Good Morning, Dinah

By Emily Holyoak

He's all about change. She's not.

Senior year—not the biggest deal in the world, right? Except that it is, because everything is changing. Most seniors worry about their dates for school dances, soaking up final memories with friends, and planning life after graduation. Seventeen-year-old Dinah Finaylson has other worries, like students brushing against her and her autism service dog, Higgins; like winning board game matches in the disability classroom; and like opening up to a new student, Maverick Wright.

Maverick asks too many strange questions and Dinah is scared of everything that could go wrong by letting this mysterious guy become part of her routine. That is, until he becomes her first best friend. But the moment Dinah makes Maverick part of her schedule, he disappears, changing everything in Dinah's life and sending her into a downward spiral. Was the risk of letting change enter her life worth it? Now that senior year is ruined forever, Dinah can't possibly imagine braving the halls of high school for one more day, let alone finishing senior year—or can she?

• Language: English
• Publisher: INCLUDAS Teen
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781949983135

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The itches start at my scalp and slither down my back. Every inch of my skin is on fire. My foot refuses to budge, as if it’s full of lead. 

Take your time, Jenny’s high-pitched voice calls through the door. Use your tools. She’s been my best friend for years and has helped me through so many ups and downs. She prepared me for high school and held my hand when my parents divorced. Even though she’s my aide, we’ve grown close over the years.

I don’t want to get in the shower. I stand on the mat in my comfy robe, trying to break the barrier that’s between me and the ceramic death chamber. I rub individual pieces of yarn on the mat between my toes, and that helps stop the itches.

Our basement bathroom is remodeled, so there’s a door between the actual bathtub and the countertop area.

Remember what we talked about? Jenny reminds me unnecessarily. 

I know what we talked about. Nearly everyone showers for hygiene reasons. I understand that not everyone is privileged to have running water and some bathe in rivers. Jenny needs to understand that the water pattering on my skin intensifies the itches. 

I’ve done it before, plenty of times. Sometimes, I just don’t wanna.

Breathe… she adds slowly and softly, trying her best to calm me down.

I breathe the chilly basement air in through my nostrils and out of my mouth, shut my eyes tight, and will my feet to step into the shower. I slide the glass door shut. An invisible force is holding them in place, supergluing them to the ground. 

I grip the faucet and turn the handle to the right with instant regret. The high-pitched sound of the shower squeaking is too loud. My eardrums ring as the pressurized water pounds against the ceramic. I imagine the hard droplets piercing my skin like flaming arrows in a Tolkien book battlefield.

Nope. Not today. Retreating to my happy place in 3… 2… 1…

My brain swells, about to burst through my skull. Intense pain shoots through my shoulder blades as I bend over in agony. My tools of freedom emerge. Spectacular, glossy, feathered wings spread open in the bathroom. They crowd the small space. Bending my knees, I take off, breaking through the basement ceiling and then the main floor’s ceiling, disrupting my mother’s morning coffee. 

The cool, brisk wind of liberation soars over my skin and through my wings. They beat the air and carry me off to a kingdom far away where I will rule in peace.

Dinah? Jenny’s voice invades my seventeen-year-old senses. 

Right. I’m still in the bathroom. 

I want to tell Jenny that today isn’t a good day for showering—what pounding water does to me—but the words don’t come. I resort to my usual answer: I can’t. 

If only escape were that easy. I’ll have to run.

I slowly open the door to see Jenny’s arched eyebrow and high blonde ponytail greet me.

No, I say. Time to find Higgins. 

I’m fast. Jenny doesn’t always catch me. I fling the bathroom door open and run down the hallway, careful not to let my robe fall off. I pass Mom in the kitchen, who whips her head around as I race past. I practically fly to my room and slam the door, locking it behind me. 

There he is, just lazily lying on the bed, enjoying hogging the covers all to himself. I grab Higgins’ fur and rub it between my fingertips. The soft bristles melt my heart and pump my veins full of calm-down juice. I bury my face into his golden fur, reveling in the swooshes of love it spreads over my skin.

