Underwater(44)

My mom follows Ben. I pick up the wrapping paper and dump it into the trash can labeled for recycling. It’s full so I punch it down, deflating orange juice and milk cartons in the process. I pummel the pile until it settles into half the size of what it used to be.

I punch it and punch it again.

Evan’s fingertips brush my shoulder. I feel the heat of his fingers through my T-shirt.

“Hey. Are you all right?” he asks.

I push out from under him. “You don’t have to be nice to me.”

“I know. But I’m doing it anyway. I must be a glutton for punishment.”

I turn to look at him. “Why does my dad have to be like that?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask. My dad’s not all that great himself.”

Before I burst into a full-on sob, Evan pulls me to him. He grips me tight into a bear hug and rests his chin on top of my head. It’s such a relief. He smells like a mixture of sunblock and surf wax. We sway. His golden-tipped curls mix into my own hair and I breathe him in, wishing I didn’t have to let go of him again.

“Thanks,” I tell him. My voice is muffled against his chest and his shirt. “Tomorrow you can go back to not talking to me.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just grips me tighter, like he doesn’t want to let go, either.

Once I’ve calmed down, he tilts my chin up to see him. “I need you to wait here. Can you wait right here? For just a second?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Where else am I going to go?”

He laughs. “I think you might surprise yourself.”

Evan darts over to his apartment and comes back a minute later holding a canvas. It’s a pretty decent size, big like the ones we used in art class. He turns it around so I can see what’s painted on it.

It’s me.

Only it’s not me the way I am now. It’s me the way I was before. Vibrant. Alive.

I take a step back. “How did you … Who painted that?” I ask.

“Don’t freak out, okay?”

“Should I freak out?”

“Connor painted it.”

“What? When?”

He shrugs. “Last year. This is what he did. He painted portraits of people he cared about. Everyone in my family has one. I thought you should have yours. I’ve wanted to give it to you for a long time, but I didn’t want to weird you out.”

I take the canvas from him and study it. It’s surreal to see someone else’s version of me so big. And flawless. Am I supposed to hang this in my room and stare at it? “Well, now I guess you know what I used to look like.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“This painting is obviously a totally idealized version of me.”

“You’re hardly unattractive, Morgan.”

“I’m hardly like this,” I say, gesturing to the painting.

“No, you’re better.”

“Oh, really? How so?”

He sighs. “For the record, I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. First of all, you aren’t ugly, so please stop saying that. You’re smart. And most of all, you’re real. Everything you’ve been through, and the way you’re trying to work through it, actually makes you more attractive. To me. But you’re so busy trying to convince me of all the reasons people shouldn’t like you that you can’t even see people do like you.”

I think about that for a minute. Silently studying Evan and the way he’s silently studying me.

“I like you,” he says.

“I like you, too.”





chapter thirty-two

I see Aaron Tiratore in my dreams. Brenda knows. We’ve talked about it. She told me I should write my dreams down. I have bits and pieces of them on crinkled pieces of paper that I’ve shoved into the bottom of a drawer. Others, I ripped to shreds and dumped in the trash.

In my dreams, I never know what kind of mood Aaron will be in. Sometimes he’s mad. Other times he’s my best friend. Usually, he changes his mood in the middle of a thought. But always, we’re in the hallway by the auditorium. In the alcove. It’s the last place I saw him. And every time we meet, I try to stop him.

I dream of him tonight.

On Ben’s birthday.

In my dream, I’m running. I toss aside blankets and kick off sheets.

I run so fast. We all do. We slam through doors and tear down hallways. Some people go this direction. Some people go that one. We all try to find a way out. We all try to find a place to hide that will only be ours. Some of us make it. Some of us don’t. One person falls to the ground right next to me as Aaron storms through classrooms and corridors. The principal yells over the loudspeaker that we are on lockdown. We are supposed to be huddled under desks and behind bolted doors, with the lights shut off, like we repeatedly practiced in school safety drills. But so many of us are running. So many of us are trying to get out. I hear screaming in the distance. I hear screaming right in front of me.

I run and run.

And then I wake up.

I’m drenched in sweat. I think Aaron is here for real. In my apartment. I swear I hear his boots on the ground. Down the hall. I’m ready to scream until I realize Ben is breathing in the bed across from me. His green frog sweatshirt hangs from the bedpost, looking at me cross-eyed. My painting is propped up on my dresser even though it seems weird to have it there.