The Hanahaki Club: Episode 12

Episode 12: Exposure Therapy, Part 1

So far…

Remi’s hanahaki has been discovered by Sam, who is not only her classmate but also Gio’s best friend.

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Episode 12: Exposure Therapy, Part 1

Remi

Remi was only at this party because her mother hadn’t wanted her to go.

Will you be able to handle it in your condition—all those people, and that boy will be there too, won’t he? It will just make it worse, won’t it? You look tired. You need to prioritise your studies or you’ll start falling behind.

If there was one thing Remi hated most in the world, it was being underestimated. Especially by her mother. Of course she could handle it. She was handling it. Her calendar was full of social engagements and she hadn’t missed a single one in the four months since she’d started coughing up petals. And maybe she was tired, and maybe her chest was aching and her limbs felt like lead, and maybe she just really wanted to curl up in bed and read a book, but she wasn’t about to lie down and die just because she was accommodating a florist in her lungs. She wasn’t a quitter. Never had been. Never would be—whatever doubts her mother had.

So, here she was, sipping on some overly sweet cocktail and trying not to fake-laugh too hard at Jake Chitterson’s story about a squirrel, a hotdog and his uncle’s swimming pool, all whilst her gaze kept compulsively flitting to Gio, who was chatting to a couple of girls on the other side of the room. She didn’t often get to see him out of his school uniform and it was annoying how just seeing him in a different environment, so casual and laid back in dark chinos and a casual grey shirt, made her stomach somersault harder than usual and her lungs tingle with an insatiable itch. She tried hard not to stare, not to look over every time Gio laughed, or smiled; tried not to notice the way the light fell on his face or the way he shifted on his feet as he leant against the wall; tried not to follow the movement as he touched his hair or raised his glass to his lips…

Stop being a creep, Remi told herself as she redirected her gaze back to Jake for the umpteenth time and tried to look like she cared about a soggy hotdog and a half-drowned uncle. The itch in her lungs was becoming more and more persistent, and the more it grew, the more she sipped her cocktail to keep down the petals fluttering beneath her breastbone.

“Anyway!” Jake exclaimed, finally coming to the end of his tale, “That was the day I learnt that squirrels can swim.” He gave her a triumphant smile.

“Just as well for the squirrel?” Remi offered, after a slightly awkward pause where she was presumably expected to throw her head back and chuckle heartily. Since she really didn’t have the strength for that class of acting tonight, she went to take another sip of her drink instead and found the glass empty.

Shoot. How had she finished that so fast? So much for pacing herself. But at least she now had an excuse to escape before Jake started yet another completely unfunny story. She’d known she was in for a painful ride the moment he had cornered her, at least fifteen minutes ago, with ‘Hey, tell you a funny story, Remi…”, because Jake always started his stories this way, and, by the end of them, Remi was always left still waiting for the punchline.

Remi was tempted, for a second of alcohol-induced madness, to open her mouth and say: ‘Let me tell you a funny story, Jake: I need to go hack up some petals in the toilet now. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

Instead, she gave him a pat on the arm and said: “Gonna get another drink,” and then slipped past him and towards the stairs to the bathroom.

Thankfully, the bathroom was unoccupied, so Remi didn’t have to wait a moment longer than necessary to lock herself in, turn the sink tap on full blast and get to her knees in front of the toilet bowl. Holding her hair back with one hand, she braced herself with the other against the cistern as the first cough rocked out of her chest. Stringy phlegm slipped up her throat and she spat it out before the next cough crept up on her and pitched her forward again with more force. More slimy, white gunk slid out past her lips, and then there was something thick in her throat, blocking her airway, and she was retching violently to try to dislodge it. For a few seconds, her throat spasmed helplessly around the lump, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes as she tried not to panic. Inhaling through her nose, she forced herself to gag again and the lump shifted lethargically in her airway before another hard cough had it splattering into the toilet. Remi rested her forehead on her braced arm until she had regained control of her breathing and then flicked her gaze to the clump of blackened petals slowly dispersing on the bright blue of the toilet water.

It was mortifying doing this in someone else’s bathroom, at a schoolmate’s party, where all her peers were drinking, dancing, snogging and telling dumb stories just the other side of the door. She felt disgusting, like she was keeping a dirty secret from everyone. What would they say if they could see her now: their Head Girl with her knees on the tiles, cheeks flushed, lips spit-slicked, tears clumping her lashes and petals on her tongue? And all because of a stupid, unrequited crush.

Remi got shakily to her feet, flushed the toilet and watched to make sure the petals were sucked clean away with the water. Then she washed her hands, smoothed out her hair and outfit in the mirror, and pulled out her phone to check the time. It was too early to ask Blythe if they could leave. She could ask her dad to pick her up, but she really didn’t want to give her mother the satisfaction of saying ‘I told you so’. Besides, she was handling it just fine. She probably wouldn’t need to cough up anything more until tomorrow morning now, and no one out there knew what had just happened in here. She’d be fine if she didn’t overdo it with the alcohol, or the dancing, or tedious stories about squirrels and swimming pools.