I appreciate that Jenny gives me three minutes to calm down before she knocks on my door. All right, Dinah. We’ll try showering tomorrow. I’ll draw you a bath because you escaped and locked your door, so I can tell your anxiety is through the roof.

I pull my face back from Higgins and look into his black eyes. He pants and smiles at me, his teeth showing while he wags his tail enthusiastically. All I have to do is touch his fur and look into his eyes, and I know he’s mine and no one else’s. 

Guess I have to, huh, Higg? I ask him.

His shiny, golden tail pounds against the carpet. I sigh, accept defeat, and open the door to find that Jenny is already down the hall, no doubt on her way to the basement to draw my bath. I catch up and get inside the tub.

Baths are so much better. The water pressure gives me a hug instead of attacking my face at thirty miles an hour. But… I want to learn to take showers so that I can get ready quicker in the mornings. Mom agrees and says it’ll prepare me for life.

I grumpily wash myself as I hear Jenny going through the vanity drawers on the other side of the door. She pulls out a hair dryer and sets it out on the counter, as well as a brush; I can hear the clunk of both objects. 

When I’m finished and robed, I emerge reluctantly into Jenny’s presence.

Because you decided to run away this morning, I call hair dryer, she says cheerily. 

You suck.

Jenny smiles in the mirror, making eye contact with my mirrored self. I’m a little above average height, my pickiness and hyperactivity help me stay around average weight, and my dark hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes don’t require much makeup. I usually gloss my lips and maybe, if I’m feeling wild, throw on a pinch of peachy blush.

Fine, but I have to pet Higg, I answer, testing the waters for striking a bargain. 

Higgins helps me through my morning as I clutch the fur between his shoulders. I rub it between my thumb and fingers in a clockwise motion, trying to ignore Jenny drying and styling my hair. The hair dryer screeches a horrific tone, like a banshee. I grit my teeth to try making the experience pass faster. My hair isn’t too frizzy when Jenny is done. It’s naturally straight. 

Get dressed and get on up to breakfast. Jenny smiles. Then we’ll go over the proposed schedule for the day. 

I choose a smooth and itch-free lavender bra. All my bras are the same, but at least they’re different colors. Underwire bras feel like I’m suffocating in a corset. I choose a jersey-knit T-shirt—my favorite because of the silky touch. Leggings are always a must because jeans are too painful, and dresses don’t work because I want my thighs to be hugged. I top it with the softest thing I can wear to school—a pink hoodie. 

I have to wear cotton sweaters and hoodies. Khaki, denim, wool, and pretty much every other material under the sun feels like I’m wearing cactus needles. 

I make my way to the kitchen, singing.

Someone’s in the kitchen with Di-nah.

Someone’s in the kitchen I know.

Someone’s in the kitchen with Di-nah.

Strummin’ that old banjo.

Every time I go into the kitchen, I have to sing that song. Maybe because my dad used to sing it when I was young. He loves my name. After all, he convinced Mom to give it to me.

I have to sing it every time because if I don’t, something doesn’t seem right. It can throw my entire day off. I have to or else my body gets the itches, and I implode from my pinky toe up to my neck. Every part of me kind of explodes.

When I was ten, my mom took me to a psychologist, where I had a few behavioral tests. She was concerned with how emotional I became when something wasn’t going my way. It turned out I was on the spectrum. Not only do I have OCD but also anxiety, auditory processing disorder, and sensory integration disorder.

This basically means that I need to have control over everything to make sure I’m comfortable, and I overthink everything. I process sounds at a higher rate than others, my taste buds are stronger, and I feel things so much deeper. I also love to read. A lot. I reached a twelfth-grade reading level in the sixth grade.

Jenny glances up at me from the table, where she’s typing on her laptop. My mom is seated next to her, clutching her second or third cup of coffee. Higgins is on my heels, as usual, as I grab a mixed-berry yogurt and apple juice from the refrigerator. 

My mom exhales slowly through her nostrils before she pleasantly greets me with, Good morning, Dinah. 

"Morning, Mom… Someone’s in the kitchen I know," I sing, pretending to tolerate the day ahead.

