Just Listen

  Most mornings before school, it was just me and my mom at breakfast, my dad only joining us if he got a late start to the office. Whitney never got out of bed before eleven if she could help it. So when I came down a couple of weeks later to find her showered, dressed, and sitting at the table with my car keys in front of her, I had a feeling something was up. I was right.

  “Your sister’s going to drive you to school today,” my mother said. “Then she’s going to take your car and do a little shopping, see a movie, and pick you up this afternoon. Okay?”

  I looked at Whitney, who was watching me, her mouth a thin line. “Sure,” I said.

  My mother smiled, then looked from my sister to me, then back to my sister again. “Great,” she said. “Everything works out.”

  She did her best to sound casual as she said this, but it was clear from her tone she was anything but. Since Whitney had come home from the hospital, my mother preferred to keep her both busy and within sight, which was why my sister was always dragged on errands and to my mother’s appointments. Whitney was constantly arguing for more freedom, but my mom worried that given it, she’d binge or purge, or exercise, or do something else forbidden. Clearly, something had shifted, although what it was or why, I had no idea.

  When we walked out to the car, I automatically headed for the driver’s side, then stopped when I saw Whitney doing the same thing. For a second, we both just stood there. Then she said, “I’ll drive.”

  “Okay,” I told her. “That’s fine.”

  The ride was awkward. I didn’t realize until we were on the road how long it had actually been since I’d been alone with Whitney. I had no idea what to say to her. I could ask about shopping, but it might bring up body-image issues, so I tried to think of other topics. Seeing a movie? Traffic? I had no idea. So I just sat there, silent.

  Whitney wasn’t talking, either. I could tell it had been a while since she’d driven. She was being very cautious, pausing a beat longer at stop signs than necessary, letting people in front of us. At a red light, I looked across to see two businessmen in an SUV staring at her. They were both in suits—one in his twenties, one my father’s age—and instantly I felt defensive, protective of her, even though I knew she would have hated this if she knew it. Then, though, I realized they weren’t looking at her because she was skinny, but because she was so striking. I’d forgotten that once, my sister had been the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. The world, or at least some of it, still seemed to feel the same way.

  We were about a mile from school when I finally decided to try and say something. “So,” I said, “are you excited about today?”

  She glanced at me, then looked back at the road. “Excited,” she repeated. “Why would I be excited?”

  “I don’t know,” I said as we turned into the school entrance. “Maybe because, you know, you have a whole day to yourself.”

  For a second, she didn’t answer, focusing instead on pulling over to the curb. “It’s a day,” she said finally. “I used to have a whole life.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Okay, well, see you later!” seemed glib, if not totally inappropriate. So instead I just pushed open the door and reached into the back for my bag.

  “I’ll see you at three thirty,” she said.

  “Right,” I said.

  She put on her blinker, looking over her shoulder. I shut the door, and she eased into traffic and drove away.

  I pretty much forgot about Whitney for the rest of the day, as I had a literature test that afternoon that I was totally nervous about. For good reason, as it turned out. Even though I had studied most of the night before and gone to the review session Mrs. Gingher offered at lunch, there had still been some questions that completely stumped me. There was nothing I could do but just sit there, staring at them and feeling like a total moron, until she announced time and I had to turn it in.

  As I headed down the steps to the main building entrance to meet Whitney, I dug out my notes and started to go through them, trying to figure out what I’d missed. There was a big crowd making its way across the turnaround, and I was so engrossed that I didn’t even see the parked red Jeep until I was walking right in front of it.

  One minute I was scanning the notes I’d taken on Southern literature, trying to find a quote that had completely escaped me; the next, I was glancing up at Will Cash. This time, he’d seen me first. He was staring right at me.

  I looked away, fast, quickening my pace as I walked in front of his bumper. I was almost to the curb when he called out to me. “Annabel,” he said.

  I knew I should just ignore him. But even as I thought this, my head was already turning, as if by instinct. He was sitting there, wearing a plaid shirt, unshaven, a pair of sunglasses perched on his forehead, as if they might slip down at any moment.

  “Hey,” he said. I was close enough to the car now to feel the A/C just barely wafting out the open window.

  “Hi.” Just one word, but it came out twisted, mangling itself as it squeezed up my throat.

  He didn’t seem to notice any of my nervousness as he slid an elbow out the window, then glanced over at the courtyard beyond me. “Haven’t seen you around at the parties lately,” he said. “You still hanging out?”

  A breeze blew across me then, catching the edge of my notes, making them flutter, the sound like little wings. I tightened my fingers on the paper. “No,” I managed. “Not really.”

  I felt a chill go up my neck, and I wondered if I was going to faint. I couldn’t look at him, so I kept my eyes down, but in my side vision, I could see his hand, resting on the open window, and I found myself staring at it, the long tapered fingers drumming idly on the Jeep’s door.

  Shhh, Annabel. It’s just me.

  “Well,” he said, “see you around, I guess.”

