Whisper

by Phoebe Kitanidis

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Ben was barely even out of breath. “I told your worthless ass to wait in this john…till I leave with Frosh Number One.”

  “Ben, let me go!” Jamie’s eyes were wide. “You know what’s going to happen to me.” Happen to him? Could Hearing my Whispers somehow…harm him? And why didn’t his brother seem to give a damn?

  “Nothing’s going to happen.” The way Ben was pinning his right shoulder looked painful. “Come on, it’s way past time you grew a pair and learned to face this.” I want my brother to pass as normal. I want to be able to stand next to him in public. I cringed. Did my Whispers about Icka sound as shallow and selfish as Listening to this asshole?

  “It’s getting worse,” Jamie begged. “I can’t ignore it, okay? I’ve tried to before and—”

  “You have to learn to ignore it, man. Picture a thirty-foot stone Wall around yourself, like Dad says. It works.”

  “For you.”

  “Will you stop being such a wuss?” Ben grinned his arrogant grin. “This is going to work for you too.” I clenched my fist. He wasn’t even listening to his brother’s terror. “It won’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger. Now take a deep breath.”

  I wish I were stronger…. It boiled my blood to see Jamie struggling like this, just to be what that conceited jerk wanted him to be. He inhaled through his mouth like a drowning man gasping for air. Then he blew out a sigh.

  “See that?” Ben relaxed his grip on Jamie’s shoulder. “It’s already getting better. Piece of ca—”

  With a wet crack, Jamie’s right fist smashed into Ben’s perfect nose. My heart triple-skipped.

  A dark ribbon of blood trickled down from Ben’s nostrils to his T-shirt before he could tip his face up to stop it. I felt a sick satisfaction, as if the blood had roused some angry spirit I didn’t even know lived inside me. Groaning, hands over his face, Ben let go of Jamie and started to back away, but Jamie lurched at him again, fists swinging wildly. The boy who gave me the lily and wanted me to be happy was gone. This Jamie was nothing but rage.

  Want to get rid of this. A punch slammed into Ben’s gut, and he sagged. Don’t want this power anymore. Slammed into his throat. Want to be free of this. Slammed into his jaw. Want to be someone else. Slammed into his ribs.

  My stomach was flip-flopping. Angry satisfaction had turned to horror. Oh my god, why wasn’t someone walking in to use the restroom?

  Ben’s body slumped sadly, his head still tipped back, right thumb and forefinger stopping the blood from his nose, other hand protecting his eyes. He wasn’t even trying to match his brother’s crazy new energy. He was just taking it, punch after punch, resigned to weathering the storm.

  My eyes stung with tears, and I closed them. I couldn’t watch someone pulverize a face that looked just like his own. How had I ever missed seeing that these two were brothers? They even had the same square jaw….

  Low sobs from outside the stall.

  I couldn’t let this go on. I had to go out there. Try and stop Jamie from killing his brother, whatever the cost was. Besides, if they could Hear my voice, they already knew who I was anyway.

  “Stop hurting him!” I yelled, and jumped down from the toilet.

  The instant I opened the stall door, I wished I could have taken the action back.

  Because Jamie had already halted his attack—no brave interference from me was needed. He’d backed several feet away, in fact, and was crying. Ben was no longer hunched over, protecting himself from the rain of blows. He and Jamie both stared at me like I’d suddenly grown an extra head.

  “Joy?” Ben’s mind ran wild with Whispers. Okay, she better not have heard what we were talking about.

  “That was you?” Jamie wiped tears from his cheeks. He looked disoriented. I wish it wasn’t Joy of all people, seeing me like this. “I just wanted to leave,” he said, as if to himself. Then he ran out the door.

  I stared at Ben, more confused than ever. If the two of them could Hear, why were they so shocked to see me? And if they couldn’t Hear, what was going on?

  “So, Joy, heh, whatcha doing in the men’s?” Ben cleared his throat, attempted to put on his confident game face, but he was bleeding and his jaw was swelling up, so the effect was just kind of goofy.

  “I…” What could I say? “I had to throw up, so I ran into the first bathroom I saw.”

