I turned over beneath the sheets, pulling the blanket over my head to keep out the cold air from the fan. Moments later, I was too hot, and I pushed it down to my knees. Over and over I turned, never quite comfortable enough to sleep, too hot and too cold, too worried about everything.

About Stevie. About Jamie. About high school and college and my family and my future.

Sleep had been hard to come by these last few nights. It was like every time I turned off the lights and lay down in bed -- every time it was just me and my thoughts, no work or distraction -- my mind turned into an impossible maze, where there was no exit, and every dead end was something to worry about. That was all I had done these last few nights, it seemed -- worry.

But I would rather worry at night than worry during the day.

As I shifted yet again, the silence in my room -- and throughout the entire house, no doubt -- was pierced by a sadly familiar sound: the yelling voices of a man and a woman, not clear enough for me to make out the words but too loud to be blocked out by the covers.

I sighed and rolled onto my back, giving up on falling asleep anytime soon and letting my eyes peel wide. The ceiling stared back at me, blank and calm -- there was no noise of scuttling or scraping, so it seemed the squirrel that lived up there at least hadn't been woken by my parents' screaming.

I waited for them to get tired and resign as they always did -- Mom saying she couldn't do this right now, Dad saying there was no getting through to her, the two of them taking very opposite ends of the bed with backs turned to each other and fingers gripping the covers. But the minutes seemed to stretch on forever, and after ten, I was sick of it; I yanked my pillow from under my head and pressed it around my ears, only succeeding in muffling the noise to a dull (but equally annoying) ring.

It was nothing new. My parents hadn't gotten along -- genuinely gotten along, not the front they put on for family friends and us kids -- since sometime around 2004.

I didn't normally react. I was as used to hearing them fight as I was used to seeing them laugh or smile.

Yet for some reason, as I laid the pillow back beneath my head, I felt an unhappy tumble beneath my chest. It moved down to my stomach and became a churn, then up to my heart where it left a scorch mark. I took a deep breath and told myself not to get upset. I reminded myself that this was normal, and that there was no reason to think about it; no reason to worry. But I couldn't relax, and my restlessness remained.

My memories projected themselves onto the ceiling in my mind -- I saw the first divorce, when I was five and Stevie was eight and Jacob was still a baby. The three of us moving back and forth each week with bags of our things. I saw Danica, brown haired and short; a few months later, Patrick, dark-skinned and tall. Fast forward and the second round of divorces came -- my mom left Patrick for a young Swedish model, my dad and Danica argued their way into a courtroom. All the while, Stevie and Jacob and I packed our things and moved from her house to his house to her house.

Next, I saw Top-Hat Henry. Mom never married Henry -- and Dad never married Coleen with the Green Glasses. Same with Redhead Richard and Triplet-Daughters Luisa. They came and went, just like we came and went. But there was always a move -- sometimes just to a new house, sometimes to a new school, sometimes even to a different city, though we always ended back here.

Two white weddings in one year -- sandy beaches in July, ice sculptures and Christmas trees in December. After a while, you get sick of the magic of matrimony, and your parents scold you for not smiling in the photos, and the guests ask you why you aren't eating.

This time, it was Wyatt with the Tiger-Fur Rugs (for the year we lived with him, Stevie refused to step on them even once) and Beer-Loving Lacy. Both of them horrible, both of them far away from each other. For the first time, we were split -- me and Jacob at one house while Stevie was at another. I remembered their round as the worst time of my life. Wyatt had a heavy hand when he was angry, but he was damn good at keeping it hidden, and Jacob and I were too young and stupid and scared to say anything. Lacy's oldest son, Jonathon, was the reason I'd had nightmares as a kid; he was a Class-A bully, and Lazy was too lazy and useless to punish him.

They were the worst people I'd ever met, and it took my parents far too long to realize it; by the time they did, the wounds had already begun to show. I'd had my first ever panic attack -- though it was also the last I would have for a while. Stevie had shown the first signs of her instability. And Jacob had started to pry himself away from the rest of the family. We were near the tipping point, and too young to even realize it, when the inevitable breakups came -- then my parents were back at it again, wrestling for custody over three unhappy children.

They both had one more marriage in them -- Dante Who Liked Cowboy Movies and Mary And Her Endless Signed-Baseball Collection -- until they gave up and met once again in the middle. Not because of love, but because they both had business degrees, and Dad's company was making modest gains, and they had nowhere else to go, and they were finally getting tired of starting over. Thus ended the weekly trips and the separations, the packing suitcases and switching schools, the meeting step-siblings and distrusting stepparents, the tired disappointment when another relationship failed and it all had to happen again. My parents married five times each, from their first engagement to each other to their last. After ten -- or maybe it was eleven, or maybe twelve -- years, we ended up exactly where we'd started -- same town, same house, same school district -- but with scars that hadn't started the journey.

