews to make sure you're going to practice, and if you skip out on the Brantford game, I swear—"
"When have I ever skipped out on a game? I'll be fine. You guys don't have to worry so much. It's literally a cold." To prove my point, I hoist myself up. "See? Fine." Then I sneeze and fall back on the couch.
Mom touches my cheek. "What were you doing skating so late, El?"
"I was just... I couldn't sleep."
When the doorbell rings, everyone looks at each other, confused. Charlotte peeks out the window and scrunches her nose. "It's Lucy... what is she wearing? She's dressed like Uncle Dave."
I shoot up, totally, a hundred percent fine, and speed to the front door. I've been so delirious that I completely forgot to text her.
On the other side of the door, Lucy hugs herself and shifts back and forth in her boots. Her eyes widen on me, and my face burns when I realize I'm still wearing a grey T-shirt and Star Wars pajamas. I look exactly how my family is treating me—like a little kid.
"You said we were hanging out," Lucy says.
"Sorry, I haven't checked my phone. I caught this cold and I've been pretty much dead all day. What time is it, anyway?"
