You May Rely On It

This girl, I swear…

She’s seated on her bed, me in her lap, one hand rubbing her mouth while the other clutches her comforter. With a sniffle, she releases her face and grabs me.

Here we go again.

“Are you sure Winston isn’t mad at me?” Charlie asks as she gives me a two handed shake, her eighth of the hour. I can’t complain much though. Even if I never get dizzy, I like that she never shakes me too hard. Charlie abruptly halts her movements and stares at the thick window into my soul.

Even if I wasn’t already sure, the answer hits me like a tidal wave the moment the question leaves her lips as always. Winston, the ginger cat in question, sits beside her licking his paw. Of course he’s not angry. He’s already forgotten that he got his paw stepped on in the first place. No, what’ll make him angry is if she doesn’t get out of this stupid bed and feed him his dinner. But for now…

Without a doubt.

That should do it. Or maybe I should’ve said Yes definitely. She seems to like that one when asking for reassurance like this.

Regardless, I’d call my answer a success. Charlie gives me a half-hearted smile and sighs, then pats my plastic window like I’m the pet here. Sweet as she is, it still baffles me that a twenty-five-year-old woman puts so much stock in an eight ball. Charlie’s a little dumb, but that makes her a great source of entertainment from time to time. Will my friends laugh at the hole in my sock? Is that car outside the apartment about to explode? Is my soy milk poisoned? Did that guy at the store judge me for buying too many unhealthy snacks?

I’d like to ask her a question. What kind of person assumes any of this stuff? I’ve only been with Charlie about four months and I’m smart enough to know that she’s got some issues. Social anxiety specifically, based on countless Google searches when she holds me on her lap after asking a question. She’s trying, I’ll give her that. I know she sees a therapist every other week. She writes it on the wall calendar in tiny letters, like she’s trying to hide that she goes.

“Oh, I forgot,” Charlie suddenly says. She’s laser focused on me again. Alright. Ninth shake of the hour now. “Should I go out with Deanna?”

Deanna. The other notable player in Charlie’s life that I know of, besides the dumb cat that likes to push me off the bookshelf. Deanna called about an hour ago begging Charlie to grab dinner with a few other friends tonight. I could hear the “Charlie PLEEEEEEEASE!” from the small phone speaker. It wasn’t surprising. When she comes over, the loud shriek of Deanna’s voice carries throughout the apartment.

It’s all well-intentioned, and Deanna’s certainly earned her self-proclaimed, “best best friend in the universe” title. She likes to get Charlie up and out about once a week. Whether it’s a small coffee date, or a game night with friends, Deanna always offers. She’s a good friend, at least by my standards.

I see it again now as Charlie shakes me for an answer. Sometimes the answers come in feelings, other times in pictures. This isn’t the first time Charlie’s asked if she should go somewhere with friends. These answers are always pictures. With each back and forth, a new image flashes across my sight. Four different cocktails clinked together. Plush mahogany booths. A huge plate of nachos, gooey cheese pulling as multiple hands fight for the best chip. Fun pop music. Deanna and another unnamed friend covering their mouths and leaning on each other, accompanied by a raucous laugh from Charlie ending in a hilarious snort.

Yes definitely.

“I really should,” she whispers to herself. She bites the inside of her cheek.

If I could sigh, I probably would. She’s already wearing jeans and a floral sweater, perfect for a Saturday night at a bar with some friends. It’s the weekend, Charlie, go feed the cat then get out there and have fun.

It’s almost as if she can sense my judgment, because she sniffles again and drops me on the bed. The fall is short, and I land in a puddle of blankets, still facing upwards. Both hands rub her eyes, and she lets out a combination of a whimper and a sob. The sound is enough to tear Winston from the remarkably interesting task of biting his back paws to look over at her inquisitively.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Charlie asks.

