How It Ends by Catherine Lo (classic books for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

my head’s about to explode, but I head back into the room, nearly crashing into my dad in the doorway. “Actually, everyone,” he announces, “there’s one more gift. Go sit down.”

Dad comes back with a huge box wrapped in bright red paper, and Madge starts bouncing in her chair and clapping her hands like a little kid. I’m about to barf from the corniness of it all when Dad says, “This one’s for you, Annie.”

“What a surprise,” Madge says, no longer bouncing. “I didn’t know you bought something extra for Annie.”

The box is enormous. It comes up to my waist and is just as wide. I unwrap it to find . . . another wrapped box. Inside that one is another, smaller box. This keeps going for six boxes, and my dad and I are laughing our heads off by the time I get to the last one. But the laughter dies on my lips when I open it. Inside is a velvet box containing my mother’s diamond necklace.

“Is it . . . it’s Mom’s, right?” I don’t really have to ask, though. This necklace is engraved in my memory. Mom had it from before I was even born, and she never, ever took it off. My father gave it to her on their wedding day, and it was her most prized possession. I thought it was lost when she died.

My dad turns to Madge. “Would you ladies mind giving us a moment alone?”

Her eyes are shooting daggers at him, and Sophie seems reluctant to leave, but they get up and give us our space.

“When the officer came that night, he asked me to identify your mother’s body. I was so scared to go. I dropped you off at your grandmother’s house, do you remember?”

I nod my head. I miss Grandma so much. She died a year after my mother.

“After I said my goodbyes to your mom, a nurse handed me a plastic bag with your mother’s purse in it and a few things recovered from the accident site. One of the things was that necklace. The chain was broken, but the diamond was still there. I made a silent promise to your mother that when you were old enough to handle the responsibility of such a valuable necklace, I would pass it on to you.”

Dad takes the necklace out of its box and fastens it around my neck. The pendant is cold at first, but it quickly warms against my skin. I suddenly feel my mom all around me. “I’m so proud of you and the young lady you’ve become,” he tells me. “Your mother would be so proud too.”

I blink back tears and look at him—really look at him—for the first time in forever.

“Thanks, Dad,” I breathe, all thoughts of Scott and his mother and the brunette fading into the background. “This is the best Christmas ever.”

Jessie

Back to school tomorrow. I just packed my bag, and the news is not good. I only have three pills left in my Ativan bottle.

I’m screwed. There’s no way I can get my prescription renewed. Even if I went back begging Dr. Morgan for more, he wouldn’t trust me with Ativan again. Not after I burned through seventeen pills in a month.

It started out so small. I only needed them for lunches with Courtney and Larissa. I wanted so badly to be relaxed and fun. I wanted so badly to be someone different than who I am.

And it worked. Sort of . . .

It didn’t make me the life of the party, but it did quiet my brain enough that I could sit through lunch without my thoughts racing around, reminding me of how unworthy I am.

It’s not like I took a pill every day. But on days that made me nervous, I’d sneak one to calm myself down. The day Scott begged me to help him and Annie study for an upcoming science test over lunch, for example, and the time I got matched up with Larissa for a presentation.

I’ve been braver and more outgoing this past month than ever before.

With a few tradeoffs.

I’d hoped the side effects would lessen with time, but each time I take the Ativan, I feel foggy and sluggish. No one has really commented on it, but it’s reflected in my grades. It’s not a huge dip, but it’s enough to bother me. I’m not as mentally sharp on the medication as I am normally, and I’m so sleepy at night that I don’t always finish my homework.

Three more pills.

I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to talk to my mom, get my antidepressant meds adjusted, and probably go back to counseling. But the thing is, I don’t want to do all that. I know the Ativan wasn’t supposed to be a treatment for anxiety. But it worked for me. I could function when I had those pills. I could get through the day without feeling horrible, and I could walk around feeling confident that I wouldn’t suddenly lose it.

If I ask for help now, I’ll have to go back to square one with my mom. She’s just started relaxing around the whole anxiety issue.

The fact of it is that as well-meaning as they are, my mom and Dr. Morgan, and even my therapist Dr. Richards, don’t really understand my anxiety. They’ve read about it, and they know all the facts, but they don’t know what it’s like to walk around feeling anxious. I feel uncomfortable nearly every minute of every day. There’s a tightness in my chest and a buzzing in my head, and I feel so keyed up, with no relief possible. I get headaches from clenching my jaw, and when it’s really bad, I can’t even read because of the noise in my head. That’s the best way I can describe it—noise. It’s like my mind is spinning so out of control that I can’t even make sense of it. It’s just a jumble of chaotic thoughts clouding my brain.

That was the beauty