Remi unlocked the door and stepped out onto the landing, where the sounds of the party drifted loud and clear from the ground floor. She tugged nervously at her skirt again and then stepped towards the top of the stairs.

“How’s the hanahaki?” a voice said behind her.

Remi hissed around a curse and spun on her heel to look for the source of the question. There was a large plant standing on one side of the bathroom door and when she took a couple of steps to the right of it she found Sam sat crossed legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“What the heck, Sam?” she hissed.

Sam grinned lazily. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“What are you doing here?”

Sam looked mildly affronted. “I was invited.”

Remi rolled her eyes. “Not the party. Here. Why are you lurking outside the bathroom?”

“I was just waiting to see if you made it out alive.”

“Did you think I was going to drown in the toilet or something?”

“Mmm.” Without taking his hands out of his pockets, or uncrossing his legs, Sam rose to his feet, back gliding easily up the wall until he was standing. “Or choke on a flower.”

Remi stared at him for a beat, thrown off temporarily by his audacity. “I’m fine,” she replied, turning back to the stairs. “So no need for the stalking.”

She heard Sam huff in amusement as he followed behind her.

“Have you spoken to Gio yet?” he asked when they were half-way down the stairs.

“About what?”

“Don’t you want to talk to him? Isn’t that how it goes when you’ve got a crush on someone?”

“Please shut up.”

“So you haven’t spoken to him yet?”

“I got cornered by Chitterson.”

“Did he tell you a funny story?”

“No.”

“Was it the one about the squirrel?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“So, are you going to talk to Gio?”

Remi stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to glare at Sam as he also stopped, standing on the last step with his hands still in his pockets. “Why do you want me to talk to Gio so badly?” she asked, suspicions aroused.

Sam stepped down from the stair before glancing into the open-plan living area. Remi followed his gaze to where Gio was now sitting in the middle of the L-shaped sofa, with a boisterous group of friends who were playing some sort of truth or dare game.

“Have you ever spoken to Gio outside of school-related stuff?”

Remi opened her mouth to say, that yes, of course she had, and then closed it again when she realised that would be an outright lie.

“I didn’t think so,” Sam said.

“What’s your point?” Remi asked, telling herself the heat rushing to her cheeks was alcohol and not embarrassment.

Sam began heading towards kitchen. “Let’s get a drink.”

Remi followed reluctantly after him, partly because Sam was a fairly unknown quantity to her and she didn’t know what he might do if she refused, and partly because she had a suspicion that if she wandered off on her own to find Blythe, Jake Chitterson would trap her again to describe some other incident involving an unfortunate relative and an even more unfortunate woodland creature.

Since she’d left her glass in the bathroom, she grabbed another one from the kitchen isle and reached for the cocktail jug. Sam, having fetched a can of beer from the fridge, watched her with obvious judgement as she filled her glass.

“What?” she challenged. “There’s nothing wrong with my liver.”

“No, just your taste buds,” Sam said, cracking open his beer and taking a glug. “That cocktail has got three litres of syrup in it and a whole bottle of vodka.”

Remi made a point of taking a large gulp before replying: “I’m not a light-weight.”

“Good for you,” Sam said. He moved off towards the mezzanine in the living room and Remi followed him again, feeling like a dog on an invisible leash.

Up on the mezzanine there was a small group of girls Remi knew from school, cosied up together on a pile of bean bags; and a boy and girl she didn’t know intensely making out on the two-seater sofa. Sam went straight to the sofa and grabbed a cushion right out from behind the lovers, unceremoniously smacking the boy with it on the back of his head as he yanked it out.

“Hey, dude!”

“Hey, Gary,” Sam replied. “Get a room.”

Remi plucked away a second pillow from the sofa. “Yeah, Gary,” she said, raising an eyebrow as she swept past. “Don’t be such an exhibitionist.”

“What the—!” she heard Gary protest as she followed Sam to a low, broad window sill, where he had plonked down his cushion and was getting settled with his back to the window.

Remi dropped her cushion next to him and sank gratefully onto it as she leant her back against the cool glass. “So,” she said, “What’s your point?”

“Why Gio?”

“That’s a question, not a point.”

“Humour me.”

Remi frowned and sipped her drink before replying. “I don’t think I understand the question.”

“Why do you have a crush on Gio?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Come on,” Sam persisted. “You must know what you like about him—why it’s him and not someone else.”

Remi raised her eyebrows as she wriggled comfortably on the cushion and took another sip from her glass. “It’s Gio,” she said, matter-of-factly. “What’s not to like? He’s smart, charismatic, articulate, organised, talented, ambitious, confident, hardworking… everyone likes him—he’s basically perfect.”

“Sure,” Sam said, “If you’re looking to hire an employee.”

