I blink at him. “Huh?”
“You know, the movie? With Tom Cruise? When the Porsche rolls into Lake Michigan?” he says, like I should know this. At my uncomprehending stare, he shakes his head. “We really need to make a list of every classic you haven’t seen and Netflix them all.”
“I can’t look at Tom Cruise the same ever since the Oprah incident,” I say, and he gives me a blank look. I scoff indignantly. “The couch? And the jumping? And the Scientology craziness? Come on, you have to know about that!”
He doesn’t have a clue, of course. I sigh and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.
“We don’t have anything in common, do we?” I say in a small voice.
“That’s not true.”
“It is! I mean, I tried listening to NPR the other night, and my eyes glazed over, like, five seconds in. And you read all these books—” I gesture to the stack between us, the top title staring up at me—Ham on Rye, is that a cookbook or something? “—while I just follow stupid shallow internet blogs mocking celebrity fashions, and I’ve never even been on a skateboard, or in-line skates, for that matter—”
“Whoa, Chelsea, slow down.” He puts his hand on the back of my head, and I stop midsentence. “What about Rosie’s? We have that.”
“I wash dishes. Big whoop. I can’t cook anything—”
“You know how to make tuna melts.”
“I made one, once. And only because you showed me.”
“Well, then I can teach you more. You can ride my skateboard. I’ll listen to your music. I usually stick to political blogs, but I’ll read your celebrity gossip ones, if you want. But, Chelsea, all that stuff…it’s just stuff. It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters!” I sit up and rub my eyes. “Mutual interests! It’s what ties people together! You’re going to get bored of me, because I’m so shallow and stupid, you don’t even know.”
“I really don’t think that’s a concern.” He’s still smiling, and it drives me a little crazy how completely unworried he is. Does he not hear what I’m saying? “So you like reading about celebrities. So you like clothes and stuff. So what?” he says. “And don’t give me this crap about how shallow and stupid you are—we both know you wouldn’t be hanging out with Asha and all of us if that was true. You’d still be friends with Kristen and that crowd.” He pauses, and the smile fades. “Is that what you want? To be friends with them again?”
“That’s not an option.”
“What if it was?”
“No.” I don’t even have to think about it. “God, no.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t even miss Kristen anymore. Okay, I miss the idea of Kristen, a little, but not the cold, hard reality of what it means to Kristen’s best friend. Because what I thought was important to me then doesn’t feel so important anymore. Because I don’t have anything in common with them, either, and all of that stuff didn’t really mean anything in the end, anyway, did it?
Maybe Sam’s right. Maybe when it comes down to it, what we’re interested in doesn’t mean so much—it’s who you are that ties people together.
“You asked me before, why I wasn’t mad at you,” he says. “It’s because you turned Warren and Joey in. You did that. Now I just want to know…why? What made you do it?”
No one has asked me point-blank before. Not my parents, not Kristen, not Asha. No one.
I take a deep, shaky breath. “When I was seven, I had to get my tonsils taken out,” I tell him. “I was in the hospital, totally freaked out, because I’d never had surgery before or anything. And my dad showed up with this stuffed dog. He sat next to me the whole time, holding my hand, and that stupid dog—it made me feel better. And after…what happened, with Noah, I kept remembering that. How scared I was, and how much it meant for my dad to be there, so I wasn’t alone.” I have to stop for a moment because my throat is constricting with tears. “Noah must’ve been so scared. He was by himself. He didn’t have his dad, or his mom, and I just—I couldn’t. I had to. No one should have to go through that. It’s not fair.”
Sam reaches over and brushes away the lone tear that’s trailed down my cheek with his thumb. “Yeah,” he agrees softly. “It definitely isn’t fair.”
“I was so stupid,” I say. “I never want to go back to that. I am so much happier around you guys.”
It’s the truth, and not only that, it is also so totally the right thing to say, because Sam lights up with a smile, like I not just made his day, but his life. I grab his shirt collar and kiss him, hard and long. Then I sit back and put my hand over the dangling key ring, thinking.
I’m at a crossroads. If I drive west, I’d be going toward Recollections and liquor stores and gas stations. If I drive east, I’d be going toward the nice houses, including mine. And it would take only a minute if I decided to drive to Rosie’s.
We could go anywhere.
I turn to Sam and say, “I have an idea.”
* * *
The last time I was in a hospital, it was last year when Grandpa Murphy had his heart attack and no one was sure whether or not he was going to make it. Mom let me miss two days of school to stay with her, and Dad actually called out of work the first day, which was how I knew it was serious. Mostly I hung out in the waiting room, making prank phone calls to 1-800 numbers on the payphone with my cousin Bree while Mom and Dad and Mom’s crapload of siblings were too busy talking to three different doctors and each other to notice our shenanigans. Grandpa Murphy was okay in the end, even though it was touch and go for a while.
