Again, But Better

24. Broken Dreams
I pace outside the Karlston for ten minutes, trying to compose
myself for the security guard at the front desk. Inside, I close
the blinds in our room and climb into my bunk. Then I lie
down and stare at the wall. I’m still staring at the wall when
the girls come back. I’m staring when they ask me if I want to
talk. I’m staring when they go to bed. I stare until 1:00 a.m.
when my mouth feels so dry and my nose is so stuffed up that
I have to get up and go to the kitchen for water.
I pad my way over, watching the ground with half-lidded,
swollen eyes and hoping to god that I don’t run into anyone on
the way. I push the kitchen door open slowly and rush to the
sink when I catch sight of the empty table. I pull a glass from
the cabinet, fill it at the sink, take an enormous swig, refill,
and turn to lean against the counter.
An involuntary gasp slices down my throat. I am not alone
in this room.
Amy is on the couch with a bag of pretzels, watching me.
She’s all the way at the end, in the spot closest to the far wall,
where I couldn’t see her through the windows. My eyes travel
from hers down to the book open in her lap. She’s in here
reading. It actually looks like a notebook.
She’s reading— 
Oh my god
.
The glass slips from my hand and smashes across the tile.
“What are you doing?” I shriek. My voice comes out
hoarse and gravelly. Even from across the room, I recognize

---

my scribble, my pages. That’s my notebook. That’s … that’s
mine. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I screech.
She inclines her head slightly. “It was on the couch, so I
opened it. Once I realized what it was, I needed to know.”
My lips curl into a mortified jumble.
“I see him in all your pictures—” She shuts the notebook
and holds it out. I lunge around the broken glass and yank it
from her hand. I press it against my stomach. Stare at her. I
don’t know what happens now. She read my … she knows my
—Fresh tears cloud my vision. I feel—violated. 
What do I do?
How long has she been in here with it?
Finally Amy’s eyes
slide away from mine. She stands, sidesteps me, and walks to
the door.
She turns back with her hand on the knob. “I knew it,” she
whispers. “I knew this was happening. Keep your distance.”
I watch her slip out of the room.
I must have left Horcrux Nine on the couch in all the chaos
earlier.
Is she going to tell him? What have I gotten myself into?
Why did I come here? This was such a stupid idea. My parents
don’t even want me to call them anymore. I don’t want to like
someone else’s boyfriend! I don’t want to make anyone upset!
I fall to my knees on the kitchen floor with my head in my
hands.
I skip class and stay in bed Friday, doing nothing. I don’t feel
like writing or reading or watching. I feel like nothing. I send
an email to my parents apologizing and wait for them to
respond. Snapshots of their disappointment plaster the inner
walls of my skull, the backs of my eyelids. They’ve never
looked at me like that before—like they put all their eggs in
my basket, and I crushed them. How do I uncrush the eggs?

---

I avoid Babe and Sahra’s attempts to talk all weekend. I
don’t have to worry about running into Amy because she and
Pilot are in Paris.
It’s been over twenty-four hours, and no response has
come from my apology email. I think I made a mistake
begging to finish out the semester. Why did I make such a
scene? I should have just shut up. I’m never going to get up to
speed with the science classes I’ve missed if I’m spending all
my time at the internship.
If this train’s going to run out of track, why should I wait
till the last minute to jump off?
Sunday night, I’m in the kitchen, eating and doing nothing,
when Atticus comes in and sits at the table across from me.
“Hey,” he greets me. I nod in acknowledgment.
“How long are you going to keep to yourself about this?”
he says gently. “We should talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He smiles. “Well, I think we have to. I think you need to so
we can move past it.” I push the ravioli around in my bowl.
“We all have family drama, Shane. You don’t have to be
embarrassed about it. We’re your friends. We’ve all got our
crap … My dad didn’t magically accept me when I came out,
things were weird for a good long while. He still doesn’t ever
ask about my dating life. Families aren’t perfect. You didn’t
have to lie to us about your major. You can talk to us about
that stuff.”
“How old were you when you came out to your parents?”
“Thirteen.”
“Wow, brave thirteen-year-old.”
He nods proudly. “Gryffindor.”
The corner of my lip turns up. “So, I’m premed.”

---

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” He cracks a smile. “It’s okay to
want to also study other things.”
I shoot Atticus a small smile. “My parents have been
bragging to literally everyone and anyone about how I was
going to be a doctor since I was eleven. I think the local
grocery store clerks are aware of my impending doctor-hood.”
I smash a ravioli with my fork.
Atticus rests his head in his hand. “What do you want to
do?”
I shake my head. “I don’t—know anymore. I don’t want to
be a disappointment. I wanted to be premed for my mom … I
mean, I want to. I’m the reason she didn’t get to finish med
school. She got pregnant and spent her life taking care of me.
… She’s been there helping with all my math and science
homework for as long as I remember.
“Like, for all of forever, whenever I didn’t understand
something, she explained it in a super-fun way and sat with me
until it clicked. And it means so much to my dad that I have
opportunities like this because he didn’t.
“I know he came off pretty horrible the other day.… He’s
not always like that.” I gnaw at my lip.
Atticus stays quiet.
“Growing up, whenever I hurt myself, he’d stop everything
and make me a chocolate milkshake with a slice of
watermelon on the glass because it’s my favorite. And then as
I got older, he started making them whenever I was feeling
sad. It sounds silly, but it always makes me feel a little better.
He makes them now when I come home on the weekends from
YU.” 
Because I always come home sad.
I swipe at a fresh tear
dribbling down my cheek. “Sorry.”
Atticus presses his lips together and catches my eyes.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s complicated. I get it.” He pauses, studying
me. “Try not to be too hard on yourself. College is to, like, get
a job and everything, but it’s also about finding yourself—and
all that jazz. Out here, doing your own thing, you learn stuff.

---

It’s good to shake things up. Haven’t you had the time of your
life the last couple months? I know I have.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I whisper. “But my parents aren’t even
responding to my emails.”
“I’m sure they’ll come around, Shane. Maybe they haven’t
checked them yet,” Atticus reasons.
I pull out my laptop because I’m crying, and I can’t
continue any sort of conversation. I really want to write in
Horcrux Nine, but I can’t open it without feeling like my
stomach is going to fall out my ass.
“I’m here if you want to pick this back up,” Atticus says
quietly.
“Thanks, At.”
He takes out his laptop, and we sit in companionable
silence.
I get an email response from Mom.