I rolled onto my stomach, away from the images on the ceiling -- of Stevie blaming herself the first time they fell apart, of Jacob slowly separating himself from the stress by alienating himself from the family. My mind raced to the present day, and anxiety leaped from my navel to the back of my throat as I pictured it all happening again.

I remembered what the years of back and forth had done to Stevie. Then I was thinking about Stevie, and how, days later, she was still missing, and I was too far gone to pull myself out now.

I blew it out of proportion, fast. Somewhere in my mind, I knew that this was a normal fight like any other -- my parents wouldn't split again, if just for the fact that they were tired of starting over and scared of being alone. And even if they did, it could never affect me the way it had before, not now that I was so close to moving out anyways. Stevie would probably be alright -- she had gotten herself out of bad situations enough times before.

Wherever all of that was in my mind, it stayed there. Logic and reason lagged behind, anxiety and fear took the lead, and as my heart raced and my breathing shallowed, a clock at the back of my brain ticked a mocking countdown to panic.

++++

"Stay with me, Jamie," I muttered for what felt like the hundredth time that week. He perked up in his desk and focused on the worksheet that Mr. Peters had handed out with a quiet "sorry."

He had been nodding off in class ever since he'd come back after his four-day absence. His exhaustion was worse every day -- he could hardly stay awake, and when he did, he was reserved at best, short at worst. There was no point in asking what was wrong; there was only ever one answer, and it was something I had no power to help with.

"How are you not fed up with me yet?" he sighed, setting his pencil down on the desk and leaning back in his chair. I couldn't read his expression -- whatever was there was fogged up by fatigue.

Shrugging, I said, "I don't blame you," quiet as to not disturb the class. "You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

Jamie shook his head dejectedly. "Not for lack of trying."

He must have caught my concern, because he added, "I've been worse."

Which was hardly comforting.

"What about you?" Jamie asked after a short silence. "I feel like I never know how you're doing. You seem kind of on edge lately."

I faked a grin. "That's because I'm always the same. I'm not on edge -- just worried about my sister, you know? Other than that, I've been good," I lied.

Jamie didn't need to hear about the fact that I'd had another bad anxiety attack the week before at night in my bedroom, or that I'd had a panic attack for no reason two days ago, parked outside of my house. He had enough to worry about without knowing that I did feel on edge all the time -- about everything I could possibly be on edge about -- and that, even now, at the front of my mind was the persistent, never-ceasing worry about when I would have another attack -- where it would be, and what would be the cause, if there was a cause.

He didn't look entirely convinced by my lie, but I doubted he had the energy to challenge it. Instead, he passed several seconds watching me, casting his gaze over my face. It took me too long to realize that he was trying to find the truth for himself. I quickly looked down at the worksheet.

Avoiding Jamie's gaze, however, only seemed to confirm whatever he'd been thinking. "Liam --"

My phone rang in my pocket. I practically jumped to answer it, muttering a quick, "I have to take this," to Jamie and pressing it to my ear before he had the chance to say another word.

I'd expected to hear some stupid spam call, so when my sister's voice greeted me with a shaky, "Hey, Bub," it felt as if the floor had fallen out beneath me. My shock must have been blatant, because Jamie called my name again, but I was already halfway across the room.

"Mr. Bane, you cannot just--" Mr. Peters began, but his scolding was cut off by the classroom closing behind me.

"Stevie!" I half-whispered, half-yelled.

"Hey," she said again; her voice was tired but smiling. "How are you?"

"I know you didn't just ask me that," I said disbelievingly. "How are you? Where have you been? Are you hurt? Have you called mom and dad? Are --"

"Sh sh sh," Stevie hushed, and I could picture her rubbing her eyes. "I'm okay. I'm back in my apartment, I got back last night. But I haven't spoken to mom and dad."

I leaned back against a locker, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead and trying to collect myself. I wasn't even sure what I was feeling. Relief, of course, but the funny thing about relief was, it hardly felt like relief at all when it was piled on top of unanswered questions and unsolved problems. "You've got to," I said. "They're worried sick, and -- and they've got authorities looking for you."

Stevie sighed. "I know, but . . . they're gonna be so pissed, Liam," she said, and I heard the old childlike fear she used to get in her voice whenever she did something bad -- like the time she spilled grape juice on the carpet when she was eight, and the time our parents looked through her phone when she was sixteen. It was meek and unhelpful and sincere.

