None of the Above(39)

Sam lifted his head. Our gazes met, and I felt it—that magnetism, that connection that we’d always had. Slowly I moved in closer until I could feel his uneven breath on my face. “You saw me for who I was,” I whispered. “Can’t you see it’s the same thing now?”

Just as our lips were about to touch, Sam pulled back and shook his head with a faraway look. He turned to me. His eyes hardened.

“I’m gonna say this once, and only once,” he said, his words brittle. “I. Don’t. Date. Men.”

I gasped as if he’d struck me, and I couldn’t stop the tears from brimming.

“I am not a man.” Why couldn’t he see? Hopelessness burned into frustration. “You’ve seen me . . . all of me. How can you not accept that?”

Sam wiped his hand down his face with frustration, and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice had thawed a little. But not enough.

“Maybe someone else can, Krissy. But not me.”

He got up from his chair and stared down at me, really looked at me, and the revulsion and pity in his eyes only made my tears come quicker.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not offering me a hand up.

Somehow I made it to my feet on my own. I dried my eyes with my sweatband and sniffled to clear my nose. As he held his door open, Sam stared down at the worn patch of carpet at the entrance. “I promise I won’t tell my sister if you don’t want me to.”

I paused at the threshold, and wondered if it’d be possible to shield a twelve-year-old from the truth, or if she’d hear the malice behind the whispers. It hurt to think of her blaming me for staying away, but so did the idea that she could hate me for what I was.

“You can tell her that we got into a fight over going to different colleges. Tell her that high school romances never last,” I said, allowing a sliver of bitterness to creep into my voice.

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, as my last figment of hope shriveled up and died.

I turned to shuffle down the hallway. When I didn’t hear Sam’s door click, I turned around once at the top of the stairs. He still stood there, leaning against the doorjamb, staring down at the carpet. I felt sure he could feel my eyes on him, but he didn’t look up.

Halfway down the stairs, the door shut.

I let myself out of the house without saying good-bye to Mrs. Wilmington, who was still in the kitchen, humming show tunes.

Dusk had fallen, and I ran home in the twilight.

I welcomed the darkness.

Because really, at this point, being anonymous was what I wanted more than anything.





CHAPTER 22


The next day, Faith stopped by with the promised almond cookies and a Get Well Soon card. She’d gotten a normal-sized one, unlike the card for my birthday just a few weeks earlier, when she’d bought a huge thing that looked like a small poster. She’d even gotten some people to sign it: a few track teammates, a couple of choir members, and some of the girls from her youth group.

“I hope you get better soon,” she said. “It sucks driving in alone.”

“What, Vee isn’t riding with you?” I tried to sound casual, but failed.

“I don’t want things to get awkward when you get back. She’s been hitching a ride with Bruce.” She hesitated. “I know she doesn’t show it, but I think she feels really badly about how things went down.”

I snorted. Faith meant well, but she was kidding herself if she thought I believed that. Vee didn’t do guilt, unlike Faith, who always seemed to feel responsible when someone was upset, as if all the sorrows of the world were somehow her fault, and the solution to all sadness was in her hands and her hands alone.

She looked guilty now as she asked, “Would you be willing to talk to her? Work it out? I hate seeing you two fight. We’ve been the Three Musketeers since preschool. This can’t go on forever?”

“What would I possibly say to her?” I said. I hated acting irritated, but sometimes Faith was too nice, to the point of it being a fault. “She hasn’t even tried to call me, or apologize. For God’s sake, Faith—she screwed me by telling Sam. How could I forgive her for something like that when she doesn’t even think she’s done anything wrong?”

Faith was silent. I couldn’t tell if she was hurt by my anger, or if her well of sympathy had just run dry. She opened her mouth to say something. Paused. Shut it again.

I went on before she could start her “turn the other cheek” mantra. “I know you’re going to say something about forgiving other people’s trespasses, but sometimes forgiveness needs to be earned. I’m sick of appeasing Vee. She’s not the only person in the world with problems.”

Faith looked uneasy, the way she always did when there was conflict. “But what if—” She stopped, and brushed a couple of cookie crumbs off her jeans.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just . . . I hate this.”

“You and me both.”

After Faith left, our doorbell rang again within a few minutes. I let Aunt Carla answer it, assuming it had to be a delivery truck or something. Instead, I heard her yell up the stairs in an excited voice.

“Krissy—there’s someone here to see you. It’s a boy!”

My heart skidded to a stop in my chest, and my first thought—a hope that washed over me like a tidal wave—was that it had to be Sam. I rushed down the stairs, but even before I saw his face I knew the silhouette was too tall, too rangy.