He didn’t answer the question that she couldn’t ask.
Instead they floated around the pool until they had to get out, because her mother would be home soon.
All summer they’d danced around similar moments, where they almost said something and didn’t. Where their bodies spoke for them. Where he brushed an eyelash off her cheek or adjusted a twisted strap on her bathing suit and they’d look at each other for a moment longer than was technically necessary. And then the moment would evaporate. She never pressed those times or mentioned them after they were over. She never wanted to ruin one by shining too bright a light on it and saying, Look at this. What’s happening here? Are you scared, too?
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FOR THE WHOLE MONTH of August, Matthew tried to think of someplace special he could take Amy for their last day together. Restaurants were out. She felt too self-conscious ordering food in public and eating it. Though they talked a lot about movies, going to see one seemed pointless. How did sitting in the dark, staring at a screen constitute a memorable time together? He wanted it to be memorable. Something she could look back on after she started making her supersmart Stanford friends.
Finally one afternoon he worked up the nerve to broach the subject. “So I have this idea of something we could do on August twenty-sixth.”
“WHAT’S AUGUST TWENTY-SIXTH?”
He was surprised she had to ask. The date hovered in his mind like a cliff. “Your last day in town. You leave the next morning.”
She smiled. Or her version of a smile. “OH RIGHT.”
“So here’s the thing. I have an idea for something but you’ll probably hate it if I tell you ahead of time. Can I surprise you?”
“YOU ALREADY HAVE SURPRISED ME.”
“No, I’m serious. This will be an unusual, festive outing. Not exactly once in a lifetime, but close. It won’t involve any fancy dress or other people.”
“BOOZE?”
“None. Unless you request it and even then, I’d probably say no.”
“SOUNDS GREAT.”
He picked her up as early as he possibly could without violating the never-to-be-seen-by-Nicole rule they’d enacted at the start of the summer. It had become a game by that point, keeping him a secret.
Is your mom in the room? he’d IM at night. Does she know you’re talking to me?
Ixnay and ixnay, Amy would write back. Bad pig Latin was their code for yes, she’s in the vicinity. Once he asked her what would really happen if her mom found out about him coming over in the afternoon. Amy considered the question. “IT’S NOT THAT SHE DOESN’T LIKE YOU. SHE WORRIES THAT I LIKE YOU TOO MUCH AND YOU’LL DISAPPOINT ME. I’D PROBABLY HAVE TO SIT THROUGH A LONG SPEECH TO THAT EFFECT.”
“That sounds like she doesn’t like me,” he said, but he was smiling. Amy just said she liked him too much.
“SHE’S SPENT EIGHTEEN YEARS OVERPROTECTING ME. IT’S INGRAINED.”
“Would it be reassuring to her to find out that I’ve been so ridiculously reliable? That I’ve broken her rule and come over here every single day?” This was the question he’d been wanting to ask for a few weeks: Was it worse to sneak around, or did sneaking around over time prove something about his sincerity? See, I really do like your daughter. I come over when I’m not being paid. I even come over when I’m not supposed to! I’m an obsessive-compulsive control freak and I break rules to see her. My blood pressure rises and my heart hammers every single time and I still do it! It makes me crazy and here I am.
Amy thought for a minute. “MY MOTHER DOESN’T SEE THINGS WITH THAT KIND OF PERSPECTIVE. I WISH SHE DID.”
Amy was scheduled to leave for Stanford with both parents early on the last Sunday of August, driving up the coast of California, arriving at school in the afternoon, in time to pick up the scooter they’d ordered from a medical-supply company. “GUESS WHICH PART OF THIS I’M MOST EXCITED ABOUT?” Amy said.
“Six hours in the car with your mother?”
“MY SCOOTER! I’M ALREADY CONSIDERING NAMES FOR IT.”
“How about Wildfire?”
“THE RUNAWAY HORSE?”
“She ran calling Wildfire—”
“PLEASE DON’T SING. I BEG YOU.”
“Fine.” He smiled. “No singing. No drinking.”
This was how they got through the awkward business of acknowledging what was going on: Yes, you’re leaving for a life I won’t be a part of. It will be exciting in ways I can’t imagine. Now let’s not discuss it anymore.
Earlier that morning, he packed a cooler full of the food Amy had the least trouble with and the most limited access to: pound cake was a favorite, as were Pop-Tarts, neither of which Nicole would buy for her because they had too many trans fats.
