I was an actual fucking giraffe. Holy fuck, there were two protrusions in my cranium, kind of above my ears, but the closer I looked, the more I could see signs of extra bump-age stemming all the way from around my temples.

I stared in the mirror, eyes moist with terror-fueled tears, and wondered vaguely if maybe I was just really drunk. I’d never imbibed before—well, once on New Year’s my parents had offered me champagne, but it tasted like the liquid-form of morning breath, and I declined after the first sip—so that didn’t really explain anything. Unless someone had drugged me in my goddamn sleep? I didn’t have any siblings, and my parents weren’t fucking psycho, so that also seemed very fucking unlikely.

I could tell, distantly, that I was beginning to hyperventilate, but I couldn’t find it in myself to calm down. What. The. Fuck. Was going on? How likely was it that someone broke in my room last night just to drug me, and not steal anything? Or to put prosthetics on my head to creep me the fuck out? Except, the fucking tiny bumps protruding from my scalp were not coming off.

Maybe it was a date-rape drug sort of thing? I was pretty goddamn sore.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from my throat before I could stop it, and I’m sure I looked drunk indeed when I stumbled and tripped over myself in my haste to tear off my pajama shirt and pants. My skin felt too hot, but I could feel goosebumps along my arms.

This wasn’t good, none of this was good.

I looked normal enough, except I was sweating bullets and heaving like I’d run a mile. I didn’t know if that was from the maybe-hypothetical drugs or because I was having a mild panic attack, though. Aw, fuck, I couldn’t feel my face.

My hands felt numb, and the longer I stared at my body and couldn’t see any obvious solution, the louder my breathing sounded in my ears. And my heartbeat. Holy shit, I was going to have a heart attack at eighteen because I thought I was fucking animorphing into a giraffe.

I did a turn, maybe looking for a tail, and froze when I saw a tattoo on my back. What? None of this—none of this made any sense.

Despite my fucked up childhood, I’d never had a panic attack before. Not from school, not from some fresh-eyed sixteen-year-old driving on their own for the first time and nearly making it my last time, and not even that time when I was in a bank while it was being robbed. I’m not a lucky guy, and I’m not ignorant to the horrors of the world—as least not completely—but why had no one taught me how to handle a panic attack? Why was this not in the goddamn curriculum in health class, instead of how much fucking sperm a guy can create? We can look that up in a second, but let me tell you, in the midst of wanting to tear my hair out, I did not feel like googling how to chill out right now.

You’d think Dr. Greene, my therapist, would’ve taught me how to handle a panic attack, but surprisingly, it hadn’t really come up.

It only took growing horns for me to flip out, apparently.

I did, eventually, manage to get ahold of myself, but it wasn’t easily. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit how long it took, honestly. I was sort of just standing there, staring at my alarm clock, watching the minutes tick by and acknowledging how long I’d been standing there, watching it, not being calm. Five minutes had passed, then six, then seven. Eight minutes of standing there, staring only at my clock, just listening to my breathing and my heart, blocking everything out. Nine minutes until I was calm enough to shakily sit my panicky ass down before I—I didn’t know—threw something, or passed the fuck out.

I laid back on my bed and reached blindly for the little switch on my nightstand. I shut out the desk lamp beside me so my room was dark again, and I just breathed. I felt prickling along my skin, like an allergic reaction, like ants crawling, like claws against my face, and I breathed through it.

I was scared, but I knew everything would be alright. Nothing was going to hurt me.

I was alright. I was safe.

I breathed.

—--

“Oh shit, dude. A panic attack? That sucks. I’m sorry, I don’t really know what to say. Are you... okay?”

I smiled at Jack a little, nodding. “Yeah, I’m alright now. I was just... Just all over the place this morning.”

He grinned at me and leaned closer to nudge me in the ribs with his bony elbow. “Eighteen! How’s it feel?” His face fell. “Uh, I mean-”

I forced a laugh. “I told you I’m fine, Jack, honestly. And it’s...” Terrifying. “Interesting. I can finally sign my own permission slips.”

