Gaslit

Chapter One

December 31

People say pain can’t kill you.

I think they’re lying. I might actually die tonight. Or at least be forced to stop living.

But I’ve worked too hard taming my hair into curls and metic­ulously perfecting my eyeliner for a migraine to keep me home. My fingers slip on the dress zipper, but I’m fine.

Tonight will be spent with the one friend who hasn’t deserted me. We’ll meet at her house and drive with her parents through the city. At the dock along Lake Michigan, we’ll board the private yacht for her mom’s work party. Waiters will serve fancy hors d’oeuvres we don’t know the names of while we drink mocktails and laugh at the old men on the dance floor. Because after weeks of planning, that’s how people who are fine get to ring in the new year.

I can still go. It’s not that bad.

I can ignore it. Hide it.

The heartbeat in my brain.

The slow, throbbing pulse. The methodical punch to the right side of my skull like a metronome.

Mom knocks on my door before poking her head in. “Ella, aren’t you leaving to—­”

She doesn’t have to ask why my eyes fight to stay open against the light, why my jaw clenches in pain.

She knows. She doesn’t even look surprised.

“Come on, let’s get into bed.” She gently drapes an arm around my shoulders.

I shrug her off and grab my stilettos, the new ones I bought on sale to match the dress. They’ll pinch my toes and kill the balls of my feet with their four-­inch heels. I’ll regret wearing them instantly and feel the pain well into tomorrow, and it will be worth it.

I shove my foot inside and fumble with the straps. “I’m fine.” My voice is strong, well-­practiced at deceiving.

One shoe secured.

“I’ll get your meds.”

I wince at her volume, which isn’t loud but feels like a jackhammer. “I already did. Ten minutes ago,” I bite out, shoving the left strap against the buckle and failing to get it through. “I don’t have time for this.”

I need to get to Sierra’s house in fifteen minutes. After missing her Christmas party and too many dance lessons, and spending so many hours in a doctor’s office or isolated in this room, I deserve this. I will get there.

Mom takes a deep breath and flips off the lights.

I hate the relief it brings, hate the confirmation that she’s right and this migraine is settling in fast and strong.

No. I’m fine. I’m going. Sierra and I will stay up way too late and—­

“I’ll get the ice pack.”

“I’m not staying.” My voice cracks like a traitor. “It’s not bad. I can still go.” Please. Please. My hands quiver in the dark, and I can barely see, but turning on the lights will hurt more. “Sierra is counting on me and once I get this stupid strap in—­ugh!” I rip off the shoe and hurl it across the room, wishing it would break the mirror above my dresser, hoping the crash will wipe away the pain creeping in, or at least distract me from it.

But it hits the wall with a heavy thunk and falls to the floor, doesn’t even have the decency to leave a mark. No visible evidence of its crime.

Mom huddles beside me again, and I repeat, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

But this time I don’t push her away. Like a puppet whose strings are now properly attached, I let her guide me over the accessories littering my floor: my headband with pink feathers and the year in glittery numbers on top, my sunglasses with the matching lenses. I don’t resist when she seats me on the bed, removes my shoe like a broken Cinderella who won’t be watching the clock strike midnight. I don’t fight her when I lie down and she pulls a blanket over me like a child.

Because I desperately want my words to be true.

***

Two hours later, I pick at the sparkly pink fabric against my pale thighs, trying to imagine some other event on my calendar that might require this much sequins. Not likely.

“It’s okay you couldn’t make it,” Sierra says on the video call, her Kentucky accent coating the words with warm sugar, making them even sweeter.

I fold the blanket on my bed and return it to the closet before grabbing the rest of my care kit: ice pack, washcloth, eye mask, meds, and water bottle.

Of course the migraine would subside in enough time that I could have enjoyed the party, but I missed my ride to get there.

When the migraines come, they creep in like a fog, a dull haze at the edges, sometimes blurring patches of my sight before the pain sets in. When it does, I’m not able to do anything except lie in my bed, fight off nausea, and pray for sleep to rescue me from the throbbing of my brain.

Thanks to my migraine tonight, Sierra sits on the boat alone, surrounded by more luxury than I imagined. The private airline knows how to throw a party.

“It’s not okay. Aside from missing an epic New Year’s with my best friend on a dinner cruise, now you have to endure your mom’s work party as the only one on board who isn’t allowed to drink.”

She stirs her blue mocktail with a toothpick, careful to avoid the cherry stuck on the end. “If you left now, you could still get on the boat before we leave the dock.”

“My first experience driving in Chicago probably shouldn’t be on one of the biggest party nights of the year.” Her hopes don’t help erase my disappointment.

“Fair. Would your parents bring you?”

“Doubt it.” Sierra knows about my mom’s car accident seven years ago. She almost died and spent months in recovery and has been nervous about night driving ever since. “Besides.” I check the time. “Doesn’t the boat leave in like thirty minutes?”

“You know I would throw myself in that lake as an anchor if it meant getting you on board.”

“Thanks, but save the polar plunge for tomorrow.”

“Are you out of your mind? I am not submerging this head in freezing water simply to feel a thrill.” She scrunches her twist-­outs, pouting, but then drops her hand and turns serious. “Better to miss tonight than our recital in two weeks.”

“Definitely.”

Like I get a choice. My migraines could take dance from me too, including the recital we’ve been preparing during the past six months.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I smile too bright. “Absolutely. I’ll be fine. Look, Oreos.” I lift the package I keep at the bottom of my care kit, a reward for making it through another episode.

“Hear, hear.” She raises her glass. “To not controlling the disruptions in our lives, but controlling our reactions to them.”

The still-­dim light of my room hopefully hides my cringe at her dad’s therapist-­speak sneaking in again. One thing’s for sure: Next time I’ll fight harder. These migraines will not tear apart my life, no matter how hard they try. I toss the once-­cool washcloth into the hamper.

Sierra’s mom mumbles something in the background and Sierra sighs. “I have to go. Apparently there’s some other pilot I have to meet.”

“Go have as much fun as you can.”

“Won’t be much without you!” She waves, her brightly painted nails practically glowing.

Mom hovers in the doorway as I hang up.

“I thought I heard you talking. Feeling better?” She runs a hand along her dark, slicked-­back ponytail, swiping for stray hairs that aren’t there.

“Yeah.” I pull a shirt off the floor before she has a chance to point it out. I could call some of my other friends—­if I can still call them that—­to crash their New Year’s Eve plans. I haven’t spoken to them much since winter break started. Kayla claims I’ve “pulled away.”

She’s not wrong. But she’s also not brave enough to ask why. Or doesn’t care.

That’s another reason I hate canceling tonight. I don’t want Sierra to think I’ll always bail, that I’m not worth inviting in the first place. She lives in another county, so seeing each other outside of dance doesn’t happen very often, but since my school friends already ditched me, I won’t have anyone left if Sierra does the same.

“I forgot to tell you,” Mom says, “about your next doctor’s appointment.”

My phone buzzes, a perfect distraction. “Aunt Julie’s calling.”

Mom ignores the interruption while my phone continues vibrating in my hand like a timer reminding me this conversation could be over. “Well, it’s on the third at ten in the morning, which means you—­”

“Have to miss dance.”