“Hayden didn’t force me,” I say in a level voice.
Kayla puts a hand on my shoulder, and I shrug it off. “You have to know more than Hayden told Craig,” she continues. “And I think you need to do something about it.”
“I. Don’t. Know. Anything,” I spit at her. “It was just something I overheard in the bathroom. Might be total crap made up by some freshman.”
“Okay, look. I could see Craig doesn’t think so. Because he’s worried,” Kayla says. “And I think he’s afraid it might be Collie.”
Oh, no. Oh, no. “Why does he think that?” I stammer, and shove my arms through my T-shirt so Kayla can’t see my face.
“Because when I asked him who it could be, he finally said he’d caught Collie and Heather together in the locker room after he came back from running Hayden. And she was totally messed up. Crying and mascara running down to here, like, well, you know; he didn’t go into much detail. So, I think you better do something; check on your friend, get her to talk.” Kayla grabbed my hand. “I mean, to imagine this guy forcing himself on a girl. Like, what if that was you? That boy, any boy, lays one finger on you without you wanting it and I swear I’ll tear him apart. And after that, I’ll let Craig finish him off.”
“Kayla—”
“You think I’m a self-centered bitch right now, but you’re still my little sister. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Too late. But this declaration forces tears to my eyes. If things were different, I might release the lock on this dam and tell her everything. But that would change us forever, and I can’t.
“If it’s Heather, get her to tell someone. Okay?”
“Okay,” I tell Kayla so she’ll leave.
Once I’m behind two closed doors, I curl into a ball and suck in the familiar smell of the closet carpet. When I can’t make myself smaller, I cry and pound my fist on the floor. There’s an art to crying without a sound, and I’m a master.
But my silence only amplifies the quiet voice on the other side of my closet door.
“Lex.”
Unable to answer and unable to uncoil my body, I stay silent.
“Lex,” Bodee says again.
My toes start to cramp, and I have to stretch a little. “Yeah.”
“I’m here.”
“I can’t come out,” I say, which is better than “Go away.”
“Must be nice in there.”
If I wiggle a little, the night-light allows me to see the new pile of shredded football cards from the night before, and the discarded pj shirt I just barely managed to change before my fingernails went to town on my neck. I squeeze Binky to my chest and say, “Did anybody see you?”
“They’re all in their rooms.”
I exhale and realize Bodee’s presence won’t ruin my closet sanctuary any more than he ruined the fort. “Good.”
“Don’t want to barge in, but I know you’re upset.”
“How?” I push some of Binky’s loose stuffing back inside him and wish it was as simple to fix me—that somebody could push all the loose stuff in me back inside.
“I saw Kayla leave,” he says. “And I heard your voice. I could tell.”
“Bodee,” I start, but I don’t know what to say.
“Because I know hurt when I hear it. I hurt too,” he confesses.
“You sit in your closet?” I hear him rest his back against the closet door, and there’s a pause.
“No. Mostly, I lie under the bed,” he says.
“But . . .” In my mind I see Mom’s extra Christmas decorations and a few rolls of wrapping paper stored under the antique bed Dad set up for Bodee. “Aren’t there Christmas decorations and stuff under there?”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you do under the bed?” I ask.
“Put my fingers between the slats and box springs and lift myself off the floor. I can do a whole bunch before I get tired enough to sleep.”
He’s not bragging; he’s just saying it. But that explains why there are muscles beneath his loose white Hanes instead of the nonathletic flab I assumed would be there.
“Lex?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Stop scratching your neck.”
“No.” My hands have a brain of their own, and they’re disconnected from any logic. “I can’t.” But why is this no so easy to say?
“Yes. You can, Lex.”
“Says the guy who does pull-ups under his bed,” I say, but not cruelly.
“I’m not under there now.”
Sitting up, I bury my nose in my T-shirt and consider his words.
“You don’t have to come out,” he says. “Just stop hurting yourself.”
“Don’t think I can.”
“What would your Captain tell you if he were here?”
I think for a moment and talk-sing, “What words are there to write? To describe this place in my life. It’s a painful peaceful day.”
“What’s next?” he asks.
“All in all. You have been. Redeemer. Pain Stealer. My best friend. Please hold my hand.”
“That’s nice. Well, then, imagine I’m him,” he says, and sings the lines. “All in all. You have been. Redeemer. Pain Stealer. My best friend. Please hold my hand.”
I can’t smile, yet my body begins to relax. Like an involuntary reaction to Bodee and the Captain, it is a nice blend, and I am better. A little better.
Like fourth period in my bedroom.
“Bodee, can I tell you another secret?”
“I told you one of mine,” he says.
“You see that vent above my bed?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
“Tell me, how many slits are there in the vent?”
“One. Two. Three. Four . . .” He counts twenty before saying, “Not sure. I blinked and lost my place, but I think there are twenty-two or twenty-three.”
“Twenty-two slits. I count them every night.”
“Why?” He doesn’t sound as if this is stupid.
“Because I need to focus on something,” I explain.
“Guess it’s tough to do in the dark.”