But that was in a different hospital, not this one. The last time I was in this hospital, I was eight and fell off the jungle gym, and Mom was convinced I’d broken my arm from the way I was screaming my head off. Turned out to be only a bad sprain. The nurse wrapped it in an Ace bandage, presented me with a lollipop (which shut the tears off instantly) and sent me home with an ice pack and a recommendation for Children’s Tylenol.
I don’t have any traumatic memories associated with hospitals, really, and I’d like to keep it that way. As Sam and I step into the elevator in Van Buren Memorial, somehow I’m not so sure that’ll be possible.
Sam knows where he’s going, of course. I follow him out of the elevator, down the squeaky linoleum hall, and to the nurses’ station.
“We’re here to see Noah Beckett,” he says to the woman at the desk. She smiles and gives him a room number.
I know I suggested coming here, but I’m still numb with fear as we walk down toward some rooms. Am I really ready for this? I’m about seventy percent committed in my head to spinning on my heel and fleeing the hospital when Sam reaches for my hand.
“It’s gonna be fine,” he says, and squeezes, and it helps, a little.
A short blonde woman stands outside of Noah’s room, talking to a doctor in hushed tones. Sam and I hang back until the doctor says a final word and walks away. The woman stares after him, and Sam says, “Mrs. Beckett?”
When she turns at his voice, the woman’s distracted look is replaced by a genuine smile. “Sam,” she says warmly. “It’s so good to see you.”
He drops my hand and hugs her, and she pecks him on the cheek.
“How is he?” he asks softly.
“He’s improving,” she tells him. “They’re saying we can take him home next week.”
“That’s great news.” Sam squeezes her shoulder. “And how about you?”
“I’m holding up
all right.” Her smile is a little wobbly around the edges. She looks over his shoulder at me. “Who is your friend?”
I’m embarrassed to be drawn into this conversation, like I’m intruding on some private moment. I hold my hands behind my back and look to Sam.
“This is Chelsea Knot,” he introduces.
“Oh. You’re Chelsea?” Noah’s mom pauses, and in that pause, a million horrible scenarios race through my mind: she knows who I am, and she’s going to yell at me, right there. Or start bawling. Or tell me what a horrible human being I am for what I did to her son.
She steps toward me, and oh, God, I brace myself to be slapped, or spit on, but instead she puts her arms around me and holds me close, and—oh. A hug? She’s actually giving me a hug?
“Thank you,” she says in my ear, and I’m too bewildered to do anything but stand there. “If it weren’t for you, who knows if those boys would’ve gotten away with it.” She pulls back and smiles at me, her eyes shining like she might cry. “It was a very brave thing you did.”
Not only am I receiving a hug, but gratitude? My mind, it is blown.
I’m not sure what to say. “Um, I—I d-don’t—” I want to explain why, exactly, she should be angry with me, but Sam shoots me a look, and I understand I’m supposed to just accept this. So I attempt a smile and say, “It was nothing.”
My first lie since I started talking again. Sorry, God.
Mrs. Beckett says, “Why don’t you go in and see him? I think he’s awake now.”
Sam and I enter Noah’s room. It’s crowded with balloons and flowers and gifts, and I’m shocked, a little, to see such an outpouring of support and love. It’s such a contrast to the ugliness I’ve seen at school. But the row of cards tacked to the wall are all from students, so maybe I just was too caught up in my own bubble to realize how much people do care.
“I’m pretty sure I’m single-handedly keeping Hallmark in business.”
The voice takes me by surprise. I jump away from the wall and whirl to see Noah, in the bed, propped into a sitting position by pillows. He looks…rough. There’s an IV attached to one of his arms, a line of stitches across one cheek and his lower lip is split and bruised. A patch of his white-blond hair has been shaved off and covered with a bandage.
“Hey, loser.” Sam sits down on the side of Noah’s bed. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” Noah says, but he’s smiling.
“Yeah, I bet. Giving the nurses a hard time?”
“No. They’re all in love with me.”
“Sucks for them, huh?”
They both laugh; Noah’s all wheezy and gasping. He stops and takes deep, pained breaths, squirming uncomfortably, and then his eyes lock with mine, and I feel all light-headed with nerves.
“Easy on the ribs, there, kid,” Sam says.
Noah ignores him. “Chelsea?”
This was such a mistake. I shouldn’t have come, but it’s too late to back out now, isn’t it?
“Hi,” I say timidly. He just stares at me like my presence isn’t fully registering, so I glance toward the door and say, “I can go, if you want. I didn’t mean—”
“No.” He wheezes for a few breaths. “Stay.”
Sam looks from me to Noah. “I’m going to wait outside, okay?”
Noah nods, and when Sam passes me, I want to latch on to his arm and say, don’t leave me, but I know I really shouldn’t. I know I have to do this, because no matter how painful it is for me, it’s ten times worse for Noah, and he stills wants to talk, for whatever reason. He deserves the opportunity to tell me how much he hates me to my face.
My eyes are still on Sam walking through the door when Noah says, “I thought you were taking a vow of silence?”
