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base of my skull. And then smooth as butter, I slide out of my body and hover in the air right over a paint-splattered table. Mrs. Stilke is helping my skin and bones off the floor. Already there’s a large, red lump on my body’s forehead.
    Real attractive there, Sylvie .
    I float upward, through the ceiling and into Mrs. Zimmer’s Trig class. I stop just above her desk. Her book, the teacher’s edition, is open. And smack in line with my vision is page 3, number 13. I see the answer in red, x = 30° and x = 150°. I’m about to commit the rest of the page to memory, when suddenly I feel a tug. I zip back down through the floor and with jolt I’m me again. The physical me.
    “Are you okay, Sylvie?” Mrs. Stilke’s eyes are concerned behind her purple glasses. “We should get you to the nurse.”
    I feel woozy for a second and kind of weave around as I stand up, almost toppling over. Mrs. Stilke grabs me before I fall.There are a few giggles and some gasps. This is where I know someone will sing-song, “Psy-cho!”, but Mrs. Stilke whips around and the room is quiet. “Nelson, take Sylvie to the nurse. Now.”
    My head hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, so I’m actually glad to go to the nurse’s office. Nelson gently helps me out of the room and we walk together upstairs. He’s holding my arm, like I’m some old lady.
    “Looks ... uh ... painful,” he says.
    “Yeah.” I put my hand to my forehead. It’s already swollen to the size of a Big Mac. “Geesh, the size of this thing. There goes my modeling career.”
    Nelson’s blue eyes go wide. They’re a shade lighter than his hair. “You never told me you’re a model.”
    “Yeah. The Before pictures for plastic surgery.”
    His brow wrinkles up like an accordion.
    “It’s a joke, Nelson.”
    “Oh. Not very funny,” he says and smiles at me. He has dimples when he smiles. “But you could be. You’re pretty enough. Or you will be when the swelling goes down.” He nudges me gently with his elbow.
    “Yeah, right.” I give a sharp laugh.
    “Hey.” He slows down. His combat boots make dull thuds in the hallway. His voice is unsure, questioning. “Are you okay? I mean, really?”
    “What, now you’re gonna start calling me Psycho like everyone else?”
    He blanches. “No! No, hell, no. Besides, nobody calls you Psycho. ”
    “Everybody calls me Psycho, Nelson.”
    “Tori Thompson’s not everybody. She doesn’t even count as—”
    We reach the nurse’s office. “Here’s my stop,” I say, cutting him off.
    “Want me to come in with you?”
    I shake my head — a painful mistake. “No. But thanks.”
    He nods his blue head at me but doesn’t let go of my arm.
    “Uh, Nelson?” I say, looking down at his hand, and he finally loosens his grip. He blushes then turns back down the hall.
    “That’s quite a knot,” Nurse Carey says as I come in. She asks me questions about the fall. I tell her everything. Well, everything that is except the leaving my body part.
    I’ve got a good rap sheet here in the nurse’s office. For all the times my soul’s gone AWOL. Since freshman year, it’s happened a lot. Any pain or strong emotion can send my spirit flying. Luckily, most of the time I go out and back in before anyone notices. But sometimes ... sometimes the cataplexy kicks in and my body collapses. That gets noticed.
    Not exactly the kind of thing that wins a popularity contest.
    Nurse Carey pokes and prods and says, “Hmmm” a lot, but in the end she decides to believe me that it’s just a plain old bump from a plain old fall and takes care of it.
    She lets me stay in the office until the hour is over. When the final bell rings, she summons Sam to come and accompany me, then shoos us out. “Go home and get some rest in a stress-free environment,” she says.
    Sam and I almost burst out laughing. Stress-free? Our house?
    As if.
     

Six
    August: Monday, Funday
     
    Despite Nurse Carey’s order to go home and rest, I don’t. Sam and I head