Underwater(35)

She skitters up the stairs, but Evan stays behind, leaning into me. “Why did you blow me off?”

“I was a mess. I needed some space.”

“Well, you made that clear.”

I can’t believe how differently this conversation is going from the way I’d hoped. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.” I say this under my breath, through gritted teeth, because Taylor is watching us.

Evan backs up. “No problem. I can take a hint.”

“Evan, that’s not how it is. I just needed to be by myself for a little bit. I want to talk to you about this.” Taylor’s watching us curiously from the top of the stairs, her head cocked to one side like she’s trying to reason out an abstract painting at a museum. I lean into Evan and whisper so she can’t hear me. “I want to talk to you, but not with her here.”

He gives me this look. It’s almost like I wounded him, but at the same time, he’s too mad to be wounded.

“Oh, really?” he asks. “Is it not convenient for you right now? Geez, I’m so sorry. Why don’t you let me know when you’re in between one of your pity parties?” He looks at me so hard that it makes me press myself into the concrete wall that runs along the stairs. “Do you actually think you own the market on having sucky things happen to you? Do you think you’re the only person who’s mad about what happened? Because you’re not. I’m mad. My mom’s mad. My aunt’s mad. And Taylor. What about her? And the other kids like her who got shot, and lived, but now have to look at their scars every day and remember what happened to them?”

I just stand there. It’s so pathetic, but that’s all I do. Because I know he’s right.

“Let’s go already!” Taylor calls from the top of the stairs.

Evan gives me one last look, then turns around. He takes the stairs two at a time. He’s in a hurry to get to Taylor and away from me. He doesn’t look back.

I can’t stomach the idea of watching Evan and Taylor applying sunblock to each other, so I go inside.

I shut the door.

I sit at the computer.

I open a blank document.

I type the word Dear.

I watch my cursor blink.

Dear who? What do I need to say and to whom do I need to say it?

While I’m sitting there, staring at nothing, I hear Evan and Taylor leave. I picture Evan carrying his surfboard under his arm. I picture Taylor skipping after him. And what right do I have to care? He should be with someone who is willing to leave the house. I can picture their whole day outside. It will be perfect.

They will go to the beach. They will plop thick towels down in the warm sand. Evan will wax his board and Taylor will watch the muscles in his arms flex when he does it. The sight of that will make her swoon. She will comment on it. He will grin at her. That night, they’ll watch the sun sink from the end of the pier. Evan will lean in and kiss her. They probably will have been kissing all day so they’ll have a rhythm now. This will be their beginning.

And Taylor deserves that. She deserves to live every single minute of her life. She deserves to pull it behind her like a kite.

I envy that.

Why can’t I be happy to be alive instead of afraid of living?





chapter twenty-five

“Hop on my back and I’ll take you to the river,” Ben says. He’s sprawled out on his bed long after Evan and Taylor have gone surfing and then some. His hands are tucked behind his head.

I scan the page for my line. “But the river is so far, and it’s getting dark.”

“That’s not how it goes. You’re supposed to say: ‘It’s getting dark, and the river is too far.’”

“Geez, excuse me.”

“It’s supposed to be exactly right. That’s what Ms. Belford said.”

“Okay, start over.”

Ben has memorized all his lines from the play along with everybody else’s. I guess memorization is some great hidden talent of his. He recites his parts, and some of the extras, too, as we lie across from each other on our beds. I know most of the lines as well, so I try to take all the parts in between. When I stumble, Ben helps me to remember. It takes us almost an hour to get through the whole thing. When we’re finished, I get up, turn off the light, and crawl back into bed. Ben rolls over to his side and flicks the switch on a new bedside lamp my mom won in a raffle at the hospital. It makes our room seem like it’s underwater. Tiny yellow fish swim across the walls. I watch them move, around and around in circles, never really getting anywhere.

Ben speaks up when I thought he was practically asleep. His voice startles me. “You’re coming to my play, right?”

I bury myself deeper into my sheets. “I hope so.”

He sighs, and I can feel the weight of his exasperation in the air. A disappointed five-year-old is a brutal thing.

“But why wouldn’t you go?” he asks. “What are you afraid of?”

What am I afraid of? What if I throw up? What if I can’t breathe? What if I get sweaty and have a panic attack and can’t get out of the building? What if being in an auditorium reminds me of the last time I was near an auditorium?

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” I say.

“It’s okay if you clap the loudest. I won’t be embarrassed. I want you to come.”