Chapter Seven | Looking Out For You

♫ Looking Out For You by Joy Again

I've never really believed that there's much to me. It was the reason behind my lack of friends growing up, having zero experience with boys, fading away in the background as much as I do. My extended family called me 'the fire escape' from early on: I stuck to walls, sat quietly and observed wide-eyed, and was always ready to get up and go home.

There's the thing about not wanting to be seen, of course. Something that, throughout my life, has kind of formed a bubble around me. I close myself off. I make no noise and no problems and am loved for it, yet also forgotten. It's kind of ironic. I spend my days making myself invisible and then get upset about not feeling like I'm part of anything.

But, there's also just me as a person. Once, when I was in my sophomore year of high school, my siblings and I got into a fight about something stupid and in the heat of the moment one of them shouted, "God, the cosmos, whichever is in charge, probably made you this way so you're at least interesting to look at— without it, there truly would be nothing to you, Nova". And yes, it's such a specific thing to just remember, but I do remember. If I strip myself of my disability, there's nothing left. My shyness stems from it. My empathy. My desires and my passions. It's pathetic.

Maybe one thing I failed to mention to Milo back on the train is that New York is also an attempt at making something of myself. I want to be more. But the longer I'm here, the more I tend to feel like the only realization I've been destined to make here is that all there is to me is what I lack. I can strut down the sidewalk to my NYU class and be part of the crowd, but this tightness in my bones won't dissolve. And if I dare to think it will, then the mean person underneath my skin tugs back the reigns again and sends a bolt of aches down my legs so that the pain of it all— physical, mental— burns at the very front of my brain again.

I'm not the type of person to diagnose myself with a serious mental issue, or make jokes or suggestions about it, but sometimes, it gets scary how fast I can spiral. Some mornings feel so heavy, my body feels so wrong whenever I move, that I end up in a daze, waiting for it all to be over, to crawl back into bed with the dog curling at my feet and my sister's weighted blanket and the ocean luring me to sleep. But there is no ocean outside my dorm, no dog, no weighted blanket. The fact that there's nothing of home waiting for me tonight somehow makes it all worse. I've only been walking for about five minutes but my muscles strain and tighten, a cramp that feels like its hotspot brews within my thighs.

My first class, an 8am in a building across the street from my dormitory, is led by an older professor. He calls himself 'traditional' and makes an entire speech about the dangers of the digital age and still believing in papers and pens— which, to someone like me who can hold a pen for approximately five minutes before cramping, is a red flag: these type of teachers usually have a hard time to wrap their minds around the notion that no, I cannot abide to your handwritten essay rule and I don't know how they did this a hundred years ago when there were no laptops, but then again, there was also racism and sexism a hundred years ago, so maybe that argument won't really hold anyway. In high school, it meant conflict. My guidance counselor sticking up for me, Claire writing a note as my cerebral-palsy-specialized-therapist, or (when really necessary) my parents making an appearance for a conversation.

This isn't high school.

This is college, adulthood, responsibility, and I've never been less excited about it than right now.

By the time class ends, I've scraped together a significant amount of courage to descend the auditorium's stairs (with the banister's help, of course) and meet the professor by his desk, where he's already shoving papers in a leather cross-body bag. The glasses perched on the tip of his nose remind me of my strict physician back home, the opposite of Dr. Fields who I met with Milo the other day. He doesn't look up as I approach.

"Um, sir?" I hate the way I stammer, and the way my voice comes out too softly and quiet. I almost want to repeat it, but the professor spares me a short, definitely annoyed glance, and I take that as my cue to continue. "About the midterms, Dr. Hyde should have sent you an email about my laptop usage and my medical reasons for it. I just wanted to confirm with you if you've seen it to avoid confusion in the future."

"How many students do you think I have in this class alone? Do you think I know who you are just by looking at your face?" He immediately responds. He doesn't even pause as he's saying it, the desk emptying out as if there's an invisible timer somewhere out of my sight.

I swallow nervously, only now noticing that my bag is unzipped and my binder is almost falling out of it. "I'm Nova Carter... sir."

He sighs heavily and opens his laptop. There are a few moments of silence as he's clicking around on the screen, squinting his eyes, that I use to hopefully inconspicuously shove my binder back inside of my bookbag and zip it up.