As I pour my glass of apple juice, Jenny mutters something to my mom, and they do that grown-up mumble laugh. 

Okay, I ran away this morning, I admit.

Jenny’s blonde ponytail flips around so fast that I swear she cracks her neck. She smiles at me like she always does. I’m positive it’s required in her job description.

We weren’t talking about you, Dinah, but that’s okay. Did you take your anxiety meds? Mom says between sips. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose a bit, but she doesn’t slide them up.

I try to focus on my yogurt, but I can’t. Glasses. Glasses. Glasses. Glassesglassesglassessssss…

I step over to my mom, tap the bridge of her glasses and slide them up to her eyes.

Sorry, I whisper as I step back to my yogurt on the counter.

My mom takes a noticeable deep breath, takes a large gulp of her cooling coffee, and sighs. Thank you, dear.

Jenny has told me that keeping my hands to myself is polite. I try to do it, but sometimes the urge is too great to ignore.

Higgins puts his head on the counter and stares longingly at me for a taste of my yogurt. I let him finish the rest.

A muffled high screech sound comes from Nattie’s room. My fifteen-year-old sister likes to scream into her pillow for dramatic effect when she can’t find something, like her favorite tank top or tacky anime backpack. It’ll be a minute before she comes down. I’ll be long gone before that because I like to take my time walking to school. Besides, she’s too cool to walk with me. She and her friends carpool together. 

Time to put Higgins’ harness on, Mom reminds me, even though I would never forget something for Higgins. He wags his tail and sits up obediently, waiting for his duty to begin.

I drape and fasten his service dog harness around him. It has a giant enamel pin shaped like a rainbow that reads: AUTISM DOG DO NOT SEPARATE FROM HANDLER. I give him a kiss on his fur and grab my backpack from the granite counter. 

Love you, Mom. Bye, Jenny, I call as I head out the door.

I grab my slip-on sneakers and start the fifteen-minute walk to see what awaits us at school. The September Wisconsin sun warms my cheeks. It’s the third week of senior year, but the anxiety of what could possibly happen today makes it like any other first day of school for me.

I think today will probably be a good day. I’m clean, I’m comfortable. Higgins and I are in a pleasant mood. Higgins is just as smart as a human being; it’s why he’s allowed to walk me to school. Jenny and I may have had a rough morning, but the truth is, she’s my rock. Just thinking of her and her smile reminds me I’m going to have a great attitude today.

School is bearable if I wear my noise-reducing headphones. I used to get lots of stares from the other students, but now they know they’re something I have to wear to endure the day. The opening and closing of lockers, the buzzing of thousands of conversations, and even the class bell is enough to give me the itches. When I wear my headphones, I picture myself in far-off places, mostly the magical realms of fantasy books I’ve read. I’m walking Higgins along the greenery of Hobbiton, I’m dancing at the Count of Monte Cristo’s lavish party, or Higgins and I are lying in a beautiful field in Narnia after the long winter has finally melted away.

I find myself more comfortable in imaginary worlds than reality.

Higgins and I spend half of my school day in the disability classroom at Hepburn High. Mom says it’s for social purposes. I guess I am antisocial and awkward enough to make neurotypical students uncomfortable. It’s okay with me because my feelings toward most of the other students are mutual. The exceptions are my friends in the disability classroom, especially Andrew. There’s also Jimmy, Tate, Pedro, and Hannah. We’ve been through a lot together over the course of twelve years.

The classroom isn’t anything special. There are desks and a few beanbag chairs scattered throughout, where I like to read if Higgins and I ever have free time. Some classrooms in my school have lots of windows, but this classroom is centrally located, so there’s just one window in the door for fewer distractions. There are more cupboards than in other classrooms to hold therapeutic toys and equipment. A lot of disabled kids have therapy fused with their education.

Andrew Blumenthal has Down syndrome. His parents push him to do cross-country skiing in the Special Olympics, but he’d much rather be playing Thelena’s Wrath with me. He lets me control the characters how I want. Mr. Peterson doesn’t think my need to control is healthy. He would rather have us play something else during study hour.

"How about Monopoly?" Mr. Peterson asks as he grabs a box from the game cabinet.

