I laugh. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
She leans forward, grabs a sugar cookie from the coffee table, and starts licking the chocolate off the top of it.
‘So, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say. My eyes find the television set and focus on Max firing a gun at some guy I assume is the baddie.
‘Are you kidding? Mark DeSomething . . .’
‘Max DeWinter,’ I correct.
‘Right. That guy. He’s been shirtless twice already and you haven’t said a word.’
It’s official. I’ve become that kid who’s best friends with her mom. We’ll be wearing matching velour tracksuits and investing in a tandem bicycle next.
‘It’s possible you know me too well,’ I say, giving her a wary sideways glance.
‘Agreed. But until you’re feeling better, you’re stuck with me.’ She playfully socks me in the arm. ‘So spill. Did you and Luke have a fight? I’m not going lie, I was sort of expecting to find him vegging out on the couch when I walked in from work.’
I guess I can complain a little, at least to my mom.
‘He’s gone to this school ball thing.’ I pout, snatching a cookie off the table and crumbling it between my fingers.
‘Oh dear,’ Mom replies. She sighs, and I catch the sweet scent of strawberry wine. Not for the first time since I got sick, I wonder what alcohol tastes like.
‘He’s going to be surrounded by gorgeous girls in glamorous dresses.’ I flop back against the couch, all drama, completely justified. ‘There’s this one chick going. She’s got her sights set on him. Big time.’ Last Friday, when Luke and I had our chat, and I forced him to go to this stupid thing, I was so focused on keeping the handcuffs off, I completely forgot about Queen Amy.
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘She’s so pretty. We’re talking music-video levels of good-looking. All tall and tanned. Plus, she drives this super-cool car, and she can leave her house whenever she wants.’
‘She can leave her house whenever she wants? Ugh. So unoriginal.’
‘Nice job, Tina Fey, you nailed it.’ Mom bows her head, and I jam an elbow into her arm. ‘Come on. I’m serious. She is the kind of girl guys kill for.’
‘Okay.’ Mom adopts a serious face and turns towards me, crossing her legs on the couch. ‘If she’s all that, and he could be with her, why isn’t he?’ You know when you’re about to get advice so obvious you can’t think for a second why you didn’t figure it out on your own? That’s about to happen. I can feel it.
‘She’s a little rude, kind of bossy, sort of pushy. She’s pretty relentless. Some might say abrasive. She knows we’re a thing – she must, because he changed his relationship status on The Hub, and, trust me, Mom, she’s all over his page, all the time – but she still insists on dropping hugs and kisses on his profile every morning,’ I reply.
‘You mean to tell me Luke turned down this tall, tanned über-babe with a sweet ride just because she’s got a crappy personality? Is he crazy?’ Mom knocks it out of the park using her best eighties Valley Girl voice, complete with vocal fry. I roll my eyes so hard my vision cramps.
‘I never said she was nice,’ I defend myself weakly.
‘Maybe, but you’re worried that nice, smart-guy Luke, the boy who has been around here every night to spend time with you, is incapable of resisting Tall and Tanned just because she drives a nice car?’ Mom shovels the now-chocolate-less cookie in her mouth, dusts off her hands, and reaches for her wine glass.
‘It’s more the idea that she can leave the house, go on dates, hold his hand. Give him actual hugs and kisses. The car is really just a bonus,’ I venture cautiously. Mom likes to pretend that the only reason I don’t have any friends is that they’ve all been too busy to call – for almost four years.
‘Nor, I may be getting older, my sight is definitely not what it used to be, but I can see that Luke is a good-looking kid. If he wanted someone like the girl you’re describing, he’d have her already. You have to try and cut him some slack. At the very least, get your head asking the right questions, like why, if your mental health bothers him, does he keep coming back?’
That makes sense to me, but I can’t make it stick. It rolls over the top of my head the same way water rolls off a duck’s back. In my mind, Luke is at that party being reminded of everything he doesn’t have while he’s with me. I wonder how dazzling Amy’s dress is.
A knock at the door makes both Mom and me jump. A wave of pink wine rip-curls right out of her glass and splashes on her shirt. She uses her fingertips to wipe it away.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ I ask.
‘You mean besides Brad Pitt?’
‘Then it’s probably him.’
‘How’s my hair?’ Mom laughs as she climbs off the couch and heads for the door. She makes a ceremony of opening it and revealing our mystery visitor. ‘Ah. Norah, I think this Brad Pitt is for you.’
‘Hi, Mrs Dean.’ Luke. I clamber to my feet, trip over buckling Bambi legs as I make a dash for the door. The instant I see him, something in me goes slack. I sink, feel weightless, like I’m submerged in water. He looks dapper in his button-down with that stuff in his hair that makes it look wet. I’m so happy to see him. And then sirens screech in my head. Why am I seeing him? We agreed. He’s not supposed to be here.
‘Why aren’t you at the Fall Ball?’ My tone is clipped.
‘I think I’m gonna go and catch the rest of this movie in my room,’ Mom announces. She kisses me on the forehead and then trots off upstairs.
