Delirium (Delirium #1)(81)



“Lena—” My aunt starts to say something, but I inter-rupt her.

“I’m sorry.” Miraculously, I even manage a smile. I can only hold it for a fraction of a second, though. My jaw is trembling too, and I know that at any moment I might cry. “I’m not feeling very well. I think I might step outside for a bit.”

I don’t wait to be given permission. I turn around and rush the front door. As I push out into the sun I hear Carol apologizing for me.

“The procedure is still several weeks away,” she’s saying. “So you’ll have to forgive her for being so sensitive. I’m sure it will all work out. . . .”

The tears come hot and fast as soon as I’m outside. The world begins to melt, colors and shapes bleeding together. The day is perfectly still. The sun has just inched past the middle of the sky, a flat white disk, like a circle of heated metal. A red balloon is caught in a tree. It must have been there for a while. It is going limp, bobbing listlessly, half-deflated, at the end of its string.

I don’t know how I’ll face Brian when I have to go back inside. I don’t know how I’ll face him ever. A thousand awful things race through my mind, insults I’d like to hurl at him. At least I don’t look like a tapeworm, or, Has it ever occurred to you that you’re allergic to life?

But I know I won’t—can’t—say any of those things. Besides, the problem isn’t really that he wheezes, or is allergic to everything. The problem isn’t even that he doesn’t think I’m pretty.

The problem is that he isn’t Alex.

Behind me the door squeaks open. Brian says, “Lena?”

I mash my palms against my cheeks quickly, wiping away the tears. The absolute last thing in the world I want is for Brian to know that his stupid comment has upset me. “I’m fine,” I call back, without turning, since I’m sure I look like a mess. “I’ll come inside in a second.”

He must be stupid or stubborn, because he doesn’t leave me alone. Instead he closes the door behind him and comes down off the front stoop. I hear him wheezing a few feet behind me.

“Your mom said it was okay if I came out with you,” he says.

“She’s not my mom,” I correct him quickly. I don’t know why it seems so important to say. I used to like it when people confused Carol for my mom. It meant they didn’t know the real story. Then again, I used to like a lot of things that seem ridiculous now.

“Oh, right.” Brian must know something about my real mom. It’s on the record he would have seen. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Of course you did, I think, but don’t say anything. At least the fact that he’s hovering over me has made me too angry to be sad anymore. The tears have stopped. I cross my arms and wait for him to take the hint—or get tired of staring at my back—and go inside. But the steady wheezing continues.

I’ve known him less than half an hour, and already I could kill him. Finally I get tired of standing there in silence, so I turn around and brush past him quickly.

“Feeling much better now,” I say. I don’t look at him as I start toward the house. “We should go in.”

“Wait, Lena.” He reaches out and grabs my wrist. I guess grabs isn’t really the right word. More like wipes sweat on. But I stop anyway, though I still can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead I keep my eyes locked on the front door, noticing for the first time that the screen has three large holes in it, near the upper right corner. No wonder the house has been full of insects this summer. Grace found a ladybug in our bedroom the other day. She brought it to me, cupped in her tiny palm. I helped her carry it downstairs and release it outside.

I feel an overwhelming rush of sadness, unrelated to Alex or Brian or any of that. I’m just struck with a sense of time passing so quickly, rushing forward. One day I’ll wake up and my whole life will be behind me, and it will seem to have gone as quickly as a dream.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear what I said before,” he says. I wonder if his mom made him say this. The words seem to require a tremendous effort on his part. “It was rude.”

As if I haven’t already been completely humiliated—now he has to apologize for calling me ugly. My cheeks feel like they’re going to melt off, they’re so hot.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, trying to extricate my wrist from his hand. Surprisingly, he won’t let me go—even though technically he shouldn’t be touching me at all.

“What I meant was—” His mouth works up and down for a second. He won’t meet my eyes. He keeps scanning the street behind me, his eyes darting back and forth, like a cat watching a bird. “What I meant was, you looked happier in the pictures.”

This is a surprise, and for a second I can’t think of a response. “I don’t seem happy now?” I splutter out, and then feel even more embarrassed. It’s so weird to be having this conversation with a stranger, knowing he won’t be a stranger for very much longer.

But he doesn’t seem freaked out by the question. He just shakes his head. “I know you aren’t,” he says. He drops my wrist, but I don’t feel as desperate to go inside anymore. He’s still staring off at the street behind me, and I sneak a closer look at his face. I guess he could be kind of good-looking. Not nearly so gorgeous as Alex, obviously—he’s super pale and slightly feminine-looking, with a full, round mouth and a small, tapered nose—but his eyes are a clear, pale blue, like a morning sky, and he has a nice strong jawline. And now I start to feel guilty. He must know I’m unhappy because I’ve been paired with him. It’s not his fault I’ve changed—seen the light or contracted the deliria, depending on who you ask. Maybe both.

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