When she first got her phone and my dad saw how much we were messaging, he sat me down and talked to me about how Lavender is still mostly a little girl, and I’m a teenager, and I’m starting to grow up, but she’s not there yet. I didn’t want to hear it, even though I know he’s right.
Lavender and I have always been close, and I don’t want anyone to take her away from me, so I promised him it wasn’t ever like that. I told my dad she’s like my little sister, only she doesn’t annoy me like Aspen.
I understand why he’s worried, though. Sometimes at hockey practice, the older boys who play before us talk about their girlfriends and the stuff they do.
Maverick kissed Abby Saunders at a party last month, and her braces cut his lip. But he still said he’d do it again anyway.
I’m too focused on hockey to deal with girls right now. Lavender is the only girl I like hanging around with, and she’s the only one who really gets me, just like I get her. I don’t understand most girls. Or most people. I don’t like having to pretend I’m interested in what someone is saying, and most of the time people like to fill the silence with nonsense.
Lavender doesn’t have a lot to say when we’re in big crowds, but when we’re alone, or with people she’s comfortable with, like her cousins, she’s animated and fun and funny and introspective.
My mom says she’s going to be a knockout when she’s older and finds her confidence. Secretly, I don’t know if I want that to happen, because then she might not need me anymore.
Lavender is what my mom calls an old soul. She sees people for what they are, and she feels everything really intensely. I think it’s why she has such bad anxiety attacks—the kind that make it impossible for her to get words out, because the fear chokes her.
I know how to make that better. Not even Queenie is as good at calming her down as I am. Or River. And if I’m honest, I like that Lavender relies on me. I like that she needs me, that I’m the only person who can fix things for her when she’s out of control. It makes me feel like I’m actually in control, because most of the time my head is a big, jumbled, uncomfortable mess.
The only time I really get any peace is when I’m on the ice, or when I’m helping Lavender. Occasionally my sleep is peaceful, but lately I’ve been waking up from dreams that make me feel bad, even though I don’t have control over my thoughts when I’m unconscious. I never tell Queenie about them. Or anyone. I know they’re wrong, so I keep them to myself.
Sometimes my sessions with Queenie overlap with Lavender’s by a few minutes, and I get to see what she’s been working on. Mostly I’m early because the possibility of being late stresses me out, but it also gives me a glimpse inside Lavender’s head, which is a fascinating place. She’s brilliant; not in the same academic way I am, but she understands the world on a different level.
I understand logic and math and reason. She understands people and feelings and emotions. I don’t know which one of us is more tortured because of it.
My mom tells me we perseverate. I’ve learned it’s a nice way of saying we’re obsessive and overthink everything. The hard part about being a genius is knowing all the fundamentals but not being able to talk to anyone about anything mundane without sounding like an asshole.
My mom sounds sweet and kind and genuine. I sound like I hate everyone. Because mostly I do. I like Maverick because he gets me, and we both love hockey. I like my dad because we share the same passion, and he pushes me to be better. I love my mom because our brains are the same, and she feels the same level of guilt I do when I’m not entertained by people. And I revere Lavender because she’s all the things I’m not. She’s sensitive and aware, kind and sweet, and she’s soft and compassionate. But she’s also a warrior.
She knows how to exist in this world without always having to be part of it. Sure, she falls apart, but if she didn’t, I wouldn’t have the same role in her life, so I live for those moments when she needs me.
I glance over at my dad, but he’s focused on driving. I key in my passcode and tap the message. Lavender knows my hockey practice schedule since I play with Maverick.
Lavender: ru at the arena yet
Kodiak: Heading to practice, sup?
I wait for a response, but one doesn’t come right away. Finally the dots appear, and then disappear and appear again. That familiar unsettled feeling makes my legs restless, like there’s an itch under my skin I can’t get to. I force my feet to stay planted on the floor and my knees not to bounce.