Delirium (Delirium #1)(80)

At twelve thirty Carol moves me downstairs to the living room, which I can tell has been straightened and cleaned. My uncle’s shipping orders, which are usually scattered everywhere, have been stacked in a neat pile, and none of the old schoolbooks and broken toys that usually litter the floor are visible. She plops me down on a sofa and begins messing with my hair. I feel like a prize pig, but I know better than to say anything about it. If I do everything she tells me—if everything goes smoothly—maybe I’ll still have time to go to 37 Brooks once Brian leaves.

“There,” Carol says, stepping away and squinting at me critically. “That’s as good as it’s going to get.”

I bite my lip and turn away. I don’t want her to notice, but her words have sent a sharp pain through me. Amazingly, I’d actually forgotten that I’m supposed to be plain. I’m so used to Alex telling me I’m beautiful. I’m so used to feeling beautiful around him. A hollow opens up in my chest. This is what life will be like without him: Everything will become ordinary again. I’ll become ordinary again.

At a few minutes after one I hear the front gate squeak open and footsteps on the path. I’ve been so focused on Alex I haven’t had time to get nervous about Brian Scharff’s arrival. But now I have the wild urge to make a run for the back door, or hurtle through the open window. Thinking about what Carol would do if I went belly flopping through the screen brings on an uncontrollable fit of giggling.

“Lena,” she hisses at me, just as Brian and his mother start knocking on the front door. “Control yourself.”

Why? I’m tempted to fire back. It’s not like he can do anything about it, even if he hates me. He’s stuck with me and I’m stuck with him. We’re stuck.

That’s what growing up is all about, I guess.

In my imagination Brian Scharff was tall and fat, a hulking figure. In reality he’s only a few inches taller than I am—which is impressively short, for a guy—and so thin I’m worried about breaking his wrist bone when we shake. His palms are damp with sweat, and he barely squeezes my hand. It feels like holding on to a damp tissue. Afterward, when we all take our seats, I surreptitiously wipe my hands against my pants.

“Thank you for coming,” Carol says, and there’s a long, awkward pause. In the silence I can hear Brian wheezing through his nose. It sounds like there’s a dying animal trapped in his nasal canal.

I must be staring, because Mrs. Scharff explains, “Brian has asthma.”

“Oh,” I say.

“The allergies make it worse.”

“Um . . . what is he allergic to?” I ask, because she seems to be expecting it.

“Dust,” she says emphatically, like she’s been waiting to break out that word since she sailed through the door. She looks witheringly around the room—which is not dusty—and Carol blushes. “And pollen. Cats and dogs, of course, and peanuts, seafood, wheat, dairy, and garlic.”

“I didn’t know you could be allergic to garlic,” I say. I can’t help it: It just pops out.

“His face puffs up like an accordion.” Mrs. Scharff turns a disdainful eye toward me, as though I’m somehow responsible for this fact.

“Oh,” I say again, and then another uncomfortable silence descends on us. Brian doesn’t say anything, but he wheezes louder than ever.

This time Carol comes to the rescue. “Lena,” she says, “perhaps Brian and Mrs. Scharff would like some water.”

I’ve never been so grateful for an excuse to leave a room in my life. I jump out of my seat, nearly taking down a lamp with my knee by accident. “Of course. I’ll get it.”

“Make sure it’s filtered,” Mrs. Scharff calls after me, as I tear out of the room. “And not too much ice.”

In the kitchen I take my time filling up the glasses—from the tap, obviously—and letting the cold air from the freezer blast my face. From the living room I can hear the low murmur of conversation, but I can’t make out who is speaking or what is being said. Maybe Mrs. Scharff decided to reprise her list of Brian’s allergies.

I know I have to go back into the living room eventually, but my feet just won’t move toward the hallway. When I finally force them into action, they feel like they’ve been transformed into lead; still, they carry me far too quickly toward the living room. I keep seeing an endless series of bland days, days the color of pale yellow and white pills, days that have the same bitter aftertaste as medicine. Mornings and evenings filled with a quietly whirring humidifier, with Brian’s steady wheezing breath, with the drip, drip, drip from a leaking faucet.

There’s no stopping it. The hallway doesn’t last forever, and I step into the living room just in time to hear Brian say, “She’s not as pretty as in the pictures.”

Brian and his mom have their backs to me, but Carol’s mouth falls open when she sees me standing there, and both of the Scharffs whip around to face me. At least they have the grace to look embarrassed. He drops his eyes quickly, and she flushes.

I’ve never felt so ashamed or exposed. This is worse, even, than standing in the translucent hospital gown at the evaluations, under the glare of the fluorescent lights. My hands are trembling so badly the water jumps over the lip of the glasses.

“Here’s your water.” I don’t know where I find the strength to come around the sofa and place the glasses down on the coffee table. “Not too much ice.”