  I’ll say one thing: Ben’s look of warm concern was a lot more convincing than, say, Bree’s. He really had the charm thing down. “Well, I sure hope you’re feeling better,” he said, hoping no such thing. “And I’m very sorry you had to be a witness to the Ugly Effects of Drugs on Today’s Youth.” He said the last few words in an ironic TV announcer voice.

  “Drugs?” So that was going to be his excuse. “You mean, Jamie was high?”

  “Ohhh, yeah. Boy was flyin’.” Hope she buys this. Ben turned on the hot water, soaked a paper towel, and squeezed it before applying it to his face gently. “He’s been experimenting with heavier shit lately,” he told me. “It’s making him act crazier than usual. But he’s come down from it now, thank god.”

  “Thank god,” I echoed, disappointed. What really happened? I wanted to know the truth, craved it so bad it felt like hunger. But I couldn’t blame Ben for covering up. Whatever his secret was, it was a family secret.

  I stood dumbly, watching him soap and rinse the front of his T-shirt. The iron smell of blood mixed with coconut-scented liquid almost made me gag again, but I had to stay. To let these awful smells and images seep into my memories of last night’s kiss, record over them. This broken version of Ben was the real one. I wanted to memorize his face. To never be fooled by it again.

  “Meh.” Ben scowled at his beat-up reflection, and I thought I might have seen a crack somewhere in his thirty-foot stone wall. In that moment I could have asked him, maybe, almost. About his family. About his gift, whatever it was, and how he’d learned to manage it. I could even have asked him if he ever really liked me, if we connected at all back there in Icka’s room. But then Ben rinsed his mouth and spat, did his stupid teeth-checking grin in the mirror, zipped up his brown bomber jacket all the way to his neck. “Hey, I appreciate you not saying anything, ’kay, Joy?” A nod, a cocky grin. I hope she calls me when she’s feeling better. Unbelievable. He just assumed that I’d swallowed his lame story about the drugs, that I was too sick or too stupid to have caught what had really happened. That I would fall right into line and into his arms again, no questions asked.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, then paused. Was I really going to say this? “I won’t tell on you to Frosh Number One.” I saw him flinch before I turned and walked out.

  14

  Gross Businessman was still leering down his latte, Whispering his gross lust for teens.

  “Oh my god, we thought you died or something.” Helena had worried the label off her empty San Pellegrino. “Parker’s here, waiting in line,” she added in a hushed tone, like she was trying not to tip off the paparazzi.

  “Guess who you just missed seeing?” Bree tossed me a wicked grin. “Your boyyyy-friend!”

  I shrugged and averted my eyes from the venti cup containing the milky sweet stuff my stomach had just rejected. Someone had moved my chair—for Princess Parker, I guess—and tossed my messenger bag on the floor. Its strap was caught under Bree’s chair leg.

  “No, seriously, it was him,” Bree went on, apparently tired of waiting for my reaction. “Emo boy just ran through here, crying his eyes out.” She puffed out her overly glossed bottom lip and trailed index fingers down her cheeks to show tears. Helena giggled. “All right, Joy, fess up now. Did you break up with Jamie and hurt his wittle feelings?”

  At that, both of them cackled till they were out of breath, as if a person crying was the funniest joke in the world. As I gazed at their happy, reddening faces, I felt this weird sense that I was…alone. I’d always pictured “alone” as “not around people,” like Icka on her mermaid rock or Aunt Jane in
her rain-forest cabin. But this version of aloneness, surrounded by people you used to think were friends, this was even worse.

  “Good-bye,” I said. They just looked at me strangely, like I’d just spoken a line that wasn’t in our script. “I’m going home now,” I continued. “I just threw up.”

  That got a reaction. My so-called BFFs all gasped and shrank away.

  Ew, I don’t want her to breathe on me with her sick germs.

  I hope she stops acting psycho when she’s well again.

  At their total lack of caring, I felt a strange satisfaction. A sense of letting go, like it was okay for me not to care about their feelings either.

  Helena and Bree gazed at me with identical simpering faces of “concern.”

  “Feel better!” they chorused.

  Like you give a damn how I feel, I thought. Hypocrites. My hands shook, the blood thumping in my ears like a battle drum. Blood calling for blood. I bent down, grabbed my messenger bag with both hands, and yanked it, so hard that the strap trapped under Bree’s weight nearly tore off.

