Sparrow: Chapters 17–22

Dr. Katz peers down too, trying to catch my eye and raise it to meet hers. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Sparrow. It’s your session, you can do whatever you like with it, including leave.”

“So, can you tell me what you think about the relationship between Nick and Gatsby?”
“He idolizes him.”

“Yes, we have that already.” She gestures to the board, where the class has apparently been making a list for quite a while. “Does anyone else have anything new?”

She tells me we’ll have walkie-talkies so that she’ll be able to communicate with me in the light booth if anything needs to be adjusted—because, she says casually, I’ll also be running sound.

My stomach feels queasy. I think about what would happen if I just threw up right here on the rug.

My hands grow clammy and my cheeks are hot, but I make myself say it anyway.

“What about you?” I ask, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice.

Whenever I tried to imagine my mother at my age before, she looked exactly like herself, just shorter, more flat-chested, still wearing a suit and pearls, holding a briefcase, hair perfect, shirt starched.

“They called me to the hospital because Sparrow had been found trying to jump off the roof of her school. When I got there, they had sedated her because she’d been hysterical. I only got to take her home on the condition that she see you. Since then, her denial has been so thick, all she’ll say is that she didn’t try to kill herself. I don’t know what else you would call it.”

“They called me to the hospital because Sparrow had been found trying to jump off the roof of her school. When I got there, they had sedated her because she’d been hysterical. I only got to take her home on the condition that she see you. Since then, her denial has been so thick, all she’ll say is that she didn’t try to kill herself. I don’t know what else you would call it.”

“Ms. Cooke, under a lot of emotional stress, Sparrow tends to check out from whatever situation she’s in. She might physically be in one place, but mentally she’s pretty far away.”
“She’s flying?” Mom asks incredulously.

“I don’t think we have to worry about those things with Sparrow if she continues learning how to confront the issues that make her feel like taking off. Will she be able to be a happy, independent, free adult? Absolutely. In terms of hospitals, there’s no reason for her to be in one. And according to Dr. Woo, Sparrow isn’t suicidal and doesn’t need medication at the moment. Which is a good thing since…” She looks at me, head tilted, eyebrows arched, like, you’re not getting out of this one.

There are tiny tears seeping out from under her lids.

“I am telling you that escape or checking out is a common response to emotional trauma and anxiety, like the kind Sparrow experiences in social situations, like school.”

“Hopefully,” Dr. Katz says, “Sparrow can get some tools to deal with her feelings of isolation and anxiety, and she won’t need to fly. That’s what we’re trying to work on here.”

“I’ll be there.”
“Are you sure? I know it’s early.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Now stop imagining that worst-case scenario in your head over and over. It’s going to be fine.”

It’s during a lull in Mr. Garfield’s class (shocker) that the roller-coaster feeling comes back.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Maybe she’ll find “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and write down the stanza that comes before the peach one.

All the parents are chatting with each other; there’s a cacophony of Oh, Colette, how are Jackie’s piano lessons going? and What do you think about the season they just had?

“This sound okay, Sparrow?” she asks as she strums a chord. I adjust the level a little and give her the thumbs-up.

“Well...” I bring the brochure out of my backpack, trying to smooth it out. “I think I want to go to camp.”

Bass is the perfect instrument for me; you can barely hear it if you don’t know what you’re listening for, but the song wouldn’t be the same or even half as good without it. It’s the pulse. You’d think that was the drums, but it’s not. It’s the bass.

“It’s not that it’s funny, Sparrow. You just have a very vivid imagination. So, let’s start with this: There are no tents.”
“There aren’t?”

Subtly, my fingers press down imaginary chords on an imaginary bass.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Wrong? Nothing, girl, I made you breakfast. A little inspiration. A little sustenance. A little bravery.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Wrong? Nothing, girl, I made you breakfast. A little inspiration. A little sustenance. A little bravery.”

She cocks her head to the side, that infamous eyebrow raised.

She looks at me askance, trying to tell if I’m trying to get away with something or if I’m for real.

“She better be. Sparrow, I’m serious. If you’re going to camp, you’re staying there. You’ve got to figure out how to beat this thing. I can’t bail you out. Got it?” I pretend to be asleep, as my heart starts kicking quietly against my ribs.