Underwater(10)

I told her no. I said I couldn’t drive. “I can’t be in my car. I feel trapped inside of it. I just want to be home where I feel safe.”

“Morgan,” my mom said, “Dr. Gwynn doesn’t make house calls. If you want to work with her, you’re going to have to get yourself to her office.”

“I can’t.” My voice caught then. I curled into myself. Broken and barely breathing. “What are you not hearing? I can’t leave our apartment. I won’t.”

And then I felt Brenda looking at me. Really looking. Studying silently as I sank deeper. And finally, she sat up straight, her heavy dreadlocks falling over her shoulders, and said, “I’ll do it. I want to help.”

My mom looked surprised when Brenda said that. To be honest, I was a little surprised, too. Brenda sure was willing to go out of her way for me. She said I had touched her on a personal level, though I didn’t know how. My mom said great. And thank you.

So I didn’t go to school again. I enrolled in online high school after the Thanksgiving break. The next time I saw Brenda, we sat on the couch in my living room. I told her I needed her to sit to the left of me. She asked me why.

“I need to be able to know what’s there. To know it isn’t him.”

She said okay and sat down.

I was glad she didn’t press me.

I was glad she didn’t make me talk about how he was standing to the left of me the last time I saw him.

I didn’t want to start with that.

And that’s how I’ve met with Brenda ever since. We started at the end of November, and now it’s April. For just over four months, Brenda has been coming to my house to help me get better.





chapter five

My mom and Ben are still at the birthday party when there’s a knock on my door. I know exactly who it is. I can picture Evan standing on our welcome mat. I want to see him. I can’t help it. Even if all I do is look at him from the other side of the threshold. That’s something at least.

I double-check the peephole, then open the door. Evan’s right there, his index finger poking through the hole in the middle of a DVD.

“Wanna watch something?” he asks.

It’s not like nobody ever comes inside this apartment. My mom and my brother live here. Brenda visits. Chelsea and Brianna used to visit. But Evan is here now. Can I let him in?

I do. I open the door, and he comes inside.

I follow him to the living room and the lopsided couch. I try to scoot past him, to settle into my space before he can sit in it, but he’s too fast. He sits down on my end of the couch and waits for me to sit on the other end. I can’t.

I stand.

I stare.

I shuffle.

I swear under my breath.

I clench my hands into fists and try to calm down.

“You okay?” he asks, gripping the DVD.

I shake my hands out against the sides of my legs. Fluttery fingers. Nervous hands.

“Morgan?”

“Um, I need to sit there.”

“Where?”

“Right there. Exactly where you’re sitting.” I fidget. I fumble. I freak. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” he says, standing up. “Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, shielding my eyes with the back of my hand so I don’t have to look at him. “I know it sounds incredibly specific.”

“It’s okay.”

He doesn’t give me a funny look or anything. Instead he kneels down in front of the DVD player and slides the disc in. He looks over his shoulder to kick a grin in my direction. “Did the soup make you feel better?”

“It was good.” And it was. I ate it for dinner the night he gave it to me. But it wasn’t the miraculous cure-all Evan had hoped for.

“You smell like coconut,” he says, settling onto the opposite end of the couch.

I shrug. My shampoo is coconut-scented. Is it good or bad that I smell this way?

The DVD starts up, and the opening has some music that sounds like summer. It’s sweepy and dreamy and goes perfectly with the waves rolling across the screen. The TV fills up with clear blue water crowded with surfers. And then there’s a panoramic shot of the beach. We watch sand that looks like brown sugar and palm trees slanting sideways into the sun. And then the surfers are there again, the camera zooming in as one of them goes peeling down the front of a wave almost as tall as Paradise Manor. Scribbly writing shows up in the right-hand corner of the screen: Evan “Da Hapa” Kokua, 17, Pipeline. There’s no mistaking the sun-streaked curls of the boy sitting next to me.

I turn to him, flabbergasted. He looks back at me like, What?

“That’s you,” I say like he might not know.

He glances my way with one eye shut, embarrassed. “I swear I didn’t play you this to show off. I haven’t even seen it yet.”

“What is it? Are you famous? Should I be asking you for an autograph?”

He laughs. “No. It’s just a surf video. My friends and I made it. Back home.”

“And home is Hawaii.”

“Home was Hawaii.”

“Lucky you.” I sigh. “Why would you ever leave?”

Evan shrugs. “Family stuff. A fresh start. My mom wanted to go. There’s a list.”