The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(24)

8





SILVER





Wrangling Max during the twins’ lesson is easier than I anticipated. It costs me five bucks and a Hot Pocket, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. When Dr. Coombes arrives to collect the boys, flustered and all over the place, I feel so bad for him that I offer him a cup of coffee and a chance to sit down for a second. It never occurs to me that he might accept, but when he looks at me, his eyes a little wild and distant, I realize that he probably hasn’t simply sat down to drink a cup of coffee in a very long time.

He's way older than Mom and Dad, somewhere in his mid-forties. Mom always used to take me to him to get my eyes tested when I was a kid. Everything about him is normal. He wears regular, smart clothes. His hair is a medium brown, and his eyes are a steady, reassuring blue. He was calm, and always nice to me—and in return, I was always terrified of him. I hated going for eye exams. I hated having to put my chin on the metal stirrup. I hated having a light shone in my eyes until I could see the alien, weirdly textured back of my own retina. Most of all, I was afraid that I was going to fail, that Dr. Coombes was going to tell my mom those three, awful words that would signal the end of my life as I knew it: ‘She needs glasses.’

Sitting at the counter now, staring into his coffee, Dr. Coombes’ presence no longer fills me with a deep sense of dread. I just…I feel sorry for the guy. I shift awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Coombes. Have they said anything? Is she getting better?”

Dr. Coombes scans the kitchen, as though he’s misplaced something, but he can’t quite remember what. “Uh, no. No, they haven’t said anything. Just that she’s stable. They’re not really sure what’s going on with her.”

I don’t know what to say to this. Outside, Max is showing Gregory and Lou the fort he made two summers ago. It’s raining, the sky a roiling mass of grey, and it feels as though the weight of the heavy clouds overhead is pressing down on top of the house and the walls are about to buckle under the strain. “I’m sorry to hear that, Dr. Coombes.”

He waves me off with a flick of his wrist. “You can call me David now, Silver. You’re, what? Sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

He nods. “Seventeen. Okay. Wow. Time seems to be speeding up every goddamn day.”

“Yeah. My Nona keeps warning me that it only gets quicker, too. She keeps on telling me, Appreciate your youth, Silver.” I imitate Nona’s heavily accented, raspy voice. “Appreciate your figure. Appreciate your health—”

“Forget that shit,” Dr. Coombes says. “The thing you really need to treasure, the only thing you should value above anything else at your age is the complete and utter lack of responsibility. No mortgage. No bills. No taxes. No impossible decisions, or people looking to you for comfort. Shit gets real, Silver, and it gets real fast. Nothing in here really changes.” He taps the side of his head. “You start finding grey hairs. You notice a few more lines on your face. Your back starts to ache when you sit down for too long. But everything else…the whole ‘older and wiser’ line they spin you in high school. Don’t believe a fucking word of it. It doesn’t matter how old any of us get. We’re all still fumbling around in the dark, pretending like we know what the fuck is going on. What the fuck we’re supposed to do. But when we climb into bed at night, we’re still gripped by the same sense of panic we felt when we were teenagers. Believe me. We are all just making this shit up as we go along.”

“Well. That’s one way to make a girl feel optimistic for the future.” I take a sip of my own coffee, wanting to hide my entire face inside the mug.

“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be such a downer. I’m just…I’m so fucking tired.” He looks it, too. The large, puffy bags under his eyes have aged him at least ten years. He lifts his head, watching his sons out of the kitchen window as they follow my brother into the copse of trees that marks the boundary of our yard and the beginning of the Walker Forest. Max’s yellow rain jacket is easy enough to spot through the bare, spindly trunks of the trees. Gregory and Lou’s matching green jackets are a little harder to see, though. I go to the back door and yell their names into the impending dusk.

When I turn around, Dr. Coombes is on his feet, putting his own coat on. Out of nowhere, he pulls me into a quick, tight hug and then releases me just as quickly. “Thank you for listening, Silver. It’s nice to be heard for a couple of minutes.”

The boys barrel into the kitchen, whooping, full of energy, tracking mud all over the tiles. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. Where are your paper towels?” Dr. Coombes scans the kitchen counters, but I stop him before he can get carried away.

“It’s fine. Please. Get on the road before the rain worsens. I’ve got this. It’s no problem.”

He sags with relief, as if I’ve just told him I’ve seen the future and his wife is going to wake up, happy and healthy next Tuesday, and his life is going to go back to normal really, really soon. “Thanks again, Silver. You’re a good girl.”

Absently, he places down three twenty-dollar bills on the kitchen table, and it feels as though he isn’t paying for the guitar lesson I just gave to the twins. It’s as though he’s paying me for something else: the moment of peace and quiet I gave to him, while I let him sit in the kitchen and stare into an untouched cup of coffee.