Servants of the Storm Read Online Free PDF Page A

what I’m up against, withdrawal-wise. Still, it seems like it should take more than a day and a half for me to be feeling things again, remembering things. If I had given it more thought, and maybe if I hadn’t been so desperate to find Carly, I wouldn’t have quit my mystery meds cold turkey right now. The first stage rehearsal at the Liberty is the wrong time to go crazy. I need this play, need this normalcy.
    I fight my way past the memories and walk down the musty hallway with its off-kilter wood floors and buzzing lights. People laugh and talk beyond two open doors, and Baker salutes me before he disappears into the boys’ dressing room. I take a deep breath, put on a smile, and push into the girls’ room.
    When I walk in the door, everyone looks up, but no one waves or says hi. Whoever or whatever I was to them before, they don’t runsquealing to embrace me anymore and include me in their gossip. I almost wonder if they think of me like a pet or a piece of furniture. Have I really been that out of it? I haven’t actually thought about anyone else’s feelings or perceptions in a long, long time.
    I lean against the counter next to Tamika, who used to be part of our circle. She sat with Carly and Baker and me at lunch and invited us all over for pool parties. We even played Bloody Mary at a sleepover at her house once, and she screamed like she was being stabbed to death and wouldn’t tell us what she saw in the mirror. When we lost Carly, I consoled myself by going crazy. Tamika consoled herself by going to lots of parties and drinking. Even if we haven’t talked in a year, we’ve been friends since kindergarten, and I know she’s a basically nice person.
    “Hey, Tamika. What’s up?” I say.
    “Oh! Dovey?” She’s so surprised, she drops her curling iron. It skids down her toga, and she jumps back, hissing and cussing. We both reach for it, and we smack heads. I see stars. It’s about the worst thing possible for my headache.
    “Sorry,” I say.
    “Don’t be.” She takes the curling iron back with the wide, toothy smile I remember. “It’s fine. It’s just that you haven’t spoken to me in a year. You surprised me, is all.”
    “Was I that bad?” I say.
    The look of pity on her face is answer enough. She sets down the curling iron and hugs me tightly, just like I remember. She was always huggy, always the one who got the Band-Aids whensomeone skinned a knee. I’m amazed at how easy it is to hug her back. She’s gotten thinner since the last time we hugged.
    “You were pretty out of it,” she says. “But it had to be easier than . . .”
    She trails off. We stare at each other. I take a deep breath.
    “Than when I went crazy,” I fill in. “It’s okay. You can say it.” She smiles, and I smile back and start to feel like myself again.
    “You seem different. Did they change your . . . I mean, did your therapist . . .”
    Poor Tamika looks totally lost. She always hated to hurt anyone’s feelings. And because we’ve been friends for so long, and because I want to feel like a friend again, I decide to tell her my secret. Or at least part of it.
    “Look, don’t tell anyone, but I’m going off my meds. I think I can handle it.”
    She gasps and shakes her head like she’s seen a dead rat.
    “Uh-uh. Dovey, no. You can’t. You don’t remember what it was like.” She says it quietly, avoiding my eyes and focusing on the curling iron instead. She clamps it down on her weave and carefully lays a fat sausage curl over her shoulder. “No way you remember, or you wouldn’t even try to quit. Are you sure it’s going to be okay? You did talk to your therapist first, right? I read somewhere that coming off those meds can be the roughness. And you were really bad, for a while there.”
    “Like when?” I ask.
    There are holes in my memories, which bothers me. I rememberfreaking out in school a few times, although I can’t remember why. I remember with heartbreaking clarity