‘I was,’ he says. ‘But it was boring, so I bailed early.’ I check the clock that hangs above my grandma’s glass cabinet in the hall. It’s only 8.05. He left his house at 7.15. Cardinal is ten minutes away. He only stayed at the party for thirty minutes.
Oh, well. At least he didn’t break his promise, right? And he went. I did my part, didn’t hold him back. Plus, when your self-esteem has been as pummelled as mine, when there’s a guy standing on your front porch with a face made for film and a smile that makes you believe in magic, it’s way too easy to convince yourself that he hasn’t rushed home just to hang out with you. Like he said, the party must have been boring.
‘You wanna watch a movie?’ In his right hand he’s carrying a brown paper bag with the Mamma’s Maid Ice Cream Parlor logo printed on it.
‘Hmm, maybe. But I gotta warn you, my company doesn’t come cheap,’ I tease.
‘Oh yeah? What’s it going to cost me?’ His voice drops low, and a bomb explodes in the pit of my stomach.
‘One whole carton of ice cream,’ I say, flapping my lashes so hard a breeze starts blowing.
‘I’m in luck.’ He holds up the brown bag. Fears of him feeling shackled die. I stand aside and usher him in. I can’t wait to show him the monster movie I recorded.
Sometimes a thing that happens in cheesy horror movies is sex. I usually skip past those parts. Not because I’m a prude. It’s all that sweaty skin pushed together; it totally screws with my mind.
I could see it coming from a mile away. I should have suggested we turn it off when the two leads got trapped in a basement and started talking about taking their clothes off to avoid pneumonia.
‘Wow, that’s . . . erm . . .’ Luke tips his head to the side as the sex unfolding on screen takes an acrobatic turn for the worst. I sink like a stone into my seat. ‘Whoa! A head wound waiting to happen, that’s what that is.’ I laugh, despite my agonizing demise. Luke turns to me, clocks my cocooned body, and reaches for the remote. ‘We can probably skip past this part.’
‘Thank you,’ I say when he hits fast-forward.
Except the half-wolf/half-man and his female co-star keep going and going, only now it’s happening at super-speed.
‘Hot damn,’ he exclaims and starts pressing buttons on the remote so fast it’s a wonder his fingers don’t catch fire. Anxiety releases my body from its tight furl, and I burst into hysteri
cs, my limbs loosening to liquid proportions. I render up so much control I start slipping, like butter off a baking tray. My butt slides down the leather couch, and I hit the floor with a bump.
‘Shit, Norah.’ In a blink he’s kneeling beside me. ‘Are you okay?’ He reaches out, hands hovering close, but not quite close enough to touch. I look at him through floods of tears. Happy tears. Hilarious tears. I’ve never laughed so hard I’ve cried before. I can’t talk, so I just nod. He shakes his head, starts chuckling. He gets comfortable on the carpet beside me and I’m glad I used Mom’s expensive, coconut-scented shampoo.
‘My stomach hurts,’ I tell him, rubbing muscles that have been asleep for way too long.
‘I bet. You’ll have a six-pack tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know why people do sit-ups when laughing is so much fun.’
‘People are crazy.’ He excuses them with a shrug.
‘What about me? Do you think I’m crazy?’ I’m half teasing, half testing him.
‘I think you’re beautiful. And smart. And funny.’ He gets an A plus. I flush, my insides going gooier than our ice cream leftovers. In my head I’m rolling around in green fields; my sky is pink, the sun is made of gold glitter. But then, a grey storm cloud rolls in, smothers my sweet sky with thunder.
He didn’t say no.
‘I . . . I . . .’ I stutter. It’s a small voice, but it cancels out his compliments in one swoop.
‘What’s—’ A bang, like a gunshot, cuts his question in half. My bones leap from my body and my heart trips. I brace for the apocalypse, an infestation of zombies, a tumbling meteor, World War X breaking out right here in Triangle Crescent.
‘Norah, it’s okay. Look.’ I didn’t notice Luke stand up, but I find him by the window, the curtain peeled back. He’s looking at the sky. ‘Fireworks,’ he says as three more bangs cut right through me. I jump again and my teeth catch my tongue.
‘It’s not July Fourth,’ I say, like he doesn’t already know this, like I don’t already know this.
‘Come take a look.’ He’s all excited. I feel afraid. ‘Wait. Our first fireworks display. We need a better view.’ What I need is the couch and the coffee table to help me stand. He speeds off into the hall; the lock on the front door clicks, and I hear the bolt grind as he pulls it back.
Has he gone? Did he forget that I can’t follow?
I lean left until I can see the front door. It’s wide open and he’s just standing there, leaning up against the jamb. Outside is like a light show; every bang creates a new colour. In my head I see the photos on Amy’s Hub profile, consider that if she were here instead of me, she’d take total advantage of this situation. Probably snatch his hand, drag him outside, curl up against him while they watch the sky. Fireworks are romantic. I’ve seen that exact scenario unfold on YouTube kissing videos. The thought carries me cautiously towards the porch. I fall in beside Luke, too wobbly to stand, too caught up in acting normal to suggest we close the door in case one of those babies gets loose and flies straight for us. My knees buckle, and I sit on the floor, legs crossed, on the inner side of the step.