“What’s wrong with trans fats again?” he asked her in the car, as he tore open a Pop-Tart package for her.
“SEIZURES,” she tried to type, but the food got in the way. Her computer said, “SEA SHARES.”
Still, he knew. Nicole had spent their whole training week preparing them for seizures that had never happened. “Pop-Tarts cause seizures?”
“NO ONE KNOWS WHAT CAUSES THEM. TRANS FATS ARE A THEORY.” She went on, explaining the connection that he didn’t understand.
“When was the last time you had a seizure?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “FOURTH GRADE?”“
“Are you kidding?”
“NO. WHY?”
“You haven’t had a seizure in almost ten years and your mom acts like one could happen any minute?”
“THEY’RE PRETTY BAD WHEN THEY COME.”
“But don’t you see what it says?”
“NO. WHAT?”
“She’s scared about things she doesn’t need to be so scared about. Maybe she still sees you as vulnerable in ways that you aren’t anymore.”
Amy tilted her head to consider this. “MAYBE.”
He could hardly get over the irony of the argument he’d just made: Maybe you don’t need to worry so much. Go ahead and eat Pop-Tarts. If he needed any more proof this medicine was working, here it was.
A few minutes later, she looked at him, surprised. “YOU’RE GETTING ON THE HIGHWAY?”
“Have to,” he said. “Just for a little bit. We’re almost there.” He told her he was taking her to a beach he’d heard kids at work talk about. It was uncrowded and had a breaker of rocks, which meant animals swam in, closer to shore than usual. Sometimes you could see seals in the water, Carlton had said. After he parked, Matthew explained, “I know you don’t like beaches, but I thought if there were seals . . .”
“IT’S WONDERFUL, MATTHEW. IT’S PERFECT,” she said, and it was. They saw seals and later, on the horizon, dolphins jumping out of the water, all of it so magical neither of them knew what to say. Matthew reached over to squeeze her hand. She squeezed it back. To walk down to the water and put her feet in, he had to hold her hand the whole way. Standing in the surf, he held both her hands and none of it felt awkward. They laughed as the waves swallowed their ankles and the sand dug itself out around their feet. The biggest surprise came on the drive home, when she told him she’d never been to the beach before. “Are you serious?” he said. “We live in Southern California and you’ve never gone to a beach?”
“NO. MY MOM ALWAYS SAID IT WASN’T SAFE.”
He thought of what Sanjay had said to Sarah, that Amy had been too sheltered her whole life. “Things are going to be different starting tomorrow,” he said. He didn’t want to sound sad about her leaving, so he kept his voice upbeat. “You’re going to start doing a lot of things you’ve never done before. Drinking coffee. Wearing ponchos.”
He looked over at her face and decided: maybe he should stop talking about tomorrow.
When they got home, Amy’s parents were out at a charity fund-raiser. There was a
note on the counter promising they’d be home by ten, which meant they had four hours alone in the house to do whatever they wanted.
All day they had been touching each other. Ever since he carried her across the sand to a spot on the beach. Without her walker, he had to hold her hand, which he did for most of the day. Standing calf-deep in the water, he discovered this: holding her hand for so long made touching her in other ways easier. Spreading sunblock on her shoulders. Brushing sand from her face. Small gestures that conveyed such intimacy, anyone watching would have assumed he was her boyfriend.
Inside the house, Amy surprised him. With wall-to-wall carpeting and strategically placed furniture, Amy could get around without her walker or any help from the front door to the kitchen. She paused at each chair and lurched a bit between the sofa and the kitchen island, but other than that, it was a triumphant display of independent navigation.
“Look at you.” Matthew whistled. “It’s like you don’t even need peer helpers anymore.”
“IF ONLY STANFORD WOULD AGREE TO SCATTER SOFAS AND EASY CHAIRS BETWEEN EVERY BUILDING.”
Matthew laughed. “You’re gonna do great. You’ll have your scooter. You won’t have anything to worry about.”
“I’M STILL SCARED.”
“Of what?”
She blushed. It was remarkable, actually, how little they’d talked about this. “EVERYTHING.”
“Oh well. Everything is a lot, I guess.”
She sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter. He laid her Pathway in front of her. “MOSTLY FRIENDS. AND WHETHER YOU’LL WRITE ME.” She didn’t look up as she typed. “I HAVE THIS PICTURE OF MYSELF SITTING IN A DARK DORM ROOM ALONE, WAITING FOR YOU TO COME ONLINE.”