“Actually, I count the metal strips instead of the spaces. Easier to see.”
“So you try to count around all twenty-two to reach twenty-three?” he asks.
“Yeah, but I can’t.” He sighs his understanding, and I say, “It’s impossible without blinking, so I have to keep starting over.”
“It is hard,” he says after several minutes pass, and I know he’s tried it a few times. “If you come out, Lex, maybe . . . we could count them together.”
Stay in here with the shredded pieces of football cards or count the vent slits with Bodee? Not a hard choice. “Okay.”
He moves away from the door while I change into a fresh pj top that smells Mountain Spring clean. Arms crossed over my chest, I exit the closet and slide under the covers. Bodee is standing by the light switch. He’s shirtless. His hair is sticking out everywhere. But there’s something about seeing him this way that helps me understand how complex he is. More teenager than man on the outside; more man than teenager on the inside.
“In the dark?” he asks as his hand toggles the switch.
“Dark,” I say, hoping this will ease me into dreamland.
After several seconds, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can see Bodee’s silhouette. I wonder if he can see me under the mound of my comforter. Our quiet breaths are well under my parents’ radar, but my heart races anyway. What would they say if they found us together in my dark bedroom? Would they send him back to live with Ben? No, I decide. My parents are not usually jump-to-conclusion people. But he’d never end up in my bedroom again if they found out.
“You okay?” Bodee asks.
“Yeah.” Despite his words, he’s quiet. Or maybe I mean calm, and so am I. No more heaving and sobbing. We’re a duet of breaths as quiet as the whisper of butterfly wings.
Bodee eases into my dressing table chair and says, “If you count from th
e right and I count from the left . . .”
“We’ll meet in the middle.”
We both say, “One,” and I can’t tell my voice from his.
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.” We are a chorus as sweet as any I’ve heard.
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
My eyes start to burn, but I stretch them wide, straining my muscles to keep them open.
“Ten.”
“Eleven,” we whisper together.
There is a satisfaction in my voice, because I know Bodee and I are staring at the same little sliver of dark in the middle of the vent. “We made it,” I say.
“And twelve,” he adds. “Twenty-three.”
He is counting me past the dark. “It’s not impossible,” I say.
“Nothing is, Lex.”
“Not even the deposition?” I ask.
“This is your twenty-three, not mine,” he says. “We can tackle my demons another time.”
Peace is a quirky thing. I feel it on Christmas Eve when my family takes communion at midnight. And when I get caught at the fort in a summer rain. Or on the rare occasions when Mom still calls me Boo-Boo. Peace invades me now at Bodee’s twenty-three and fills me with calm exhaustion.
“Go to sleep. I’ll be here,” Bodee says.
In the moonlight that slips between the curtains at my window, I get a final look at Bodee before my eyes close.
His thumb is in the air.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
chapter 16
SOMETHING is different Tuesday morning as I head to the shower. For the first time in eighty-one days I am not tired from a restless, dream-filled night. But I have to wonder: ten years from now, will I still measure time by the number of days since it happened or will I think in years?
“Morning,” Bodee says as I enter the kitchen.
“Morning,” I say to Bodee and Mom.
“You look cute,” Mom says, and tugs on the tails of the brown scarf I’ve tied around my neck.
“It’s supposed to be cool today.”
“Hmm. I love October.” Mom sniffs the air as if the smell of fall has invaded our kitchen.
“Me too,” I say.
Heather honks and Mom says, “Have a good one, kiddos.”
I wave bye since my mouth is full of toast.
In Heather’s car, the music is up and the vanilla tree is on. Way on. Too bad it doesn’t smell like fall in here.
“Back to red,” Heather says to Bodee.
He runs a hand through his cherry hair, which he has a habit of doing if one of us says something about the color. There’s still a touch of orange at the tips, and it reminds me of a rainbow.
Heather turns down the music a second before Liz stops singing, and we all laugh at her off-key note.
“So Bodee,” Heather says. “You have any classes in East Wing?”
“Drama,” he says.
“You’re in drama?” How could I not know this about him? Come to think of it, I don’t know much of anything he does at school that doesn’t happen at the locker or in homeroom. After school I plan to find out more.
“I paint sets,” he explains.
“Oh,” I say. Even though this surprises me, it’s nothing like imagining Bodee on a stage. Talk about an oyster in the desert.
“No classes with Mrs. Tindell?” Heather asks.
“Nope.”
Liz and I roll our eyes at the same time, but before Heather can call “bitch-staring,” Liz grins at her and says, “You didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?”
Bodee looks at me for a clue. “Captain search,” I say.
“Had to start somewhere.” Heather shrugs. “One down. I was pulling for you, Kool-Aid. I was pulling for you.”
Liz wrinkles her nose and rips the dangling little vanilla tree off the rearview and shoves it into the glove box. “Last night she had a list of about twenty guys. Starting with—”
“Hey, hey. Don’t tell Lex my possibles. She’s not ready to know who her Romeo is yet. But I’m going to find him. You wanna help me, Kool-Aid?”
“Whatever,” Bodee says without a hint of sarcasm.
