Tone Deaf(34)

“Coding?” I repeat. “Like with computers?”

“Yeah. I design websites and stuff.”

“That’s cool.”

“You don’t have to say that. I know most people think it’s lame.”

“Not me. Killer’s really into that. I don’t understand it at all, but he seems to enjoy it.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, motioning to the laptop on the desk behind me. “He has some coding programs downloaded on there, if you want to check them out.”

Her eyes light up, like I’ve just offered her a free sports car. “You’d let me use your computer?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, sure. Just . . . don’t mess with the desktop background, okay?”

She quickly shakes her head. “No. Of course not. I won’t change a thing.”

She looks all anxious again, like she’s honestly worried about upsetting me by simply using my computer. And here we go again. Excited Ali is gone, replaced by Cautious Ali. The fear in her eyes is gut-wrenchingly familiar, and I hate knowing I’ve just accidentally caused it.

I rub my temples, trying to clear my head. Her fear shouldn’t matter, because she’s not actually in danger right now. My job is to get her safely to NYC, not to be her personal counselor. As long as she’s physically safe, she’s okay.

“We need to figure out sleeping arrangements,” I mutter abruptly.

“Um,” Ali says hesitantly, “I . . . I can just sleep here.” She pats the couch.

“Cool,” I say. “I’m going to turn in early. I’ll be in my room.”

With that, I stand from the couch and head toward my bedroom. As I glance back at her one more time, I can see Ali frowning. She’s probably wondering what just happened, but I’m too rattled to stop and explain things: The more I get to know her, the more I like her. And the more I like her, the more I want her to like me. Which was never supposed to be a part of this. My goal was to get her to safety, not to dredge up a bunch of memories and emotions I’ve shoved away for years.

I press my bedroom door firmly closed and collapse on my bed. My pillow smells like Ali. Kind of sweet, like apricots or something. Maybe plums. I think back to the duffle bag she brought and wonder just how many things she was able to fit in there. Should I offer to buy her some soap and stuff, so she doesn’t have to worry about sharing mine? Or is it just going to embarrass her if I bring it up?

I groan and squeeze my eyes shut. I know what happens when people make an effort to care about others: they get taken advantage of, and then they get hurt. Ali is already bumming a ride with me, so I should draw the line there. There’s no need for me to do anything else for her.

But I want to. I want to help her in every way possible, and that can only lead to trouble.

Although, if the trouble came in a form as sweet as Ali, it might be worth it . . .





16


ALI


IT’S BEEN THREE days since I left Los Angeles, but it feels like an eternity has passed. Jace has been strangely quiet since our awkward, bumbling conversation the first evening of my escape. I keep catching him frowning at me like I’m some sort of baffling jigsaw puzzle, but every time I try to talk with him, he shuts down the conversation the moment it starts to get personal. With the adrenaline of my escape wearing off, and with no one to talk to, boredom is starting to gnaw at me.

I click on the desktop’s coding icon, bringing the program to life on the computer screen. Ever since Jace told me I could use the computer, I’ve been madly coding every moment I have. All my works in progress are trapped on my computer back in Los Angeles, but I’m almost glad I have to restart all my projects. It means I’m going to have to spend hours re-creating things, and the intense work is a welcome distraction from the monotony of traveling.

There’s a tiny window right next to the desk, and I’ve opened the shades just a sliver, so I can watch our progress as we travel. We’re still in the desert and surrounded by rocks, rocks, and more rocks. There’s not much sand anymore. The RV caravan is stopped at a rest station for its usual afternoon break, and even though we’ve only been here for ten minutes, I’m already itching to get moving again. We’re only seventy miles outside of Albuquerque, the city Tone Deaf will be stopping at for the next three days, and the city where I’ll branch off and start traveling on my own.

I give up on the coding program, having made no progress since we stopped. I’m thinking too hard to focus on something as difficult as this. I click on the little Internet icon, silently cursing Jace for using Internet Explorer instead of Google Chrome. I hate Explorer, but it’s easy enough to pull up a search engine and type in “A–X Lyrics Database.” Aside from coding, that’s the other thing I’ve been doing to keep busy: surfing the Internet and reading Tone Deaf’s lyrics. About two-thirds of the songs aren’t half bad; they’re typical, cliché pop-punk songs about relationships and parties and other stuff I have no experience with. But they’re catchy, and I can see why so many fans love them.

Then there’s the remaining third. They’re songs like “Criminal,” and they’re probably what made Tone Deaf famous. Dark and depressing, the lyrics would fit death metal songs better. But, somehow, Jace manages to make the lyrics beautiful and haunting, almost like a well-written eulogy at a funeral. His style is a huge variation from the normal pop-punk stuff, but, put to music, I can see the lyrics being enchanting, in an oddly morbid way.