"I got the e-mail this morning. I'm sure you can guess that I have better things to do than sit around, learn a hundred people's names by day one and study your individual special needs." The laptop is the last thing he shoves into his bag. "You're settled," he says, but it sounds more like "get out".

I leave my class sulking. As if waking up feeling like my legs are being ripped from my hips wasn't bad enough, my first class ever had to be led by a professor who already hates my guts. I've never really understood how teachers can be so mean. You chose to work with people who know less than you, people your responsibility is to educate, and you treat them like a burden for it.

My least favorite thing about school has always been people like those. Growing up, I've had my fair share of teachers who treat me as if my need for extra help and guidance is ruining their lives or something. If they're not plainly ignoring me, they're making jabs at me in front of the entire class or embarrassing me by demanding I do something they know I physically cannot.

When I was in eighth grade, my English teacher took us to a skate park on a hot day for what he called an interactive class, and all my peers ran up the ramps to sit on them. Instead of accepting that that was one of the things I knew I couldn't do, he grabbed my arm in front of everyone and tried to drag me on there. Obviously I kept slipping and falling as the entire class watched and laughed. Even he seemed amused. He wouldn't let go of me until I tore my arm away and sat at the bottom instead, my entire body trembling with embarrassment and rage.

Funny thing is, you can usually kind of tell who's going to be a teacher like that. One that either infantilizes you (has to caress your cheek out of nowhere, pluck a stray lash from your lip, almost demand you join them on the staff-only elevator rather than taking the stairs), insists on forgetting about you and your needs even after years of having you in their class, or simply sees you as a plaything. My English teacher used me like a ragdoll to make the rest of my class laugh.

I think sometimes my disability is all people consider me to be. A pair of unstable legs and spastic hands. It's hard to look at something so uncoordinated and unstable and recall that there is in fact a whole entire person underneath. And if they remember that I'm someone, at least, they usually just assume I seriously lack mental intelligence. That everything can be done to me and it ends when they're finished. I'm not going to say that it's my fault, but I know I have to stand up for myself more. When something like that happens, I just tend to freeze up and feel it all afterwards.

I've always had my parents, though. If I came home from school and cried about it, they'd be there to listen or just hold me and that was that. But I can't shake the feeling that that part of my life is over, that in my quest for independency and a new me, I've failed to remember that I'd be alone.

The famous arch that rests within Washington Square Park emits a golden glow in the soft morning, an eye-catcher in between the sturdy trees with their green leaves bearing yellow blotches, the first touch of fall having descended upon Manhattan's streets. Washington Square almost seems like a resting point amidst the chaos of the early Monday morning that wraps around me as I find my way down the wide avenue. On Saturday Logan took me to a little café one of his new friends works at, and we decided to meet there after my first class to regroup after his first official practice and my first official lecture.

It feels adult-ish, I can't deny, to place an order for a forest fruit tea and claim a table for two. I recognize some faces from my dormitory and resort to people-watching until Logan arrives, which is about two minutes later, his hair ruffled and messy and his hoodie bundled up underneath his arm. He approaches quickly and collapses in the seat opposite of me, smiling my way.

"Sorry I'm late," he offers. "I took a nap after practice and then didn't want to wake up. Did you order?"

Just then, someone calls my name by the bar and Logan shoots up to get my drink. He usually did so back in high school, too, knowing I can't balance a tray with an open drink or carry it in my hands. By now it seems second nature for him to do so, but it still feels kind of contradictory to sit there with my hands in my lap while I count on him fetching my drink. I should be able to go to café's, no problem, without anyone at my bidding. Two minutes ago, I prided myself on my independency and now I have someone getting my drink because I can't.

"So, first practice. Tell me about it," I say as Logan places the steaming hot tea in front of me. I mutter a slightly embarrassed thank you but am not sure he hears.

He sits and takes a breath. "I mean, I sucked," he tells me, emphasizing the last word. "I messed up, bad. It was extremely embarrassing."

"It's literally day one, though. I think I'd be more worried if you had no problems with it."

"I know, and it's not like I expected it to be... I don't know, easy, or something. But I stumbled and tripped and forgot what play we were doing halfway through. It was like I was wrapped up in everybody's disappointment after the first mistake and it just made everything worse. You should've seen them exchange glances. I think they're bonding over their annoyance towards me."

"What others think has never affected you this much before," I notice softly, studying his stoic features. He swallows a few times.

