Mom was in trouble. Even without the nightmare, Harry knew, he knew. This wasn’t the wacky part of his brain flashing through catastrophe. No, this was tangible fear; this was certainty. Mom was big on constant contact: Text me when you and Max get there so I know you’re safe; text me as you’re leaving; just text me, okay? Truthfully, it could get a bit annoying, but that was her way: to worry about him. All the time. And now he was worrying about her. She hadn’t texted him when her plane landed. She wasn’t safe.
A herd of travelers split around them and scattered. Everyone was going someplace except him and Dad. Why was Dad standing there not moving? What was he waiting for?
“Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please go to the Air Florida desk? Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please—”
“D-dad!” The stammer vibrated through his chest, through his arms, through his fingers. Pressure built in his throat: an unstoppable urge, an itch that had to be scratched. No. Now was not the time for a new tic. Dad couldn’t deal with, with—
“G-go!” Harry tried to say more, but the words stuck in his throat.
Dad’s chest rose and fell like he was panting. Beads of sweat escaped from his hairline like he was melting. He leaned up close, so in-your-face close that Harry almost gagged on the aftershave. Shouldn’t a father know that his son was practically allergic to perfume?
“Harry, please, don’t do this to me. I can’t cope if you start ticcing.”
Seriously? Mom needed help and this shit was still pushing Dad’s buttons? Did he ever consider anyone but himself?
I have Tourette’s, get over it already.
Harry tried to push against the mudslide of demeaning sound, tried to focus on those years of habit reversal therapy with Mom when she’d refused to quit, refused to let him quit no matter how hard they’d both been crying.
And where were you, Dad? Always wherever I wasn’t.
Harry’s head jolted sideways and his jaw made a cracking sound, like a bone breaking. Ow. Then he clucked. Twice. Always in pairs, had to be pairs. Relief—warm, comforting relief. He grabbed his jaw. Yup, still in one piece.
“I’ve got this,” Harry said. “Go, help Mom.”
The pressure regrouped, turned around for a second swing. But it was okay, okay because Dad was heading for the Air Florida desk. Finally, he was going to help Mom.
Harry’s jaw popped in and out, popped in and out with sharp, jarring movements. Shockwaves of pain raced up through his face. A clusterfuck of motor tics, a regular clusterfuck.
He shoved his fist in his mouth and bit down. Blinding pain—Harry rocked back and forth—he would focus on the blinding pain. A woman grabbed her little boy’s hand and yanked him away. The kid continued to watch over his shoulder, mesmerized. Two girls in skinny jeans giggled. Did they think he cared? He had no inhibitions—how could he? But they were cute girls, popular girls. And their stares hurt worse than the tics.
If Max were here, he would walk toward them, jab his finger, and say in the loudest voice possible, “Eeew. What’s wrong with you, you fucking weirdos?” Then he would look around to make sure he’d drawn the fire from Harry.
Without Mom or Max as buffers, Harry was trapped in his own worst nightmare: just him and Dad against the world. He concentrated on walking, not hopping, twirling, or kicking. Most of the time, he didn’t know when he was ticcing. But the complex tics that manifested as demonic possession? Those built up inside like tremors warning of a volcanic explosion.
Good, that’s good, Harry. Focus on science. Focus on anything other than Mom.
Dad had reached the desk. He was talking to some airline lady with carrot-colored lipstick. Now they would get answers. Women responded to Dad—to that arrogance everyone mistook for aristocratic Brit, to those razor-blue eyes that could gut you.