“Well, he’s also witty and thoughtful, and well-mannered. And mature for his age. Do you know how rare that is?”

“Does your grandma also want to date him?”

“Shut up.” Remi scowled at him, but that didn’t stop Sam from smirking at her from behind his can of beer, so she kicked him on the shin instead. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” Sam said, prodding her back with his foot. “Is that if that’s your list for why you like Gio, you obviously don’t know him that well.”

“Are you trying to say that he’s secretly some massive sleaze-ball jerk?”

Sam shrugged one shoulder. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I thought you were his best friend.”

“I am, which is why I know he’s not ‘basically perfect’.”

Remi huffed cynically. “Yeah, well, obviously no one is perfect—I know that—”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“About Gio?”

“Yes!”

“Go on then. What’s not perfect about him?”

Remi shifted so she could tuck her legs under her and took a sip of her cocktail whilst she thought for a second. “Well,” she said cautiously, “Gio sometimes, doesn’t, uh… proofread his emails. And he uses too many emojis,” she added quickly, as Sam started laughing. “And he’s too nice sometimes, especially to the other prefects… Why are you laughing? It’s genuinely annoying.”

“Sorry,” Sam said, neither sounding nor looking at all apologetic, “But that’s pathetic.”

“I’m not pathetic,” Remi protested. “Gio’s just that wonderful. It’s not my fault there’s nothing wrong with him.”

Sam snorted. “You don’t know that. You don’t know him that well at all. You only know ‘Head Boy Gio’, and everyone loves ‘Head Boy Gio’ because he’s always on his best behaviour.” Sam shifted on his cushion so he was facing Remi directly and she had no choice but to look him in the eye. “Look, Gio is my best friend and I love him to bits, but he’s far from perfect. I think the person you have a crush on is ‘Head Boy Gio’ and you might not like the real Gio if you knew him.”

Remi opened her mouth to argue but Sam cut her off. “Drink,” he ordered, guiding the hand holding her drink towards her lips, “And listen. I have a suggestion. Ever heard of exposure therapy?”

Remi nodded.

“I have a theory that if you get to know Gio better, you’ll realise he’s really not all that wonderful, that actually he’s horribly flawed and often extremely irritating, and you’ll very quickly get over your crush. What you need is exposure to the real Gio, and that means getting to know him outside of school stuff. Trust me, if you spend enough time with him, you’ll realise that his obsession with the fire emoji is the least of his problems.”

Remi gave Sam a cynical look as she placed her glass on the floor. “Number one,” she said, poking Sam on the shoulder. “Exposure therapy is used to cure phobias. I’m not scared of Gio, so I don’t think it applies here.” She poked him again. “Number two: how exactly am I supposed to get to know Gio better outside of school? I can’t just invite myself into his personal life.” Another poke, but she didn’t withdraw her finger this time, keeping it pressed into the blue of Sam’s hoodie and finding herself surprised at how soft the fabric was and how hard the lines of muscle underneath it were. She stared for a second at where her digit stroked the hoodie lightly.

Oh, she realised, I might be a little bit tipsy. Hello, vodka.

“And number three…” she continued after a pause, flicking her gaze hastily from her finger to Sam’s face again. “You’re a horrible friend.”

Sam grinned and grabbed hold of her wrist. “I’m a great friend,” he said. “And we should swap numbers.”

Remi made a face. “Why?”

Sam gently placed Remi’s hand on her own knee and released her wrist. “Because,” he replied with an assurance that made Remi want to poke him again, but this time hard, in the face, “When you sober up and realise that I’m a genius, you’re also going to realise that I’m the only person who can provide you with enough access to Gio for the exposure therapy to work.” He held out his hand expectantly. “Phone, please.”

“It’s a stupid plan,” Remi said, even as she fished her phone out of her skirt pocket and unlocked it for him.

Sam seemed to ignore her comment as he took her phone and added his contact details to her address book. Once he was done, he handed the phone back with a lazy tilt of his head. “Got a better plan?” he asked.

Remi opened her mouth to argue that yes, she had a much better plan, but again realised that would be a blatant lie. “You’re a pain in the neck,” she said instead, trying to ignore the slight swaying of the room as she watched Sam get smoothly to his feet.

He snorted in amusement. “Only the neck?”

“I’m not going to text you,” Remi said.

Sam raised a eyebrow, “Sure,” he said, as he turned and began walking away, “Do what you want. It’s your funeral.”

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Next time: Episode 13—Exposure Therapy, Part 2

Teaser:

“I’m not betting anything with you.”

“Because you’d lose.”

Lila suddenly unfolded her arms to lean on the table and stare coolly at Emery, just inches from her face. “I would not lose. I don’t need to win some dumb bet with you. I’ve got better things to do.”

“I’d make it worth your while.”

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Author’s Notes:

Tell you a funny story, friends… Jake Chitterson is inspired by a guy I went on a date with once.

Next time: Episode 13—Exposure Therapy, Part 2

PJ

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