Courtney was the only one I could call at a time like this,
mainly because she was the only one likely to be up at midnight,
but also because she has a wonderful way of putting my life into
perspective.

I grabbed the cordless phone and snuck into the room where I
conduct my most important business: the closet. Courtney answered
on the first ring.

"Courtney, I'm so glad you're awake." I glanced over my shoulder
and closed the door behind me.

"Sarah? What's wrong? Is anyone hurt?"

And then--exactly then--the tears began to flow, reminding me of
the way as a child I could maintain my composure until the moment I
heard my mother's voice.

"Sarah? Is anyone hurt?" Courtney asked again.

"Just my pantyhose," I said, sucking in clumps of air.

"Did you say pantyhose? Sarah, what's going on?"

I talked between sniffles and sobs: "I threw...my pantyhose...out
the front...door...and my neighbors saw it all!" Theoretically,
this is the part where a best friend is supposed to laugh or remind
you that you really are a beautiful person...on the inside. This is
when it might have been helpful for someone--someone named
Courtney--to tell me I wasn't crazy, but passionate--clever,
even!

But no, Courtney was silent.

I bit my lip and picked at a loose piece of rubber on the bottom of
my pink bunny slippers.

Then finally Courtney said, "Was it--control top?"

At first I lied, because, well, no one wants to admit to heavily
stitched undergarments. "I really can't remember," I said wiping
away tears with the sleeve of my flannel pajamas, and then, "Oh,
all right! Yes, it was control top--and all the neighbors
saw!"

Courtney was as calm as ever. That's because (1) I've surprised her
too many times before, and (2) Courtney is always polite. But
eventually she had to ask: "Sarah, why did you throw your pantyhose
out the front door?"

"Well, it wasn't just the pantyhose," I said. "I, ah--I kind of
threw the entire basket of laundry."

This was difficult to say aloud, especially to someone like
Courtney, who keeps copies of Miss Manners on her bedside
table.

"I see," Courtney said. She was tapping her nails on a
counter.

It occurred to me that Dustin might be standing on the other side
of the closet door, so I crawled further into the dark curtain of
shirttails and dresses and settled behind a white terrycloth robe,
hugging my knees to my chest. There was a thin, feathery wad of
Kleenex in the pocket of my flannel pajamas. I took it out to blow
my nose, and when I did, a piece of white prescription paper came
out with it.

"Oh, honey, listen to you!" Courtney cried, but I was already
distracted. I unfolded the prescription and looked at the
signature: Dr. D. Ashley.

"Wait a minute!" she said. "I know what this is about."

I jammed the paper back into my pocket, afraid I'd been caught. But
Courtney said, "You saw that helicopter crash on TV tonight, didn't
you?"

"What helicopter crash?"

"Oh, you didn't see it? Never mind then."

"Courtney--"

"So!" she said in a phony, upbeat voice. "What time is the Spouse
Club meeting tomorrow night?"

"Courtney, you can't say 'helicopter crash' and then change the
subject!"

"I don't want to worry you, Sarah. I mean, you're not in the best
mental state right now."

I held the ball of tissue to my nose. "Just tell me, was it anyone
we knew?"

Excerpted from GOING OVERBOARD © Copyright 2011 by Sarah
Smiley. Reprinted with permission by NAL Trade. All rights
reserved.