How about it, Andrew? Would you like to ruin our friendship today? I ask him.

Andrew shakes his head so vigorously that his glasses almost come sliding off. "I want to play Thelena’s Wrath."

"You play Thelena’s Wrath every day, Mr. Peterson says. If he’s annoyed, I can’t tell. Yes, the role-playing and magic cards are fun, but we need something that Dinah won’t control."

I throw Mr. Peterson a grumpy expression just as the classroom door opens. Ms. Underwood, the principal at Hepburn High, walks in with two boys—one younger than me and one probably my age. They both have light brown hair and striking blue eyes, so I surmise they are brothers. The younger one tries to escape the room, but his older brother has their arms interlocked so they enter together. They struggle until they’re at the big table where we’re setting up Thelena’s Wrath, the younger one takes a seat by me. Higgins’ ears perk up beneath the table to make sure I’m protected.

Mr. Peterson stands up to greet them. Good morning, gentlemen! Ms. Underwood. He nods politely. Is this Felix? 

Yes, these are our new students, Felix and Maverick Wright. She smiles, her extra-white teeth practically glowing for everyone to see. Maverick is also smiling, his freckles and dimples somewhat endearing. He drinks the classroom in, his eyebrows disappearing into his nut-brown hair that falls a little too far into his eyes.

Almost the moment that Felix sits down, he begins pushing the deck of cards away with his hand.

Heyyy! Andrew frowns as a classroom aide sits next to him to calm him down. 

The tingling starts at my scalp. The itches travel along my elbows and make my fingers curl into balls. I try to rub my shoulders against my soft hoodie, but it isn’t working. Higgins offers his paw once he senses I’m uncomfortable, so I rub his magic fur with my fingertips.

I don’t like new things, I bark at Felix.

That’s not nice, Dinah. Mr. Peterson scolds me quickly, but I stare at the table. I don’t like looking into people’s eyes. They’re fascinating, but I grind my teeth when I have too much eye contact. 

Felix grabs my headphones off the table and observes them with interest. Twinges strike every nerve in my body.

"Those are mine!" I bellow and snatch them from him. I shove them on my head and prepare to run away from my seat and out into the hall. Before an aide can ask me to wait, Maverick grabs my forearm more gently than I expect. Higgins growls at the boy as he cuts me off from leaving the room.

Maverick pulls me back toward the table. It’s okay. Felix will warm up once you get to know him. He has autism.

I stare blankly over at Felix, who shoves the Thelena’s Wrath board away from him. 

"No, I have autism," I reply reluctantly, yanking my arm away and walking back to the commotion. I choose to sit next to Mr. Peterson instead of Felix.

I could tell by your headphones, Maverick consoles. Felix has those too. He just didn’t want to wear them today. He has autism and bipolar disorder. He doesn’t talk.

Touching me isn’t okay without asking me, I state, the itches crawling all over me like cockroaches that are about to bury themselves in my skin.

I avoid his eyes, my focus going directly back to Thelena’s Wrath. My favorite aide comes and asks to be dealt in with the magic cards. 

We’ll be off, then. Ms. Underwood nods and gestures for Maverick to follow her. Maverick waves at Felix one more time and then at me. I only see it out of the corner of my eye, but it’s the first time someone has been genuinely friendly to me—well, someone who wasn’t an aide, family member, or a church friend who was trying to overcompensate.

Higgins woofs quietly with approval.

CHAPTER 2

We head to English, which is my favorite class of the day. I like to sit in the back by Mr. Clyde’s desk because he’ll talk about fantasy books with me. Sometimes we get carried away, and the classroom plan goes off on a major tangent. Higgins leads me to my desk, his tail wagging side to side. 

I rub my shoulders against my fluffy sweatshirt to get comfortable in my chair. The school day seems to be looking up when who should sit next to me but Maverick Wright.

A jolt zaps through my spine.

I’m glad I know someone in this class, he grunts as he tosses his backpack aside. Dinah, right?

I nod ever so slightly. Jenny’s voice echoes in my head about engaging people socially, reminding me what is appropriate and what is not. I remember years past in middle school, attempting to make friends proved extremely difficult for me.