"Not in high school, no. But let's be real, that team sucked ass. I didn't really care what they thought because I knew I had more experience than them, and I was actually helping and coaching them. But here? I feel like I know nothing. These guys were recruited because they were exceptional in high school, still are, but we still have something to prove to the rest of the team. And I mean, the introductory camp was great, but being on the mat? It's a whole new level of proving yourself. We're not playing for a simple Friday night game, we're playing for professionalism. Glory. One of the most prestigious universities in the world."

When I first met him, it intimidated me how well-put together Logan Peterson was. Though it wasn't surprising. His parents, Katherine and Gregory, were both the kind of rich people who were genuinely hard-workers and simultaneously kind to everyone. They raised Logan and his older sister Elle (who, coincidentally, is dating my brother Flynn) to be the same way. The most attractive thing about him when he joined my high school was how approachable he was. He bathed in attention and glory since day one, the cool new wrestler who elevated the team's success and with that the school's spirit. Everybody loved him.

I can imagine how NYU must be different. He's no longer the exceptional new guy, no longer the one carrying the team, no longer effortlessly cruising through his days. Even though we come from different backgrounds, high school was easy for us both. Maybe he expected to find his worth in wrestling, the continuation of his exceptionality, and instead it crashed down on him that he's just a part of exceptional wrestlers now. One can argue if that even makes him exceptional at all. At least not to the extent of before.

It isn't as if he just did whatever in high school and suddenly has to work hard here. He's always been a disciplined guy and he's always been driven by doing what he loves—which is wrestling. I hope he doesn't let that slip away just because he's finding himself in such a tough spot. At one point he has to realize that most things that feel impossible are usually just... difficult. That's how I've been managing the mess that is life since forever, too, encouraged by possibility and chance. That's how I'm getting by here, now.

Maybe it was a bit self-centered to think I'm the only struggling.

"Anyway," says Logan. "I've been invited to a frat party tonight. I'm thinking I shouldn't go."

"Someone from the team invited you?" I ask, and he nods. "Why wouldn't you go? If you feel like you've had a bad practice, wouldn't this be a chance to bond with them regardless?"

He raises and lowers a shoulder. "It kind of came across like a Carrie situation. I'll go and they'll douse me in pigs blood or something."

I roll my eyes at the Carrie reference. Since neither his family nor mine went on vacation this summer, Elle decided the boys should watch all the classic chick flicks with us (Carrie, Pretty Woman, Legally Blonde, you name 'em, we've seen 'em) and I think it kind of ruined his perspective on popularity.

"This isn't Carrie. These are the same guys you've spent the last week with, and didn't you tell me you had a good time? I'm sure they understand that this first day is nerve-racking for you, they probably just want to involve you to make you feel more comfortable."

A beat passes and then he snorts so loudly that a few people turn and look at us. "I never would've thought you'd be the one convincing me to attend a party," he comments, unaffected.

"I'm not high school Nova anymore. I'm having tea in a café in Manhattan, I just got back from a college class at NYU. None of this is natural." I laugh at that, slipping my hands— knuckles set, muscles tight— around the hot cup.

Logan tilts his head sideways, studying me. "It suits you, you know."

I look up, scrunching up my nose. "You think so?"

"Yeah. Genuinely. You seemed a bit down when I came in, so I just want to make sure you're not... underestimating yourself. This is a big deal." He gestures around us. "I don't remember if we ever sat and realized it, but it is. And I think you're handling it really well."

Logan and I never have many heartfelt moments. It has crossed my mind that he's been my best friend for so many years because he was my only friend for so many years. There's not much we have in common or any subjects we have deep conversations about. In a moment like this, it means there's an awkwardness to it. Like we're about to laugh it off and go back to talking about the weekend and classes and the weather, but we don't. We both sit in it, realizing that yes, it is actually crazy, and it is a big deal. Somehow, it's exactly what I needed to hear.

"It's also crazy that you've been invited to a frat party," I tease, playfully hitting him in the shin with my foot. "Nice attempt at changing the subject, but are you going?"

He hesitates. I watch him draw a hand over the tabletop, sweeping crumbs off of the edge. "Do you really think it'll be the right thing to do? I won't regret it?" He looks up and meets my eyes.

I shrug. "I can't predict that. But I really don't think you'll get a nasty surprise involving pigs blood, if that's what you're asking. And..." I pull out my phone and wave it in the air. "I'll have my phone on me if you need a rescue."