“Oh no, Aims. It won’t be like that.” Secretly he loved the image. He had a similar one of himself, sitting in his bedroom at home. “You’ll turn on the lights and read while you wait.”
“HA-HA.”
He came over and slid onto the stool beside her. They’d never spent any time together inside her house. During the day, when he came over to swim, Carlotta, the housekeeper, was always working inside. Now the empty house and the clock ticking above the wall stove felt a little daunting.
“What should we do?” he said. “Are you all packed? Do you need help with your stuff?”
“NO.”
“So.” He looked around the immaculate kitchen. Not so much as a saltshaker was left out. “Should we do something symbolic? Pack a time capsule and bury it in the backyard? Draw up a list of your ten best memories from high school?”
“NO.”
“Are you hungry?”
“NO. I’D LIKE TO SHOW YOU MY ROOM.”
Maybe he’d never come inside the house for this simple reason: he was scared of being alone in her bedroom.
“Great!” he said too brightly. “I’d love to see it.”
Sliding off her chair, she wobbled a little. He caught her bad hand in his and put another hand on the small of her back. “Lead the way,” he said, close enough that he could smell the ocean and the beach in her hair.
Her room was different than he expected. Frillier and filled with a younger girl’s things: stuffed animals, music boxes, needlepoint throw pillows. Only the books stacked up on the floor and bedside table reflected the Amy he knew now.
“Wow,” he said, standing in the middle of the room. “Do all these guys have names?” He pointed to a pile of stuffed animals.
“ABOUT HALF,” she typed. “LET’S DON’T TALK ABOUT THEM.”
“Okay.” He looked around for something else. Two large suitcases were packed but still open against the far wall. He recognized the neatly folded T-shirts on top and beneath those, shorts with elastic waistbands. Suddenly he felt everything all too keenly, standing here in her room. He knew her too well—her clothes, her smell, the quirks of her body. If he kissed her now—as he wanted to do, as he’d been thinking about all day—what would happen tomorrow? Wouldn’t it make her leaving worse?
“COME, MATTHEW. PLEASE. SIT WITH ME.”
She had a big bed. Four-poster. He sat down beside her, afraid once again that he might ruin everything by crying in front of her. This moment had a thousand possibilities. He didn’t want to wreck it with that one.
“I WANT TO TALK ABOUT SOMETHING BEFORE I GO. SOMETHING THAT HAS TO DO WITH YOU AND ME.”
He nodded. She’d pretyped all of this, which he was used to by now, though it was still unsettling. Like she’d known all along what would happen and how this day would end with both of them here, in her room.
“SINCE THE FIRST TIME YOU TALKED TO ME, I HAVE HAD A FANTASY ABOUT YOU AND I BEING BOYFRIEND AND GIRLFRIEND. IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS YEAR, THAT’S ALL I WANTED. THEN I GOT TO KNOW YOU—THE REAL YOU—AND SOMETHING INTERESTING HAPPENED. IT SEEMED LIKE IT WAS MORE OF A POSSIBILITY AND ALSO A SCARIER POSSIBILITY. LIKE IF IT HAPPENED, NOTHING WOULD BE THE SAME AFTERWARD. OR NOT FOR ME ANYWAY.”
Her Pathway paused. “Not for me, either,” he said. He feared his heart was beating louder than her computer could talk. He expected her speech to continue but it didn’t, so he kept going: “You’re my only friend, Aim. You’ve got lots of people who love you. I’ve got you. That’s pretty much it.”
“THAT’S NOT TRUE. WHAT ABOUT YOUR PARENTS?”
He’d told her about his depressed mother and his distant dad. He’d told her they were nice people who wanted everything to work out okay but didn’t know how to help make it happen. “Right—they’re there, but when I think about what matters the most in my life, it’s you, Aim. You’re the only person I think about with any feeling like happiness.”
He feared he was saying too much. Like now that he’d started, he wouldn’t be able to stop, no matter how hard he tried.
“I know I’m not supposed to want to kiss you because you might freak out or that’s wrong to want, but I can’t help it, Amy. I do want to kiss you. I do. I keep thinking about it and trying to get myself to stop and I can’t. Is it such a terrible idea? I don’t see why it’s a terrible idea. We don’t have to have sex or anything like that. I mean, obviously. We’d just take it nice and slow and we’ll be helped on that front by being a thousand miles apart starting tomorrow. So we could just have this great, long-distance relationship. I think that sounds okay, right?”