“Careful, Lex, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.” Liz rotates in her seat and reaches back to give Bodee a little pat on the knee.
My friends have officially adopted Bodee, and from the sweet smile on his face, he doesn’t seem to mind.
“See you in fourth,” Heather tells me as she and Liz split off from Bodee and me.
Fourth period arrives, but Heather doesn’t. I take my seat and find the Captain’s neat handwriting like a Happy Tuesday card written just for me.
THIS IS GONNA TAKE SOME THINKIN’
SOME MENTAL REARRANGIN’
I WANT YOU NOW, WITHOUT THE WAIT AND SEE
Giggling to myself, I write,
’Cause he’s not right for you, so please choose me?
Whoever he is, the Captain has a way of choosing the right style of song to fit my mood. I don’t know how he does it, but this one’s subtle little message makes me laugh. He might as well have said, “Leave Hayden.”
Mrs. Tindell babbles on about Axis I disorders as I try to think of new lyrics I might leave for him. He went old; I should bring it up a decade or two.
Hotwire a car, hijack a train
Get a map, steal a plane
Fly me to a lost little place
Where the water’s not safe to drink
and all the people think
He gets that one right, and I’m going to be super impressed.
Mrs. Tindell is passing out homework by the time Heather steps through our open classroom door. She makes some excuse that causes Mrs. Tindell to pat her on the shoulder. But when Heather sits down next to me, she mutters, “Nobody we know is in the hallway for the first thirty minutes of class.” She scowls at the worksheet before she adds, “There was some freshman who looked desperate for a bathroom, but I’m sure it’s not him. He practically wet himself when I asked where room 142 was.”
“You cut class to spy on the Captain?”
“Seriously, you’re worried I’m missing something?” She looks at our substitute, who is already settled back into her desk with a book. “But my conclusion: if the Captain’s gauging your reaction, he’s not doing it in the first thirty minutes.”
“So you gonna skip the second half of class tomorrow?”
“I just might hang out in the hall all day if that’s what it takes,” she says, sliding my worksheet to her desk so she can read my first answer. “Or I could ask Mrs. Tindell who sits there the rest of the day.”
“Heather, this is all crazy. Please don’t talk to her.” I nod toward Mrs. Tindell. “I’d rather not be the talk of the lounge.”
“Okay. Told you I need a boyfriend,” she whispers. “I’m reduced to working on your love life instead of mine.”
“You know you can have your pick of boyfriends if you want one. Even Collie,” I say, hoping to shift the focus off me.
“You think I should?” When I hesitate, she adds, “You know, forgive his ass?”
“It’s your choice.”
“Come on, tell me what you really think, Lex. Is he a terrible guy?”
Milking my scarf until the silk presses against the scabs on my neck, I say, “Good guys and terrible guys seem to be stupid at the same ratio.”
“Bodee’s not.”
“Bodee doesn’t count. He was raised by wolves on Neptune or something,” I argue.
“Yeah. Back to Collie. Do I forgive him?” she tries again.
My handwriting on the worksheet is nearly illegible, so I take the time to rewrite the words before I fashion an answer I can live with. “Forgiving him and taking him back are two totally diff
erent things.”
“What would you do?”
“Why are you asking me instead of Liz?” I say.
“I did already.”
“And?”
Heather stares at Mrs. Tindell, who’s grading worksheets, instead of me. “Liz doesn’t trust Collie.”
“There you have it,” I say, as if this matter is now settled.
No matter what, I still have this soft place inside me for good guys who do stupid things, so I can’t just say, “Don’t date him; he’s a dick.” There’s more to me than most guys understand, and I know there’s more to him. Collie’s not a devil. He’s selfish. And stupid.
But so am I.
“You know what I need?” Heather whispers.
Parents who love you. An A in psych. Boys who don’t cheat with friends. “No,” I say.
“A campout.”
“A what?” Unfortunately, I say this loud enough for the whole class to hear.
“Sorry, folks.” Heather covers my startled question. “Back to your worksheets. Just a little psychotic break.”
Mrs. Tindell cracks a smile at Heather’s joke, and everyone goes back to their page flips and pen scribbles.
“A campout,” Heather says again. “And you need one too. At least, you need something to take your mind off whatever crap it’s been fixated on.”
“I doubt that,” I say.
“Come on,” Heather pleads. “It’ll be fun. We can stay up all night and scare ourselves to death while we gorge on Sour Patch Kids and Dr. Pepper.”
Uh, minus the Sour Patch Kids and Dr. Pepper, she’s describing a typical night at my house. I’m about to say, Absolutely not, when she adds, “Please.”
The brokenness behind that single word makes me say, “I’ll think about it.”
Liz is all about the idea when Heather approaches her on the ride home, but Liz is a sucker for Sour Patch Kids. And I have a sneaking suspicion she’s worried how Heather is managing without Collie.
“There’s no home football game Friday night. No cute boys to watch. What are we going to do if we don’t do this?” Heather asks as she turns into my driveway.
“Whatever the two of you usually do on the weekend,” I say.
“Bodee, tell her she needs to hang with us,” Heather says.