Tone Deaf(39)

I release her hand and sign, “Where are you going?”

“Away. Isn’t that what you want?”

“No.”

She ignores me and walks out of the bathroom. I curse and jump up from my crouched position, ignoring the pain that flares up as I move too quickly. Right as Ali grabs the knob of the main RV door, I slide in front of her, blocking her way out.

Her suspicion nosedives back into fear, and she retreats a few steps. My instincts scream at me to back off, to give her some room and calm her down. But I can’t make myself move. She’s obviously planning on marching right out of here, and it’s going to get her caught. And if she’s taken back to her dad . . .

No. That won’t happen, because I won’t let it.

“Don’t go,” I sign.

“Why wouldn’t I?” She makes an angry gesture toward me. “I’m not going to stay with anyone who doesn’t believe me.”

“I believe you,” I quickly sign. “And I want to help you.”

Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “I’m getting really tired of you saying that and not explaining why.”

I rake a hand through my hair as I struggle to come up with an answer. Why should I care about Ali? Logically, it doesn’t make sense. She’s just one of thousands of girls who want something from me.

But I guess it’s the way she asks for what she wants. So tentatively, so hesitantly, like she’s betraying herself by asking someone else for help. She’s determined to get by with only herself, and that makes her so strong, it’s both beautiful and sad.

“It’s late,” I sign slowly. “And we’re in the middle of the desert. It’s not safe for you to go.”

Damn it. Why can’t I just speak my mind around her? I usually say whatever the hell I want, not worrying about consequences before I blurt out what’s on my mind. But with Ali . . . I don’t want to hurt her. And I don’t want to give her any fuel to hurt me.

She takes a step forward, her hands trembling as she balls them at her sides. “I want to know why, Jace,” she signs, her fists unclenching just long enough to form the words. “Why do you want to help me? And don’t you dare give me some Good Samaritan bullshit. You don’t just do people favors, and we both know it. So why are you doing one for me?”

“Because I want to,” I reply, my voice much closer to a growl than I’d like.

Ali shakes her head disgustedly. “You won’t even talk about how you learned ASL. How do you expect me to trust you when you keep hiding stuff from me?”

I don’t offer a response to that—as much as her suspicion hurts, it’s still not enough to make me want to talk about my Deaf parents. Ali grits her teeth in frustration when I don’t reply and reaches for the door handle again.

“I want to help because I understand you.”

“You don’t know me, Jace,” she says, and her spoken words are sharp and filled with scorn.

“Maybe not, but I know the pain. I’ve been there before.”

She actually laughs at that, but it’s a ruined sort of laugh that screams of brokenness and loneliness. “You know pain? What’s that supposed to mean? Did your parents forget to buy you a Lamborghini for your sweet sixteen?”

I flinch and look over my shoulder, pretending to study the wall behind me. It’s a weak cover for the truth: I don’t want her to see my expression. Because right now, I’m hurting, and I’m not the type to hurt. I don’t care enough about anyone to let simple words cause me pain.

And now I’m angry, too. It’s infuriating that people think I was born into this life, that I didn’t work for it, that I’m not capable of controlling my own future.

I take a shuddering breath, trying to calm my bewildered and shaky nerves, but my skin feels like it’s on fire, and I think I might put a hole through the wall. I clench my fist, letting my fingernails dig into my skin, and resist the urge to destroy something. That would terrify Ali, not to mention break all my promises to her.

I can’t lose it, or I’ll lose her.

I slowly unclench my fist, one finger at a time, and turn back to her. She’s still glaring at me.

Before I can think better, I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and quickly shrug it off. “Look,” I say, pointing to my chest. I tap the long, jagged scar that runs from my right shoulder down to my left ribs. “You see this? This was my dad’s parting gift when he kicked me out for forming a band.”

A shudder quakes my skin as the memory comes hurtling back. My yelling, my dad’s furious signing, and then me trying to storm out the door.

Sometimes, I try to tell myself he didn’t mean to injure me so badly. I have no idea if that’s true, but believing that makes it easier to deal with. My dad was high out of his mind, and he grabbed the first thing he could find to hit me with—an empty beer bottle. The first blow I dodged, and half the bottle shattered on the door. I didn’t get so lucky with the second blow. It hit me right in the chest, and the broken glass sliced through my skin like butter.

My dad got five years in prison, and I finally got my freedom. Supposedly. When the memories come rushing back at me like this, it makes me wonder if I’ll ever actually be free of his hold over me.

I wait for Ali to give one of the usual reactions to my scar: wincing, or gasping, or even turning away. But all she does is slowly shake her head, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Like she doesn’t want to believe it.