  I nodded, and then, finally, I was turning back around and walking away. I took in a breath, trying to remind myself that I was surrounded by people, safe here. But then I felt it, the ultimate proof otherwise: my stomach gurgling, rising up, the one response I could never control. Oh my God, I thought, quickly stuffing my papers into the top of my bag. I pulled it over my shoulder, not taking the time to zip it, then started walking toward the nearest building, praying that I could hold it together until I was to the bathroom. Or at least out of sight. But I didn’t get that far.

  “What was that?”

  It was Sophie. She was right behind me. I stopped walking, but the bile kept rising. After so many times of her just saying one word, to hear these three was overwhelming. And then she was speaking again.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Annabel?” she said.

  Two younger girls scurried past me, their eyes wide. I tightened my hand around the strap of my bag, swallowing again.

  “Didn’t you get enough that night? You need more or something?”

  Somehow, I started to move forward again. Don’t get sick, don’t look back, don’t do anything, I kept telling myself, but my throat felt raw, my head light.

  “Don’t you ignore me,” Sophie was saying now. “Turn around, bitch!”

  All I wanted—all I’d ever wanted—was just to get away. To be somewhere small where I could crowd in and feel safe, all four walls pressed around me, no one staring or pointing or yelling. But here I was in the wide open, in full view. I might have just given in, letting her do whatever she wanted, like I had for weeks now, but then something happened. She reached out and grabbed my shoulder.

  And something snapped in me. Snapped hard, like a bone, or a branch, a clean break. Before I even knew what I was doing, I’d whirled around and was facing her, reaching up with hands that I wasn’t even sure were mine to push her away, my palms hitting her chest, hard, and knocking her backwards, stumbling. It was primal and immediate and surprised both of us, but most of all, me.

  She lost her footing, her eyes wide, but then caught herself quickly and started toward me again. She had on a black skirt and a bright yellow
tank top, her arms tan and wiry beneath it, her hair spilling loose over her shoulders. “Oh my God,” she said, her voice low, and I somehow moved backwards, my feet thick underneath me. “You better—”

  The crowd around us was closing in now, bodies jostling. Above the movement, I could hear the whirring of the security guard approaching on his golf cart. “Break it up,” he called out. “Move on to the parking lot or bus area.”

  Sophie stepped closer to me. “You’re a whore,” she said, her voice low, and I heard a hiss from somewhere, that low oooooh, followed by the guard’s voice, second warning.

  “Stay away from my boyfriend,” she said, her voice low. “Do you hear me?”

  I just stood there. I could still feel the pressure of her chest against my hands, how it felt to push her, something solid giving way. “Sophie…” I said.

  She shook her head, then stepped forward, brushing past me. Her shoulder hit mine, hard, and I stumbled, bumping someone behind me before righting myself. Everyone was staring, a blur of faces fluctuating, shifting, as she moved through them, and then their eyes all turned to me.

  I pushed through the bodies beside me, one hand over my mouth. I could hear people talking, laughing, as the crowd gave way, bit by bit, and I finally reached the outer edge. The main building was right in front of me, a row of tall bushes in front of it that led around its back side. I ran toward them, their prickly leaves scraping my hands as I pushed through. I didn’t make it far, and could only hope I was out of sight as I bent over, one hand clutching my stomach, and got sick in the grass, coughing and spitting, the sound rough in my ears.

  When I was finished, my skin felt clammy, and there were tears in my eyes. It was horrible and embarrassing, and one of those moments when you just want more than anything to be alone. Especially when you suddenly realize you’re not.

  I didn’t hear the footsteps. Or see the shadow. Instead, from where I was crouched on the ground, the green of the grass filling my vision, the first thing I made out were hands, a flat silver ring on the middle finger of each. One was clutching my notes. The other was reaching out for me.

  Chapter FIVE

  Owen Armstrong looked like a giant, his hand enormous as it stretched toward me. Somehow I found myself extending my own back to him, and then he was folding his fingers over mine, pulling me to my feet. I stood steady for about a second before my head went light and woozy and I stumbled.

  “Whoa,” he said, reaching out to steady me. “Hold on. You better sit down.”

  He eased me back two steps, and I felt the building behind me, the bricks cool against my back. I slid down the wall slowly, until I was on the grass. From this new vantage point, he seemed even bigger.

  Suddenly, he dropped his bag off his shoulder. It hit the ground with a clank, and then he was crouching down beside it, reaching in and digging around. I heard objects bumping against each other as they were moved and redistributed, and it occurred to me that maybe I should be concerned about this. Finally, his hand stopped digging, and he sat back, slightly. I braced myself as he worked his hand out of the bag, bit by bit, and came up with…a pack of Kleenex. A small one, bent and wrinkled, and he pressed them against his chest—which was enormous, oh my God—smoothing them out, before pulling one free and handing it to me. I took it the same way I’d taken his hand—in disbelief, and very carefully.

  “You can have the whole pack,” he said. “If you want.”

  “That’s okay.” My voice sounded hoarse. “One is fine.” I pressed it to my mouth, taking a breath through it. He put the pack by my foot anyway. “Thank you,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  He sat down on the grass beside his bag. Because I’d gone to that review session at lunch, I hadn’t seen him all day, but he looked pretty much the same as always: jeans, T-shirt fraying at the hem, thick-soled black wingtips, earphones. Up close—or closer—I could also see he had a few freckles, and that his eyes were green, not brown. I could hear voices rising up from the courtyard; they sounded like they were floating over our heads.

