Just stop.

I can’t, and even if I can calm down for a minute the anxious feelings will come back, I know they will. I can’t live my life like this, heeeelp!!!!!

WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!!!!!!

My bitter-fudge sundae topped with inferiority does not melt. Not even when I dig into my slice of pizza for lunch and try to wash it away with a can of Coke. Each bite of my Danish tastes like dust. I finger a ten-dollar bill as if it’s the solution, but I stop myself from blowing it in the canteen. I know it won’t help.

“ATTENTION SHIRAS CHANA, ATTENTION SHIRAS CHANA, COME TO THE AUDITORIUM FOR A VERY EXCITING—”

I can’t even hear the last words over the hubbub that ensues. Everyone is screaming, “Concert!” A ray of light pierces the storm. I know that somehow in the excitement of a concert I’ll be able to vanquish this monster and finally feel good.

Ahuva is glowing in front of the TRYOUTS! sign.

“I can’t wait to hear your solo,” I tell her.

“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” she says, but we both know she’s a shoo-in for one solo, if not two.

“I must get into dance, I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t,” I declare for the fifteenth-millionth time.

“You will!” she assures me.

“I just learned the steps for tryouts, wanna see?” I ask her.

“Sure!”

We move over to a bit of a quiet corner. There’s a spin and a sharp move, I slide my foot right, left, then do an arabesque.

“Wow!” Ahuva looks at me in admiration. “You’re so good!”

“Thanks!” I smile.

She looks about to suggest that we take a quick power walk like we often do during breaks when Rivka comes over. “Perela, I’m desperate, can you please help me with the dance tryout steps, you’re totally a natural!”

I’m flattered and also know that a walk won’t keep the darkness at bay, but excitement might. Hopefully, I’ll get all into it and float away on a cloud about concert leaving my fears far behind.

My stomach is jumping, but this time I feel normal. It’s the day when they’re posting concert parts. I can’t sit still. I must get into dance. We have to wait till lunch to see what we’re in. It’s torturous to sit through class. We’re all sitting on the edge of our seats — if sitting at all.

Ahuva is desperate to make choir. She’s doodling musical notes instead of paying attention.

Dassi, sitting next to me, has her heart set on drama. She glances at the door every two seconds as if it holds the answer.

At times like this I can fool myself into thinking that all is good. The storm is hovering at the very edge of my bubble and I can pretend it’s not there.

Until it pops, that is.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 955)