  “Joy, what are you doing?” Bree was on her feet, glaring. I scooped up my bag, perversely pleased that I’d made her do just what I wanted her to without saying a word.

  Helena cleared her throat. “Um…whoa?” She can stop being rude anytime now.

  Why the hell should I? I thought. Being super nice and polite sure hadn’t won me their respect. Maybe rudeness was underrated. I swung the bag across my shoulder and started hoofing it toward the exit, doing my best to ignore the Whisper storm behind me. Maybe storming out was underrated too.

  “Joy!” Too late. Parker was waving madly from near the front of the coffee line. Her camel suede jacket looked rumpled, and her eyes looked tired, probably thanks to last night’s fake spider attack. But she was grinning as if seeing me was the best thing that happened to her all day. “Joy, come here.”

  No way, I thought. She sounded like she was calling her puppy. And the pathetic truth was that on any other day I would have bounded over to her, wagging my tail. But for once this dog had a wish of her own: getting away from all these other people and their Whispers, pronto. So…why weren’t my legs moving? I glanced at the door, glanced back at Parker. What was wrong with me? Why did it take so much damn effort for me to not grant her desire? Was I that well trained?

  The Whispers in the room began buzzing thicker, a hot, heavy stew of sound pouring over me. From the red-haired supermodel type at the bar: I would rather they’d just told me I was adopted. From a preschool girl in pink overalls: And I want ten more Bratz dolls, and a TV for my room…. From the sweet-faced lady knitting by the fireplace: I hope he leaves that hussy not one red cent.

  I must have had a pretty weird look on my face, because Parker slipped out of line and strode up to me. “Hey…you okay?” Her hawk eyes zeroed in on my rain-soaked hair nest. “Um, Joy? Do you need to borrow a hairbrush?”

  Normally, her implying I looked sloppy would have crushed my confidence. Today it registered like a gnat sting after a thirty-foot cliff dive. “I just barfed up your favorite coffee drink,” I said, and prepared for her to pull back in disgust, like the others.

  But she gasped, “Oh, no! That totally sucks, poor you.” Then she whipped out her iPhone. “I’m calling Waverly. She can give you a ride home. You shouldn’t have to take the bus when you’re sick.” Her hand reached out to squeeze my shoulder. Hope Joy gets better soon.

  A lump rose in my throat. Why did Parker have to be nice to me right then? If I was going to bounce out of here and quit being Joy the Fan Girl, then I needed the strength of my anger. My battle drum. Don’t you dare be nice to me, Parker, I thought, trying to call its energy back to me. You don’t even think of me as an equal! I Heard you! (There it was: ba-boom, ba-boom.) Ben wouldn’t go for someone like me? Well, news flash, Ben thinks you’re fresh meat, he kissed me, and I know your mom used to be a maid!

  What would happen if, like Icka, I just gave in to the urge to blurt out painful truths? Powerful truths, like poison inside me. I’d vomit them all over Parker, put the poison into her. Melt down her steady gaze. Throw her perfect posture off balance. Force her, for once, to feel like I felt.

  “Forget it, don’t bother calling anyone,” I said. Parker stopped in mid dial and squinted at me. “I just…” I swallowed, tried again. “You…I…” And suddenly I knew I didn’t have it in me. I was no Icka, much as I right then wanted to be. I didn’t know how to attack. What to say and how. Where to start. I’d never fought with Parker. Not even about something small. How many times had Parker remarked it was amazing how we always seemed to think alike? How was I supposed to smash her reality, when I’d never even questioned her movie pick? “Just…you know…don’t worry about it, Park.” I hunched my shoulders. “My bus is coming in four minutes anyway.” Trained dog.

  Parker hesitated, glanced back at the line, which was longer than ever. “Well, okay…” she said. “But you’ll call me as soon as you get home, right?”

  “Sure,” I lied, and told myself she had no right to act like some big boss and demand I check in with her. Because if I let myself see that she cared about me, it would only make walking away harder.

  That was all pure bullshit about the bus. I had no clue of the TriMet schedule. Plus, no way was I planning to board some Whisper-filled public bus. But I had this feeling Parker wouldn’t have been down with letting her poor sick fan girl walk two miles in the drizzling cold. And that was all I wanted to do: go outside, where no one else was stupid enough to be, and slowly make my way home, where I could lock myself in my room and lie in bed, safe in a Whisper-free cocoon…for the rest of my life.

