Lilly

The voice in my head says, Sit down and work! The voice in my head says, Your mom and your teachers and your friends would be mad at you if they knew you were procrastinating on this! The voice in my head says, Are you even thinking about trying? The voice in my head says, You’re never going to make it on your own. Not in college, not in life.

I can’t focus. Instead, I tell stories, because my English teacher got me hooked. Here is a story: A few years ago a band called Little Green Cars came all the way from Ireland to play a music festival in my hometown. I go to this production every year like clockwork—just a few months ago I was front row for Purity Ring and a couple of years before that I joined hands and danced with strangers during a remarkable Major Lazer set. But of all the bands and artists I’ve seen come through those familiar stages, Little Green Cars stand out the most. Why? Because their power blew out halfway through their set and instead of throwing a tantrum they told us to come closer, and when we had all crowded the stage to their liking, they stood at its very front and sang to us—just their voices and a guitar, and a tambourine for time. I made eye contact with the bassist. He smiled. Then he was walking towards me, and the crowd was parting, and the entire band was coming down from the stage and making a circle inches from where my toes dug into the concrete. They played their final song an arm’s length away from me. I’ll never forget it.

I still can’t focus. Another story: One of my best friends is allergic to cats, which is why she’s rarely at my house (I have three). The first time she slept over here I didn’t know about her allergy, which led to the inevitable I-have-to-ask moment when one of them got too close and, well, she started crying. She was laughing and sneezing and there were tears practically streaming down her face and I was obviously freaking out, and then she said, “Can I borrow a T-shirt?”

“Um, OK.” So I got her one, and she wrapped it around her hand and started petting the cat. As if the T-shirt would help. Since then I’ve put my foot down about having her over, because, “I’m not having you crying all night and leaving me to figure out whether it’s because of the allergies or because you’re sad you can’t pet the cats, OK,we’re doing this at your house next time—”

OK. I think I’m OK now. I could tell another story about the assistant coach at soccer practice the other day who was watching me shoot and eventually came over and said, “I have to ask, because I can’t figure it out—do you even have a dominant foot?” And it is soccer season, and that should help, that should clear my head. But the inside of my skull is just as murky as it was last week and the week before and the week before that. The end of the school year is so close, that’s nothing but fact, but it’s hard enough to see the end when I can barely glimpse a way forward right now.

Maybe I should be patient. Maybe it takes time to act, like a slow-release pill. Soccer is still my makeshift remedy for everything but a raging fever and a plastered limb, it has been for years; there’s no way to build up a tolerance to it. The clarity will come. I have to believe it will. ♦