"No, they won't," I assured her. It was a lie, and we both knew it. They would be pissed. But not right away, and not enough to be cruel to her. Whatever Stevie did, they would first be happy to hear that she was okay. They would be angry about the cost later, and even then, they'd be understanding. "Stevie . . . what happened?"

I heard her let out a short breath through her nose. Then,

"I was supposed to go pick up my lithium refill," she began. "But . . . I had a few hectic days, and I kept putting it off, and after maybe a week I got this stupid fucking mentality of -- I don't know, I just thought nothing bad had happened so far, and it would be so fucking relieving to not have to worry about taking mood stabilizers and -- god, I'm such an idiot, Liam, mom and dad should be pissed at me."

"Hey, no, don't say that," I said; I knew Stevie, and she would just beat herself down until she was too far underground if I let her. "It was a mistake, but you learned from it, and . . . and mom and dad will understand, but you have to be honest with them. Where did you go?"

"Vegas," Stevie groaned, and my stomach sank. "I know what face you're making. Yes, it's exactly as bad as you're picturing, and I don't know what to do because Liam, I gave up everything."

I leaned my head back against the locker and ran a hand down my face, taking a deep breath in the hopes that my mind would offer something useful for me to say. "It'll be alright," was all I could come up with, and it didn't do much to ease the panic in Stevie's voice.

"No it won't! What if this time they get fed up and --"

"They won't," I cut her off. Our parents may not have had much love left for each other, but they loved me, Stevie, and Jacob with everything they had. I was sure that they would help Stevie now and reprimand her later. "Just calm down, okay? Everything's alright now. Are you back on lithium?" Stevie made an affirmative hum. "Good. Great. Just give yourself some time to recover. Try not to stress too much," I added, which was pretty hypocritical coming from me. "And talk to them."

Stevie took a deep breath. "Okay . . . okay. It'll be okay," she said; I could tell she was convincing herself. And I could tell it wasn't working, but in time she would calm down. "We haven't talked in ages -- which, my fault -- but how is everything? You holding up okay? How is Jacob? How are things with Jamie?"

I hesitated for maybe a moment too long. Stevie was the only person I'd ever been totally honest with about how I was doing. Junior year, when I started having consistent panic attacks -- not the scattered moments I'd been experiencing since Wyatt and Jonathon, but the weekly or biweekly or tri-weekly occurrences -- she'd been my support system.

But now, my problems seemed so small compared to hers. So what if I got a little freaked out every now and then? Stevie's post-mania stress far outweighed a few moments of anxiety. There was no use worrying her, not with everything she had on her plate -- the attacks had passed after a couple of months junior year, so they would probably pass again now. 

It was better, really, if I kept it to myself. Telling others -- Stevie or Jamie or Bryan or my parents or Jacob (as if) -- would only make things worse.

"I've been fine," I said. "A little stressed, but fine. Jacob's the same as always. And things with Jamie are good; he's having a hard time, but I'm trying my best to help, and we're boyfriends now, and . . . yeah."

"That's good," Stevie took an unsteady breath. "I'm happy for you. And I hope things get better for Jamie. I'm sorry for worrying you these past few weeks . . ." she paused, and I thought she was finished -- I opened my mouth to say goodbye -- but then she spoke again, more cautiously this time. "You sure you're okay, Bub? You sound a little shaky."

"Everyone keeps telling me that," I laughed airily, looking up at the ceiling. "I'm fine, Stevie. Just really relieved to hear your voice. Promise."

My calculated carelessness seemed to relax my sister. "Okay, good. If anything is ever going on, you'll tell me, right?"

"Of course," I put a smile into my voice. "Go call Mom and Dad, okay? I love you."

"Love you. Thank you for being there for me."

"Always."

"Bye, Bub."

The call ended, and I shoved my phone into my pocket. Shutting my eyes tight, I took a long, slow, breath; opening them again, I made for Mr. Peters' classroom, resolved not to seem on edge or shaky anymore. Whatever was going on with me, this stupid nuisance that I thought I had overcome, I would ride its wave until it passed, until the tide was far behind me. And I would do it alone, without pushing all of this useless worry onto those around me.

++++

There was a party that Friday night. Darren Wilson's place. He had a reputation for hosting the loudest, craziest parties out of everyone in the city -- and for getting busted by the cops. The days leading up to his events were always filled with an excited buzz, and normally I was right with everyone else -- pumped at the prospect of letting go for the night, playing beer pong and dancing with strangers, getting wasted or stoned and not thinking about the consequences.

But as I sat on my bed at ten that night --  Bryan and I had planned to meet there at 10:30 -- my usual eagerness was pushed behind nagging thoughts of what could go wrong.

We could get in trouble with the cops. I'd gone to a handful of Wilson's parties and never been caught, but tonight could be different. Tonight, I could be hauled off by some shadow-faced officer, I could be drug tested -- and there went my college prospects.