  To escape the bustling mall, I cut through a foul, putrid-smelling Dumpster alley behind Whole Foods. Holding my nose was a small price to pay for not Hearing Whispers. On Meridian Avenue, cars zoomed by me as I trudged past strip mall after boring strip mall. Whenever I’d hear a car door open in one of the parking lots or spy someone about to dash out of a store, I’d speed up…till they were out of Hearing range. As I dashed across the street to avoid a lady with grocery bags, it occurred to me that I was using up a lot of extra energy, trying to get from point A to point B without Hearing a Whisper. But it would have been even more taxing to have to Listen.

  Come to think of it, maybe that was why Mom’s side of our family—the Hearing side—didn’t seem to include a whole lot of success stories. Maybe Hearing was a curse. Even Aunt Sadie, the famous poker player, had ended up hooked on barbiturates. And Blithe, the deaf-mute painter who’d Seen people’s “most secret longings,” had died in an insane asylum. Mom’s own mother, Granny Rowan, had worried her face into a mess of wrinkles early, doing whatever she Heard Grandpa Rowan wish for. When he died, back when I was in second grade, she only lasted six months before she went too. Her whole life was granting other people’s Whispers. Even her Whispers were about other people’s Whispers, as if her mind was all reruns, nothing original…. Wait.

  It hit me like a sugar rush. I’d only Heard Granny with my weaker child’s Hearing.

  What if there’d been more to her? A whole, complicated person, hidden behind those anxious gray eyes? Behind those ritual warnings: I wish you’d be careful biking in the street. I was just a kid. I saw wrinkles and bicycle anxiety. No one had told me there could be more to a person underneath. And now Granny was gone; I’d never know her.

  I dragged one foot in front of the other until I finally hit greenbelt, and then houses.

  Rainwater had soaked through my sneakers by the time I turned onto Rainbow Street. Upstairs, the round lock on my bedroom door made a satisfying click when I jabbed it with my finger, ten times harder than I needed to. I peeled off my sodden socks and stuffed the ice blocks that were my feet into magenta fun-fur slippers. Then I remembered the slippers were a Christmas present from Bree. I kicked them off into the wastebasket and pulled on some mismatched socks and the silver boots I wore at the party. Then I went to draw my curtains shut.
/>
  Unfortunately, these were the white lace curtains Mom talked me into “choosing” when I was seven. The stupid things were so filmy that shutting them made practically no difference. In the twilight, from my bed, I could still make out the small shapes of the Marshall twins playing and splashing in the puddles in the backyard behind ours. Once I knew it was them, I could even make out some of their Whispers: I want to play GI Joe.

  I want to play hide and seek!

  I want to kick him.

  My phone rang. I lunged across my desk to grab it. Mom, please be Mom. But when I recognized Parker’s “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” ring, I dropped it on the carpet like a hot lava rock.

  Okay, so much for shutting out the world.

  Then a lightbulb went off in my head. Leaving the phone where it was, I marched down the hall to Icka’s room.

  As always, it was tomblike in there. Cool, dark, still. Reeking of moldering corpses. I sprawled across the organic hemp bedspread and stared up at the mocha brown fabric covering the window wall. Now I finally got it, the point of that fabric. In the silence I could hear my own breath, first loud and fast in my chest, then slower and calmer in my belly. I felt blood returning to my icy fingers and toes. I was seriously beginning to rethink the whole idea of aloneness, real aloneness, being the worst thing in the world. There were much more painful experiences out there, especially for someone who could Hear. Icka had known that. For years now, she’d been trying to tell me how bad it was. By the end, she’d been screaming at the top of her lungs. Why hadn’t I listened?

  Scarlett whined at the door. I opened it and she waddled past me, heading for the foot of Icka’s bed. “Scar, no, you can’t jump that high,” I said, reaching out for her. “I’ll pick you up, okay?” But she dodged me and shuffled onto a short stack of books, then up a slightly higher stack right in front of it, and finally onto a plastic milk crate in front of that before clearing the bed. Huh. Here I’d thought all that stuff was just mess, typical Icka mess. But apparently it was a dog staircase.