All night I wrestle with the stubborn strength of insomnia. I sweat and my heart sounds like the 500 Hemi in Xavier’s Charger. I push my twisted brown bangs away from my damp forehead and glance over at the big, electric-green numbers on my digital alarm clock, which read 3:33AM. Story of my life. I only need to be up in three hours, no big deal. Sometimes I wonder why God can’t pick a time to urge me to talk to Him that’s a bit closer to sensible waking hours.

My stomach is in tangled bowline knots, like the ones Dad taught me how to tie, after I got kicked out of Girl Scouts – apparently, reading your troop leader’s mind is considered “cheating”.

I throw my heavy covers off and tumble-dump my weary body onto my average-sized feet.  I glance absently at my toenails, although they’re obscured by the darkness, I know that my right big toe is missing a chunk of dark blue nail polish. I flick on my lamp and stare without seeing the city skyline on the black shade. I decide that I should probably just surrender, knowing I’m just going to keep flailing around on my bed. I gather clothes that I pray match and are weather-appropriate, and head into my attached bathroom. (My grandfathers on both sides spoiled us with two master suites, and I am grateful every day for my own bathroom.) I turn on the lights and the hot water and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Ooh. So attractive, I think as I pull down one of my eyelids. I step into the steam of blazing liquid and hiss, taming the temperature a little with a reflexive flick of my wrist on the faucet knob.

The sick feeling in my guts is not quite physical, and I know what it is, though it’s never been quite this forceful before. I roll my head from shoulder to shoulder and sigh.

“What is it, God? Who is it?” I ask, a bit irritable. I feel guilty for my agitation, but God knows who He’s dealing with. “Please, just tell me, so I can try and sleep!”

Nothing. No answer.

But the sense of urgency doesn’t leave me alone.

“It’s probably someone I know, right? Someone I’m connected to, who I’ve bonded with… is it Sophie? Is she still worried about being accepted to art school?”

Still nothing.

I feel nervous sweat mix with the hot water on my neck.

This feels much more urgent and desolate than art school.

“Whatever and whoever it is, step in and do what you need to do, just tell me… just…”

I lose my train of thought as the nausea spikes into unbearable pain. I am doubled over, and a horrifying moan reaches my ears through the sound of blood rushing from my head.

It’s only when my mom bursts in that I realize the moan is coming from my mouth.

 

Two hours later, over a cup of coffee and fried egg sandwiches, my mom’s eyes flit to my face again – they’re ice gray-blue, she’s definitely concerned.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks for the thirteenth time.

“I promise I am. The pain is completely gone. All I feel is relief that it’s over.” I take a bite of my breakfast, which is half-eaten already and settling just fine.

“I should’ve made you something healthier. I’m a bad mom,” she whines.

“What would a good mom have made for me?” I appease her.

“I don’t know. Some fresh fruit… or Cream of Wheat. Oatmeal, maybe?”

I make a disgusted face. “No thanks. I despise lumpy breakfast foods like that, and you know this. A good mom is one who makes their My Little Outsider a really good egg sandwich. It hit the spot, I’m telling you.”

Mom sighs and clutches her coffee mug to her chest. Her eyes have settled to a more muted slate-blue.

“I love you dearly, Savannah Elise Browning.”

“I love you too, Georgia Lynn Browning,” I tell her, smiling.

We both drink the last of our coffee in silence as comfortable as the collar of your favorite t-shirt and Mom puts the mugs in the dishwasher.

“You sure you don’t just wanna play hooky today? It’s Friday,” Mom grins. “We could make it a three-day weekend. Hot chocolate and Gilmore Girls and carving pumpkins… the weather man is calling for a freak snow storm, even. It would be wonderful.”

“Sorry, Mom, but even freaks like me have to worry about conventional things like classes and actually making it to graduation. It may only be October, but my grades count all year long.”

Mom rolls her eyes, which are now a tranquil gray-green. “Why do you always have to be responsible, Sav? It’s so boring. You’re seventeen – live a little.”

“Wow, Ma, you’d think this conversation would be reversed.” I laugh.

“Except you’d have to say, ‘you’re forty – live a little’,” Mom corrects me matter-of-factly.

“True,” I shrug. “You act seventeen most days, though.”

Mom sticks her tongue out at me. “And you act like you’re forty, so we’re even.”