Something in his face lights up, a small grin growing on his lips. "Maybe you should just come—"

"No," I interject. "No." I draw out the o's dramatically.

Logan rolls his eyes and stands up. "Okay, loud and clear. I'm getting coffee." He pauses a few paces out and turns back to me. "I'll go to the party in the name of bonding. But if I'm murdered or assaulted, Nova, it's on you."

I give him two thumbs up.

After all my classes have come to an end, I have one more unmissable responsibility: Dr. Hyde's meeting. On the plus side, I've spent the last week or so surviving the scariest moments of my life. I don't need to sum it all up again, but it does give me a sort of feeling that I'm doing something right, and that there's a lot out there that I thought I couldn't face, but did anyway.

I hope Logan feels inspired by me. As a nervous wreck when it comes to my social life, I do understand how he's feeling. Along with the pressure of having to perform, he needs to get in with older and more experienced players. If he doesn't, it'll make his time on the team so much harder for him. I'm usually the one to give people advice, but for the first time I feel like I've spoken from experience. Immerging myself in my responsibilities and meeting new people has definitely given me a new perspective. Most of these things I probably would've learned earlier, had I been more social in high school, but my trajectory is my own.

I feel lighter on my feet as I walk into the same building I met Dr. Hyde in. Logan's comment about this all suiting me helped in that, too. I felt so heavy waking up this morning, but it's nice to hear that I don't look like I've made a complete fool out of myself coming here.

The directions to the meeting are printed on white sheets of paper, leading me down the same unfinished hall and into a conference room, the tables (grey tabletops, white legs) shoved against the walls and windows, stacked upon one another. In the middle is a circle of white plastic chairs, some gaps here and there for wheelchair users, I assume, and against the right wall Dr. Hyde has installed a snack table, complete with pretzels, cucumber slices, Doritos and dips and a few bottles of lemonade. Right next to them my greatest nemesis: plastic cups.

I'm the only one in the room. The lights are off for some reason and for a second I wonder if I'm at the right place, but a scattered flyer lies trapped underneath one of the chairs' legs and I decide that's not a coincidence as I pull it out and take a seat.

I wonder who I'm going to meet here. It's always so weird to think that on a later moment, all your current questions will no longer be questions. I remember the night before I left for NYU, lying in my bed with my room all packed and thinking about who I'd meet the next day, and thinking about how at the same time the next day I'd have faces and names in my mind that I couldn't even imagine in that moment. Tonight, when I text Logan to find out how the party's going, I'll know who I've met at this meeting. There might be someone who talks like I do. A girl with strawberry blonde hair and another with a scar by her jaw— what do I know?

"I will kill you by running you over with my wheelchair. Literally."

I perk up at the sound of two voices nearing, and soon enough a girl in her wheelchair (which doubles as her murder weapon, apparently) rounds the corner of the conference room with a tall, lanky boy hot on her heels.

He brushes brown, floppy hair from his forehead. "I'll just tip you over, Isla." In a single motion he's taken ahold of her wheelchair and she shrieks, batting at him.

"Murder!" She warns, wagging a finger. "I'll commit murder, Benjamin!"

"Well, since this is basically a confession, I'll have a witness for when you attempt it and fail." Benjamin turns suddenly and makes direct eye-contact with me, smiling nonchalantly. I didn't even know he noticed me when he came in.

Isla follows his gaze and her eyes widen slightly at the sight of me. "Oh, hello," she says.

I give them both a sheepish, small wave from across the room.

"Don't worry," says Benjamin, sauntering further into the room. He notices the snack table quickly and makes an immediate beeline for it. "She's not usually this bloodthirsty. Promise."

Isla rolls her eyes at that, patting against the wall until she finds the light switch and drenches the room in a warm, golden light. I suddenly feel embarrassed for just sitting down without even thinking about turning on the lights, but Isla doesn't seem to pay it that much mind. She wheels closer and takes the empty spot next to me, her wheelchair perfectly fitting in between my chair and the next.

"That's not really how I was planning to introduce myself. Please ignore my dumbass boyfriend." She seems embarrassed, red spots in her neck crawling up her jaw and onto her pale cheeks. "But yeah, I'm Isla. Isla Gallagher. I do film and I'm in my third year, you?"

"It's fine." I laugh shortly. "I'm Nova Carter. Um, I don't really 'do' anything, yet. I'm in my first year."