He barked out a laugh, and then leaned in again to whisper conspiratorially, “And now you can legally watch porn. How ‘bout that, huh?” He elbowed me again, and this time I shoved back at him a bit, grinning myself.

“Super excited. I’ve never seen any of that stuff before.” I rolled my eyes. “And you’re seventeen, still. Do I have to call the cops on you?”

Jack raised his hands in sync with his eyebrows, giving me the classic believe me eyes. “No?”

I laughed again, and he smiled. He reached forward and grabbed my hand though, which was kind of weird. We weren’t touchy-feely guys. I could tell by his mildly constipated expression that he was trying very hard to act like this was normal between us.

“Jack.”

“Uh, yeah?”

“What the are you doing?”

He huffed and ripped his hand away exaggeratedly, as though I was really twisting his arm about it. “I’m just tryna be supportive, okay? I don’t know anyone who has panic attacks, so...”

I sighed. “Fine, fine, you can hold my hand if you really want.”

He sneered at me. “Not if you paid me a million bucks, ya homo. Get the fuck away from me.”

I draped an arm over his shoulder and pulled him closer on the lunch bench. “But I need support,” I insisted.

“Yeah?” He huffed again. “Well, when I was trying to be nice, you had to make me feel like I was—like I was embarrassin’ myself or something.”

I smiled, a genuine one. “You’re not,” I told him. “I appreciate it.”

He nodded terseley. “You fuckin’ better. Ass.” He held out his hand.

I laughed again and felt honestly better. When I went to take it though, I noticed something inscribed on his wrist.

“Did you get a tattoo?” I asked, pulling his wrist closer so I could read it.

10.16.18.

“Is that a date?” I inquired. “The sixteenth? That’s in, what, three days?”

Jack snatched his wrist away and practically smacked himself in the face with it. “What the fuck are you even talking about?” he asked, trying to see what I was seeing, I guessed. “My moles aren’t fuckin’ braille, shithead.”

I frowned. “No, it...” I lifted my own wrist to instruct him where the numbers should be, and froze.

I had numbers.

03.11.19.

What the hell?

“Greenie?” Jack asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. “Are you sure you’re alright, dude?”

I stared at my wrist, fixated.

03.11.19.

Was that... a date?

Next year? What was supposed to happen next year?

03.11.19.

I heard my pulse in my ears.

03.11.19.

Was this... a countdown? To what?

To what?

“Chartreuse,” Jack said, breaking through my thoughts. No one called me by my name unless it was serious, and it worked like a charm.

I blinked up at him. “What?”

Jack frowned. “Get it together, man, you’re creeping me out. What’s the sixteenth?”

I swallowed.

“I dunno,” I told him.

Why did it feel like lying?

But he had a tattoo too. He just couldn’t see it.

I remembered the tattoo on my back.

“Did anything... weird happen to you this morning?” I asked him, searching his face for any signs of recognition, any signs of anything.

He shook his head. “Like what?”

“Like... weird pains? Or... bumps?”

Jack began to look alarmed. “Are you trying to tell me you have cancer or something?”

I scowled at him. “No! Can you just be serious for two seconds?”

He frowned right back at me. “I dunno what you’re talking about, man. You’re the one telling me you see numbers on my wrist.”

I sighed, slumping forward and resting my forehead on my wrists. “I thought you had a tattoo,” I murmured.

“Did you get a tattoo?” he retorted rather testily.

I smiled to myself. “Yeah,” I said, “I have a tattoo of wings on my back.”

I heard Jack pause. I still didn’t lift my head.

“What, like, angel wings?”

I laughed quietly. “Yeah, man. Angel wings.”

“You’re fucking with me,” he hazarded dubiously.

“I’m fucking with you,” I lied.

He sounded relieved when he said, “Oh, okay.” And then, “You sure you’re alright, Greenie?”

Why did I feel like crying?

“I’m fine.”