I started forming a plan in my head -- I knew the house well enough -- creating an escape route to ensure that there would be no trouble . . .

Just in case that fell through, I thought up another one . . .

Maybe I just wouldn't drink. But if I wouldn't drink, and I wouldn't dance with anyone, and Bryan would probably be sucking face with Vanessa all night, was there really any point in going?

And what if I had another panic attack at the party and made everyone think I was some sort of freak?

My eyes darted to my closet. I had to think of something to wear, too. But as I searched through my clothing, I pushed item after item aside, each time thinking I would look like an idiot. After trying on eight different combinations and hating how I looked in every single one of them, my frustration peaked; I yanked off my shoes and chucked them into my closet angrily before I realized that I was overreacting -- to nothing, moreover -- and dragged myself into the bathroom. Six splashes of water to my face later, I felt no more relaxed. Just damp. I huffed, shaking the water from the tips of my hair, and stared in annoyance at my reflection.

I looked fine. So why didn't I feel fine?

I was positive that I would make a fool of myself tonight no matter what I did.

"God," I muttered. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

It had never been like this before. Even when things were at their worst last year, I never had this constant, persistent anxiety following me around like a cloud.

I sent Bryan a text saying that I couldn't make it tonight. Laying back on my bed, I took a long breath and searched for something that would clear my head and distract me from the perpetual chaos that had become of my mind.

Jamie only took twenty minutes to get here. I snuck him in quietly, past the bedrooms of my sleeping parents and Jacob, who was probably playing GTA or watching porn or whatever the hell 15 year old brats did at 10:30.

Jamie looked like he still wasn't sleeping. He had been growing thinner recently, which was concerning, as he didn't have much weight to lose to begin with. I didn't get a chance to ask him if he was okay, and he didn't get a chance to ask me why I had invited him over so randomly -- as soon as we got into my room, we were kissing on my bed, willfully allowing the heat of the moment to distract us from what was laying low in the background.

But tonight was a bad night, for both of us. We could only kid ourselves for so long -- at almost the same time, we pulled away from each other -- I rolled off of Jamie -- he excused himself to the bathroom -- I nodded and let him go without a question. Minutes trudged by; I kept blinking hard to get rid of all the pestering thoughts in my head, but they were as stubborn as ever.

Jamie was still in the bathroom. I tried unsuccessfully to reign in my thoughts, giving up after a few moments to climb off of the bed and see what was up with him. Forget my issues and focus on his.

He was sitting on the floor when I entered, back against the wall, looking up at nothing. He turned when he saw me, and before I could even ask, he let out a mirthless laugh and said, "I'm freaking out."

I slid down next to him. "Okay. Why?"

"A lot of things." He turned his eyes up once again. "I'm not used to . . . feeling different. And it's freaking me out."

"Different how?" I asked.

"Different in a lot of ways," he sighed. "I feel a lot better than I'm used to. But I also feel a whole lot shittier than I think I ever have. I guess the scary part . . . the scary part is that I'm starting to think about the future. Part of me -- still the biggest part, and the easiest part -- wants to just stick to the plan. Self-destruct so no one else can do it. Hang on by a thread until I don't have to anymore. Fall apart after that." A dark smile took his lips. "You don't get this but . . . the amount of relief that I feel when I think about that . . ."

He swallowed. "But then -- then there's this stupid little part of me that doesn't mind being clean, and doing better in school again, and . . . and being in a stable relationship. And sometimes I get these thoughts, like, maybe I should keep that up, and maybe I'll start to be happy more than I'm sad, and maybe it'll all be okay. It's a sick fucking joke, Liam," his voice turned suddenly sharp, "and I know that it's pointless, and that I let myself go for too long, and that getting my hopes up has only ever hurt me before. All it takes is for me to remember that, and I sink so fucking low . . ." He hesitated for a moment, and that moment seemed to stretch on. "I bought a pack, Liam," he admitted miserably. "I got pissed at myself and I bought a pack -- I haven't used it, but it's there."

I took his hand and leaned onto his shoulder. "Promise me you'll get rid of it, okay?" I said unaccusingly. Jamie nodded stiffly, resting his head on top of my mind. After a few heartbeats, I said, "You. . . you refuse to let yourself look ahead because you think there's nothing for you to look at. What if you're wrong?"

Jamie gave a short, soft, bitter laugh. "You're so optimistic . . . I love that about you."

I took a halting breath.

"I guess that's another reason I'm freaking out," he continued, and though I heard the nerves in his voice as he spoke, I couldn't help but tense further. I silently willed him to stop talking, but he didn't.

"I know you won't believe this, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you."