  “So, um,” he said, “are you okay?”

  I nodded, the response instant. “Yeah,” I said. “I just felt sick all of a sudden, I don’t know…”

  “I saw what happened,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. I felt my face flush. So much for trying to save face. “Yeah. That was…pretty bad.”

  He shrugged. “Could have been worse.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure.” His voice was not rumbly like I would have guessed, but instead low and even. Almost soft. “You could have punched her.”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess you’re right.”

  “It’s good you didn’t, though. Wouldn’t have been worth it.”

  “No?” I said, even though, truthfully, I hadn’t even considered this.

  “No. Not even if it felt good at the time,” he said. “Trust me.”

  The weirdest thing of all was that I did. Trust him, that is. I looked down at the pack of tissues he’d given me, picking them up and taking out another one. Just as I did, I heard a buzzing from my bag. My phone.

  I pulled it out, glancing at the caller ID. It was my mother, and I debated for a second whether I should pick up. I mean, it was weird enough to be sitting there with Owen without getting my mom involved. Then again, it wasn’t like I had that much to lose at this point, considering he’d already seen me vomit—twice, actually—and freak out in front of half the student body. We were kind of past formalities. So I answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey!” Her voice was loud, so much so that I wondered if Owen could hear it. I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “How was your day?”

  By now, I’d detected the nervous shrillness that crept into her cadence when she was worried but pretending not to be. “It was fine,” I said. “I’m fine. What’s up?”

  “Well,” she said, “Whitney’s still at the mall. She found some great sales, but then she missed the early movie. And she really wanted to see it, so she called to say she was staying later.”

  I switched the phone to my other ear as there was a burst of voices around the side of the building. Owen glanced over at them, but a second later they moved on. “So she’s not coming to pick me up?”

  “Well, no, as it turns out,” she replied. Of course Whitney would push the limits the very first day she got her freedom. And of course my mother would say oh, yes, stay later, that’s fine, but then completely freak out. “But I can come get you,” she said now, “or maybe you could get a ride with one of your friends?”

  One of my friends. Yeah, right. I shook my head, then ran a hand through my hair. “Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “it’s just that it’s kind of late, and—”

  “Oh, it’s fine! I’ll come get you right now!” she said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She didn’t want to come, and we both knew it. Whitney might call, or show up. Or, even worse, not show up. Not for the first time, I wished both of us could just say what we meant. But that, like so much else, was impossible.

  “It’s fine,” I told her. “I’ll get a ride.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, but already, I could hear her relaxing, thinking that this problem, at least, was resolved.

  “Yes. I’ll call if I can’t.”

  “Do that,” she said. And then, just as I might have been getting angry, “Thank you, Annabel.”

  When I hung up, I just sat there, holding my phone in my hand. Once again, everything was revolving around Whitney. It might have been just a day to her, but this one had really sucked for me. And now, I was walking home.

  I glanced back up at Owen. In the time I’d been contemplating this newest problem, he’d pulled out his iPod and was messing with it. “So you need a ride,” he said, not looking at me.

  “Oh, no,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “It’s just my sister…she’s being a pain.”

  “Story of my
life,” he said. He hit one last button, then slid it back in his pocket and stood up, brushing off his jeans. Then he reached down, grabbing his bag, and hoisted it over his shoulder. “Come on.”

  I’d endured a lot of scrutiny since the beginning of the school year. It was nothing, however, compared to the looks Owen and I got as we walked up to the parking lot. Every person we passed stared, most of them openly, with a few bursting into whispers—“Oh my God, did you see that?”—before we were even out of earshot. Owen, however, didn’t seem to notice as he led me to an old-style blue Land Cruiser with about twenty CDs in the passenger seat. He got behind the wheel, then cleared them out and reached across to open the door for me.

  I got in, then reached down for the seat belt. I was just about to pull it across me when he said, “Hold on. That’s sort of busted,” and gestured for me to hand it to him. When I did, he pulled it over me—his hand at what struck me as a very formal and polite distance from my stomach—then yanked up the buckle from the seat, holding it at an angle and sliding the belt in. Then, from the pocket on his own door, he pulled out a small hammer.

  I must have looked alarmed—GIRL 17, FOUND DEAD IN SCHOOL PARKING LOT—because he glanced at me and said, “It’s the only way it works.” He tapped the buckle with the hammer three times in the center, before pulling at the belt to make sure it was locked in. When it was, he stuck the hammer back in the pocket and cranked the engine.

  “Wow,” I said, reaching down and giving it a little tug. It didn’t budge. “How do you get it off?”

  “Just push the button,” he said. “That part’s easy.”

  As we started through the parking lot, Owen rolled down his window, resting his arm there, and I took a look around the interior of the car. The dashboard was battered, the leather of the seats cracked in places. Plus, it smelled like smoke, faintly, although I could see the ashtray, which was partly open, was clean and filled with coins, not butts. There were some headphones on the backseat, along with a pair of Doc Martens oxblood boots and several magazines.