“NO,” she typed. “I’D WANT MORE.”
“Okay. More’s okay.” His heart speeded up. “I don’t mind formalizing it, but how? Should I give you a bracelet or something? Or an eight-by-ten picture to put on your desk?”
He could tell she was struggling with what she wanted to say. She kept typing and then erasing what she’d typed. He’d never seen her do this so much before. Finally she pushed Play. “I’D WANT TO HAVE SEX.”
His face went red. He couldn’t believe she just said this. “Okay,” he stammered.
“SEE, I CAN TELL YOU’RE STARTING TO PANIC.”
“No, I’m not.”
“YES, YOU ARE. YOUR FACE IS ALL SWEATY. I’M SORRY, MATTHEW. I KNOW I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO THINK ABOUT SEX, BUT I DO SOMETIMES. I CAN’T HELP IT. ARE YOU OKAY? YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’RE HYPERVENTILATING.”
“I’m not.”
“THIS IS WHY I DIDN’T WANT TO TELL YOU. I KNEW IT WOULD ONLY MAKE YOU NERVOUS AND START THINKING ABOUT STD’S.”
He hadn’t until she said this. How could he have forgotten about STD’s? Now she was saying something else, but he was having trouble listening because he couldn’t stop thinking about STD’s.
“THAT’S WHY I TRIED IT WITH SOMEONE ELSE FIRST. ONE OF US HAD TO KNOW SOMETHING, RIGHT?”
She looked at him, but he didn’t understand. “Tried what?”
“SEX. I CAN TELL YOU THIS MUCH. IT’S PROBABLY BEST TO LOWER YOUR EXPECTATIONS.”
Wait a minute. His brain struggled to catch up. Surely she wasn’t saying what he thought she was saying. “You watched a porno?”
Matthew had done this once, which was more than enough, thank you very much. Body parts bouncing, faces twisted
into expressions of pain. He imagined what she was trying to say. I want to have sex, but I don’t want to have sex sex, like they do on pornos. That was okay. In fact, that was how he felt. I want to have sex someday, but I don’t want to look like that in front of you.
“I HAD SEX!” Her face didn’t match the words her computer was saying. Her mouth hung open, her eyes widened in a look she usually used for something surprising or very funny.
Did she think this was funny?
His heart began to slam against his chest. He struggled to find his voice. “You haven’t seen anyone except me all summer.” Who could she have had sex with? A gardener?
“NOT THIS SUMMER. AT THE END OF SCHOOL.”
Not Sanjay. He would puke if she said Sanjay. He would have to wash his hands, then go home and get in the shower for a week or maybe even a year.
“IT WAS SANJAY. I ASKED HIM TO DO IT. HE WAS NICE ABOUT IT, BUT IT WASN’T THAT GREAT. IN FACT, IT WAS HORRIBLE. BUT I’VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT AND I KNOW IT WOULDN’T BE THAT WAY WITH YOU. I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO WHAT THEY SAY IN BOOKS. HOW YOU SHOULD LOVE THE PERSON FIRST. IT WAS ALL LOGISTICS WITH SANJAY, AND THOSE WERE SORT OF ICKY. IT’LL BE DIFFERENT WITH US!”
He didn’t say anything.
He concentrated on breathing. He stood up and went into her bathroom.
In therapy a few weeks earlier, Beth had asked him to describe his most irrational fears. Stains, he said. Blood, wine, grease. Things that won’t wash off no matter what you do. He wasn’t sure where this fear came from, except from years of watching his mother try to get oil stains out of his father’s work clothes, bent over, rubbing folds of material against itself, working up a little dome of foam. Once, toward the end, he saw his mother in the laundry room, crying as she scrubbed the knees of his father’s pants. Matthew wished he’d never seen that. He wished she hadn’t looked up and seen him standing there in the doorway. That they hadn’t looked at each other long enough for her to say, “I’ve tried everything, Matt. There’s nothing I can do.”
Maybe she was talking about the stain or maybe she was talking about the marriage. He was never sure. Stains were a patchwork of mistakes you couldn’t get rid of. They showed the world your real self, even the parts you didn’t want it to see.
Say What You Will Page 16