Benjamin speaks up from by the snack table. "That means that this is your first day, right?" He's downing his third cup of lemonade.

I want to reply, but Isla is faster. "Ben," she emphasizes. "Stop inhaling the food. You were supposed to drop me off and leave."

"I'm just trying to be nice to Nova, here. It's her first day! Remember our first day, how that was? It was fucking crap, that's what!" Benjamin defends himself with furrowed eyebrows, bringing his shoulders to his ears in an exaggerated shrug. He turns to me. "Look, my advice is, don't take crap. Like, from day one. If your professors are asses, be an ass back. They don't like it, but it'll teach them not to mess with you."

"He's in no place to give advice," Isla pipes in at my other side. "He dropped out after two years and now he works at the seven eleven and is on the brink of being evicted."

"I told you, my landlord and I came to an agreement. And I've just been promoted to store manager, so keep your snark, will you?" Benjamin throws another handful of Doritos into his mouth. He downs another cup of lemonade and then walks over to Isla, kissing her on the top of her head. "I'll see you in an hour. Nice to meet you, Nova."

Isla rolls her eyes again, but the corners of her lips quirk upwards and she keeps her eyes on him until he's out of sight. She suddenly seems nervous, then, wringing her hands together on her lap.

If I was a bit more social with strangers I'd know what to say, but a silence stretches between us and we both turn our heads away from each other, both studying an opposite wall. A thousand possibilities run through my head— so, what are you in for? But we're not incarcerated. And it seems rude to just ask about her wheelchair, and even if it didn't, how would I ask? Did something happen feels personal. Do you have cerebral palsy, too feels suggestive. Leaving it open, like wanna tell me why you're in a wheelchair feels like a terrible way to demand an answer to a question I'm pretty sure she knows I must have. I'd rather let the silence draw on then be rude or mean unintentionally.

"Your boyfriend seems nice," I decide to say. She seemed more comfortable when he was around.

Isla turns back to me, her face lighting up. "He's great," she says, a smile growing on her lips. "We bicker a lot. That's what you saw just now. But, he's my best friend. Do you? Have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, maybe?"

The question catches me off guard. It seems like, throughout my life, nobody ever really dared asking me that. I've never even gotten the 'who's your crush'-question— maybe as a way to tease me in class, but not seriously. I think everyone just assumes that I don't. You don't exactly look at me out on the street and think, oh yeah, she definitely has a hot guy waiting for her at home. People are way more likely to think, is she drunk? Or is that really how she moves?

Isla's still looking at me expectantly, and I realize that I've been gaping back at her. I snap out of it.

"Um, no, I don't— I don't have a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. I mean, no girlfriend, either." My face heats up in mere seconds and I avert my gaze quickly.

"Hm, that's odd," Isla says. Someone enters the room but I'm too scared to look up from my incredibly interesting feet. "I mean, you have to know that you're really pretty," she continues.

I feel like my face is about to burn off, it's so hot. In the corner of my eye, I think I see Isla grin and look away.

"You're both here!" It's Dr. Hyde who came in earlier, apparently. He smiles at us and then takes one look at the snack table. "Did you two gobble up all my Doritos?"

Isla and I exchange a look. "Sorry, doc," she says sheepishly. "That was Ben. He just left."

Dr. Hyde seems to know Benjamin. He nods, understanding immediately, and then turns to the door as two more people walk into the room. They don't seem to know each other. One is a short (shorter than me, even) girl with white-ish blonde hair framing her doll-like face. The other is a boy, a thin mustache on his upperlip and a buzzcut. He's wearing a tracksuit and has a duffle bag slung over his shoulders. Hyde ushers them to a pair of seats, the girl next to me and the boy next to Isla.

"Hi," Isla greets them. "I'm Isla."

"Emmy," the blonde girl smiles shyly.

"Philip," the boy says shortly. He seems uncomfortable, readjusting his seating position every few seconds as if it's never quite right. His eyes glaze from Isla to Emmy to me.

"Oh- I'm Nova." They all offer me a smile, and then we turn to the door as more people trickle in. I inhale, wiping my clammy hands on my jeans.

I know three names. Four, if I count Benjamin. That's more than I did an hour ago. It's more than I had in class, sitting alone by the wall and having to approach my grumpy professor. Maybe I tend to get too excited about these sort of things, but it's good to know names.

It suits me, Logan said. Maybe he was right.

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