The question startles me. How did he know about that? “I am. Well, I was,” I begin to explain, but of everything there is to say, that seems so unimportant. I can’t sit here and pretend to make small talk with him. “I know you hate me,” I blurt out, all in a rush, and then stop because I don’t know what comes next.
Noah blinks at me, surprised. “I don’t—” he starts, before dissolving into a racking coughing fit. The sound is like someone stabbing me in the heart. Repeatedly. “I don’t…hate you,” he says between harsh breaths.
“What do you mean?” Tears spring to my eyes, hot and fierce, and my voice is shaking, my whole body is shaking. “Don’t you know? I was the one who told Warren, and I—I ruined everything, and I’m—” I collapse onto the edge of his mattress, my hands over my face. “I’m so sorry, Noah. There’s no excuse.”
“No,” he agrees after a minute. “There’s not. It was a shitty thing to do.”
“I didn’t know what would happen,” I say. “But I know that doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes some things,” he says. “You…you know what you did wrong. You don’t need me…to point that out.” He’s still breathing a little hard, but his voice is steady, calm. “Asha’s talked a lot about you.”
I peek at him through my fingers. “She has?”
“At first I thought you kind of deserved what was happening to you,” he admits. “Some days I still do. I mean, I woke up and first thing got to have a very awkward one-sided conversation with my mother. ‘Hi, Noah, so happy you’re not going to die. By the way, everyone knows you’re gay now.’” He pauses, a slight smile touching his lips. “That’s a joke. You can laugh.”
Except I don’t find it funny at all. “I took something important away from you. I had no right.”
“Would it make you happier if I told you to go to hell?” he asks. “Look. I’ve spent the past month with nothing to do but think. Try to figure out what’s worth being angry about. It’s a long list. I could be angry about all of it and I’d probably be justified. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being mad about what happened. About what Warren and Joey did. I don’t even know if I should stop being mad. But I’m trying not to hate them, even if it’s what they deserve, even if no one would blame me for it. I don’t want to live like that. I’m not going to spend my life hating you, either. You’re apologizing, I’m accepting.”
“But why?”
I don’t understand. I need for him to make me understand.
“Chelsea. Look at me.”
I lower my hands into my lap and look up at him through my blurry vision.
“Hate is…it’s too easy,” he says. His face is calm, calmer than it has any right to be, his eyes not wavering from mine, like he’s so completely sure of what he’s saying. “Love. Love takes courage.”
day thirty-four
The mirror in my bedroom isn’t big enough for two people to use, so Asha takes her dress—carefully concealed in white plastic—and holes up in my bathroom. We have one hour before we’re supposed to meet everyone at Rosie’s. One hour is just enough time to get ready.
I pull my dress out from the closet and slip into it, sliding the thinned-down straps over my shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles. The deep emerald fabric looks amazing with my red hair; I’m wearing it in loose, long curls that spiral down my back. The gauzy chiffon skirt is just long enough to trail when I walk, even when I try it on with my black heels.
I look in the mirror and feel…good. Sexy. Sexy like I do when I solve a geometry problem right on the first try, or when I flipped over the tuna melt at the grill. This is even better because I did this—I made the dress look this way.
Asha emerges from the bathroom, and I’m honestly stunned when
she appears in my doorway. She’s dressed in a traditional Indian gown, ruby-red and embroidered with gold, matching gold bracelets all up and down her wrists.
“Oh. My. God,” I breathe, and Asha smiles shyly.
“You like it?” she says.
“Are you kidding? It’s amazing, Ash. Where did you get that dress?”
“It’s my mom’s.” She comes into the room, bracelets jangling as she walks, and beckons to my cosmetics bag. “Could you do my makeup? I tried doing eyeliner and almost poked out my eye.”
I sit her down on my bed and get to work. Asha may know geometry, but I am the resident cosmetics expert. Smoky-black eyeliner, mascara to extend her lashes, a touch of gold glittery eye shadow, some dark dramatic lipstick—I explain everything as I put it on her.
She pauses to blot her lips on a napkin and says, “So, Lowell and Derek.”
“Yes?” I prod, wanting to see where she goes with this.
“Rumor has it they’ve both quit the basketball team.”
My heart jumps. “Shut up. No way!”
“According to the girl who sits in front of me in chemistry, there was a last-minute scheduled mandatory drug test, and this time they actually made everyone on the team leave the stall door open so they couldn’t dupe anyone. Four guys walked off the team instead of doing the test—including Lowell and Derek.”
Oh, my God. The plan worked? The plan worked. I have no idea how Ms. Kinsey worked her magic and talked the administration into that; all she’d told me was that she would express my concerns anonymously and try to make it happen. I really need to send her some kind of fruit basket. Or maybe bring her a plate of Dex’s special-recipe brownies.
“What a shame,” I say, doing my best to keep a straight face.
“You can drop the innocent act, Andy told me all about your plan,” she says. “For the record, I approve.” Asha rubs more gloss on her lips. “Do you think they’ll figure out it was you?”
I grin. “They can’t prove shit.”