I don’t know if she’s trying to ask me or not, but I have no advice to give. I can only help with yes or no questions. If the answer’s muddy, I can give her an Ask again later or something like that. Besides, she’s not even holding me. Of course I can’t give an answer to such a complex question, even if she’d asked something properly—

Charlie suddenly wails, and Winston sprints off the bed and out of the room like his tail’s on fire. I decide Charlie should have a dog. A dog would probably stay and try to lick her tears away. As for me, I’m stuck here, watching her cry her eyes out. It’s a pitiful sound, really. She sounds like she’s in physical pain, coughing every now and again when she gets too choked up. I’ve never seen her like this, and she cries multiple times a week.

“What’s wrong with me?” she asks again, much quieter this time.

She’s talking to herself. At least I don’t have to do anything. Charlie rakes a hand through tangled hair. That’s got to hurt.

“I’m really stupid for relying on an eight ball, aren’t I?”

I still can’t answer this one, but it’s hard for me to ignore the question. My immediate reaction is to be offended. As if I’m just any piece of plastic out there. I give answers, the right answers. Technically, I have the option to give her whatever answer I want, but I have integrity. I give her the truth. I have a function. I’m not a stupid decoration you put on the shelf for no reason.

“I’m an idiot,” she says, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be so worked up about this. It’s just my friends, and they’re not gonna judge me. They hang out with me for a reason. We’ve been friends a long time.”

Everything she’s saying makes sense. I’ve heard a handful of these phrases, probably things she picked up from the therapist. Affirmations, she calls them. They don’t seem to do the trick this time. Charlie lets out another defeated sigh, her body sagging, arms flopping to her sides. Angry red lines infect her eyes, a sure sign of sobbing just on the horizon.

“I’m a wreck,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it. “I don’t think I can do this.”

I’ve seen Charlie upset and scared, but I’ve never seen her so drained.

The die inside of me spins below the surface where she can’t see. I’ve never felt this before, but suddenly the twenty answers I can give don’t feel like enough. Don’t count on it isn’t enough. Don’t count yourself out, I’d rather say. If she asked, I’m sure that would be the answer, that she’s not a wreck, that she can do this.

Charlie suddenly forces out a watery laugh, and I realize she’s staring down at me. Two hot tears drip onto my window and the view of her is blurry.

“Bet you thought you’d go to some happy place,” she mumbles with a sad smile. “Sorry you have to answer my depressing questions instead of something more fun.”

A flicker of movement catches my attention and suddenly the soft fuzz of her sweater rubs circles on my face. It doesn’t take long to wipe the tears away, and she finishes with a few lazy passes to make sure I’m totally dry.

I’m a little ashamed for judging her so harshly before. Charlie is careful with me. She always thanks me when I answer, even if it’s not what she wants to hear. She gives me little pats after every question. For someone who seems to think so little of herself, she’s remarkably kind to this piece of plastic when she doesn’t have to be.

…alright then.

I can’t fully move the die on my own to give an answer, but I can swirl the liquid around my insides a bit. Just enough for a few small bubbles to rise to the surface. I need her to pick me up. The bubble trick works. I can feel the tiny air pockets, can see the gentle cock of Charlie’s head as she gently traces the bubbles with her finger.

It’s not much movement, but she manages to gently rock me back and forth, enough for me to produce an answer.

Concentrate and ask again.

Charlie blinks and bites her cheek again. With careful slowness, she cradles me in her palm and brings me closer to her face. She’s crying less now, instead more focused on studying me.

“This feels silly,” she says and looks to the side for a moment. “I’m legit talking to an eight ball.”

Sure it feels silly, I can understand that. But come on. Ask me anything. Anything at all.

“I shouldn’t be so worked up about seeing my friends. I know there’s something wrong with me, but…” she trails off for a moment. “…do you think I’ll be ok?”

Tonight, absolutely. That much I’ve already seen. I know she’s not just asking about tonight, because no picture forms as she gives me a half-hearted shake. It’s a very abstract question, and I already expected the Cannot predict now that’s itching to rise to the window.

Yes, I have integrity, but I’m also starting to have faith that Charlie can do great things with a little extra support.

You may rely on it.