 I opt to ask him about his roots rather than get angry at him for disrupting my schedule. 

Where did you move from? I attempt to ask without sounding annoyed. 

Denver, Maverick answers. 

Why? 

My mom was impressed with the state Medicaid programs and inclusiveness in the communities, so she found a job that moved us here. It sucks to start my senior year at a new school, but I’m open to new possibilities. 

I have a mom and a stepdad, Kurt. My dad lives in Oshkosh, I say without thinking. 

Oshkosh? There are some cool city names here, he marvels. 

I bite my lip slightly, wanting the conversation to end. I want to chew on something so I don’t have to answer his questions. 

Um, welcome to Milwaukee, I say as politely as I can.

Higgins lies on the floor in preparation for his English-period nap. I nudge him slightly with my foot to remind him he’s still on duty as my anxiety rises like a kneaded pan of bread.

Mr. Clyde introduces us to the book, Wuthering Heights. I like to read, but I’d enjoy it more if there were elves, fairies, or some winged creatures involved. I can muster through a classic if I pretend the main characters all have magical features. 

I picture myself sitting on a throne instead of a desk chair, vibrant velvet draped all over my body. Minstrels play pleasant, upbeat music while servants fan me. Comfort is not sacrificed by fashion in this castle. The palms of my hands are ice-cold. I look at them and discover that they are dazzling white. I attempt to warm them up by burying them in my dress, then into the royal dog’s fur. My palms feel warm, like firelight, as the fur powers me like some kind of life source.

Do you like to read? Maverick’s whispering voice pierces my wonderings. It’s a little hard to hear him with my headphones on, so I place my thumb between them and my ear. 

Yes, I do, but you just broke into my story, I reply curtly. 

Huh? He wrinkles his forehead in confusion.

My story. I was an evil queen in my court, I explain. Higgins snores slightly. 

That sounds awesome, Maverick probes. I don’t normally notice things like facial expressions, but I can’t help but grin in reply to his freckly smile. You would make a great writer with an imagination like that. 

Only if Higg can come along on my book tour, I say quietly, ruffling his fur a bit. 

He’s a cool dog. That coat looks good on him. 

Thanks. He’s my everything. I don’t know why I say something so personal, but I do. 

Maverick smiles again, opens Wuthering Heights, and thumbs through the pages. He doesn’t look excited to read it. I like to read, but the classics can be super boring. 

What do you like to read? I whisper, my book obsession about to take over completely.

 Science fiction for sure. Anything with space fights. 

Any high fantasy? 

I’m sure I’d like it if I tried. Why? Do you know of any awesome books? 

My heart pounds at an alarming rate, the serotonin flowing freely. If everyone loved books and haunted their local library like me, I think I’d fit into society easier. I open my mouth to respond but am interrupted.

Pay attention to the style and prose of Emily Brontë. After reading the first chapter, please write two to three statements about why you think she wrote under a male pseudonym, Mr. Clyde’s voice booms. It rings in my unprotected ear, and I regret opening my safe space for barely a minute. And put your phones away.

Everyone slides their phones into their backpacks or pockets. Since I don’t have a phone, I mentally end the conversation with Maverick and begin classwork. It’s a tool Jenny taught me to help me get through school. Once I focus, I’m usually good to go. 

I read, my mind wandering all over the place. I shake my head and try to focus. I can already tell I’m not going to like this Heathcliff guy from Wuthering Heights, so I invent a few other characters to keep my interest. It doesn’t take long before my brain starts itching.

Felix. Felix. I want to know about Felix.

I do therapy too. Probably not like Felix, though, I say, to my surprise.

Maverick turns his head away from the book and looks delighted that I restarted our conversation. Yeah? That’s okay. We’re just starting to meet his new therapists here. His cheeks glow slightly, probably because his muscles are sore from smiling. 

You’re awfully cheerful for someone who just moved across the country, I blurt out. It came out a little louder than I

Reviews for Good Morning, Dinah

[Dee · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a good book this was! Dinah's journey is powerful and compelling.