El Hermano de Mi Mejor Amiga No Debería Conocer Mi SecretoES

Punto de Vista de Bailey

"Señorita Clark, ¿está bien?"

Los números en la página nadaban juntos como hormigas trepándose unas sobre otras, parpadeé pero no se quedaban quietos.

Mis manos temblaban.

Intenté agarrar el lápiz con más fuerza pero se me escurrió entre los dedos y rodó del escritorio, el sonido resonó en el aula silenciosa como un disparo.

Todos me miraron.

"¿Bailey?" La voz del señor Thompson sonaba como si viniera desde el fondo del agua, lejana y distorsionada.

Mi pecho se sentía apretado, demasiado apretado, como si alguien me hubiera envuelto bandas elásticas alrededor de las costillas y siguiera jalándolas más y más fuerte.

No podía respirar.

"No puedo," susurré pero no salió ningún sonido.

El aula se inclinó de lado, los escritorios deslizándose unos contra otros, los rostros difuminándose en un enorme ojo juzgador. Me levanté demasiado rápido, mi silla raspó contra el suelo, ese horrible chirrido me puso la piel de gallina.

"Bailey, siéntate," dijo el señor Thompson pero yo ya me movía hacia la puerta.

Mis piernas se sentían como gelatina, tropecé contra el escritorio de Jessica Martin y su estuche de geometría cayó al suelo.

"Cuidado," siseó Jessica.

No me importó, necesitaba aire, necesitaba salir de aquí antes de morir frente a todos.

El pasillo era más fresco pero no ayudó, mi visión se redujo a un diminuto punto de luz al final de un largo túnel oscuro.

"Alguien que llame a la enfermera," escuché gritar al señor Thompson detrás de mí.

Corrí.

La puerta del baño se abrió de golpe bajo mis manos, me encerré en el último cubículo y me deslicé hacia abajo contra la fría pared de azulejos. Mi corazón intentaba salir de mi pecho, presioné mi palma contra él pero no quería calmarse.

Esto era el fin, me estaba muriendo, dieciséis años y me estaba muriendo en el baño de una preparatoria durante un examen de geometría.

"Respira," me dije a mí misma, "solo respira." Pero no podía recordar cómo.

El tiempo se estiró y dobló, no supe si estuve sentada allí cinco minutos o cinco horas, eventualmente el pánico se disipó como una ola que se retira de la orilla.

Me quedé temblando, fría y tan cansada que podría dormir una semana.

Mi teléfono vibró en mi bolsillo, el nombre de Caleb iluminó la pantalla, por un segundo consideré no contestar, pero él seguiría llamando.

"Hola," dije, mi voz sonaba ronca y extraña.

"Bay, ¿qué pasa?"

Siempre lo sabía.

"Nada, estoy bien."

"Suenas como si hubieras estado llorando."

"Mal día, eso es todo."

Una pausa, podía escuchar música de fondo, risas, el sonido de una vida universitaria normal sucediendo a su alrededor.

"¿Mamá de nuevo?" preguntó en voz baja.

"¿Cuándo no es Mamá?" Otra pausa, más larga esta vez.

"Lo siento, no estoy ahí," dijo pero no sonaba suficientemente arrepentido.

"Está bien, tienes clases."

"Bailey."

"Honestly, Caleb, I'm fine, I have to go."

I hung up before I could argue, before I could tell him about the panic attack or beg him to come home.

He had his own life now; he wasn't going to be the anchor that dragged him down.

The final bell rang and I waited for the hallways to empty before leaving the bathroom; my reflection in the mirror looked like a ghost, pale skin and sunken eyes.

I looked exactly like Mom.

The walk home took twenty minutes, twenty minutes to prepare myself for what I would find when I opened that door.

Some days she was passed out on the sofa, other days she was angry and looking for someone to blame.

Today I was passed out, empty bottles scattered across the coffee table like soldiers on guard duty, cheap vodka and even cheaper wine. The house smelled of stale alcohol and something rotting in the kitchen sink.

"Mom," I said, but she didn't move.

I checked that he was breathing; his chest rose and fell in shallow movements, and there was drool on his chin.

I grabbed a blanket from the closet and covered her up, not because I cared, but because it was what you were supposed to do.

The kitchen was worse, with piles of plates and takeaway containers full of things growing that shouldn't exist in nature.

I started cleaning because if I didn't do something I was going to scream.

***

My phone vibrated again, but this time it wasn't Caleb; it was an email notification. I almost deleted it without reading it, but something made me open it.

The words blurred at first, then snapped into focus with horrifying clarity.

"Dear Bailey, I am writing to inform you that I have accepted a transfer to Portland State University, effective next semester." Portland—that wasn't just far away, it was on the other side of the country.

"I know this is sudden," the email continued, "but it's a great opportunity for my career, Mom and Dad understand."

Mom and Dad, she was referring to her parents, not ours, because our mother was currently unconscious on the sofa and our father left when I was seven years old.

"I'll call you soon to explain everything, take care, Caleb."

Take care of yourself.

As if it were so easy, as if he hadn't been taking care of me since he went to university two years ago.

My hands began to tremble again, that familiar oppression returned to my chest.

Not again, please not again… I dropped my phone and ran to my room, locked the door, and slid down against it just like in the bathroom. But this time the panic didn't dissipate; it built up and built up until I was sobbing on my knees, until I couldn't tell where the panic ended and the grief began.

Caleb was the only person who understood, the only person who knew what it was like to grow up in this house.

Now he was leaving me here alone.

I cried until there was nothing left, until my eyes were swollen and my throat was raw.

The house was quiet except for Mom's snoring from the living room.

This was my life now, this was all it would ever be. Me and Mom and this rotting house in this dead-end town, no escape, no hope, nothing but panic attacks and geometry exams I'd never finish.

My phone screen glowed in the dark, Caleb's email still open.

"Take care of yourself."

I laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.

How was he supposed to take care of me when I couldn't even breathe