‘Are we okay to watch?’ he asks. I think of the party he’s not at, the measly few minutes he spent with his friends on a Friday night.
‘Sure.’ I owe him at least ten more minutes of normal. Just keep breathing.
But something doesn’t feel right. My mind is attempting sabotage, refusing to find the beauty, the fun, the excitement in watching what are essentially pretty explosives.
Luke sits on the floor beside me, plants his feet on the porch, talks about how he hasn’t seen fireworks since last year.
‘What about New Year’s Eve?’ I only ask because I distinctly remember that night being one of the loudest. I spent it cowering under my duvet, eating potato chips and mainlining rock music.
‘Fell asleep before midnight watching a SpongeBob marathon. Forever one of the cool kids.’
He turns, winks at me, then spins back to look at the sky. He makes me smile.
I fix my sights on his profile. His jaw is so sharp, I think if I ran a finger over it, I’d cut myself.
‘I’d like to go to Times Square one New Year,’ he says. ‘Just to see what all the fuss is about.’
‘Yes.’ I sigh. I mean, right now I couldn’t think of anything more terrifying, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about being there before.
‘We should go.’ Luke is suddenly so animated, it’s a wonder the fireworks aren’t watching him. ‘I bet we could get a couple of free flights off my mom,’ he tells me.
Interesting, but irrelevant. I laugh a fake laugh; there’s nothing funny about my desolate future.
He turns to look at me; I wonder if my face has fallen as much as his.
‘What? You don’t want to go? Or maybe you don’t want to go with me?’ Did he take a bump to the head when I wasn’t looking? Maybe the obnoxious fumes the fireworks are spreading have gotten him a little confused.
‘I can’t leave my house. I think it’s safe to say the chances of me jumping on a plane to go and watch fireworks are non-existent.’
‘Oh God, no. I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t meaning this year . . . I just meant . . . whenever, one year, any year, you know?’
‘Maybe.’ I stare at my polish-perfect pedicure. It only took me six hours to get it right.
‘We don’t need to put a date on it. Who’s to say this time next year you won’t be globetrotting? Come spring, you could be in Europe.’ My heart smiles; it’s not strong enough to show on my face. ‘But . . . you don’t believe any of that’s possible?’ he ventures carefully.
‘No. I mean, yes. I’m not sure. I know it’s probable . . .’ I pause, don’t know how to finish my sentence without sounding like I’m feeling sorry for myself.
‘But . . .’ he prompts.
I shrug. I’ve no idea how to tell him I feel helpless. That I can’t seem to find the strength or energy to fight myself daily for an infinite amount of time and make the doc’s neural pathways stick. That I’m afraid. That I’m just . . . stuck.
‘You’re brave, did you know that?’
He must have me mistaken for someone else. ‘You have all these fears, your body endures all this pain and heartache, but you keep going. I think that’s really brave.’
I shake my head. My mind is telling me that he’s wrong. Brave is swords and shields. People who are fearless in the face of adversity. Warriors for social justice. Brave is not me. But my heart registers the way he’s looking at me now, and my shoulders straighten. I feel shiny, normal. Something flips over in my stomach and I find myself looking at his lips.
‘I think I see you a little differently than how you see yourself,’ he says.
‘I like how you see me,’ I tell him in a whisper. And then he leans forward, closes the gap between us, and pushes his lips against mine.
My biggest fear comes from a place I’m not expecting, as his breath, warm and sweet like peppermint, fills my mouth. I think about all the stuff I researched, every alien thing that popped up on my computer screen in a petri dish. I wonder if Luke had a drink at the Fall Ball, shared a cup with someone who had a cold sore. I consider how many cheeks his lips touched when he arrived, and then how many more cheeks those lips touched before reaching mine. I even spare a second to remember the boy at Cardinal who’s suffering from a case of glandular fever. But the fear that asserts itself the most is his motive for doing what he’s done.
I spring back like he’s spat acid. Make like a crab across the floor and wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my sweater.
‘Norah. I’m so sorry.’ He reaches out, grabs my hand, and I rip it free from his grasp. ‘Shit,’ he says, clutching his fingers like he’s just been burnt. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Any of that. I wasn’t thinking. Fuck. I’m so sorry.’
Warmbreathpetridishesbugsbacteriaalienlifeformscoldsoreskissescheekslipsfevermotive. Motive. MOTIVE.
It’s how my
head is working as I pull myself to my feet using the banister. Faster and faster, like a malfunctioning merry-go-round. No stopping. No slowing. No breathing. My mouth is numb.
Luke keeps saying Fuck, running his hands through his hair, an I’ve-just-seen-a-car-accident-unfold expression emblazoned on his paling face.
‘How could you do that?’ I ask, tears streaming down my cheeks, words sliced and diced as they fall through chattering teeth.
‘I don’t know,’ Luke says, all flustered, watching the floor as he paces back and forth.
‘You don’t get it,’ I spit. ‘I thought you did, but you don’t.’
‘I do.’ He makes a beeline for me, hands outstretched. My knees are trembling too much to move; the best I can do is flinch. He stops a foot short of my face when he sees my body jerk and plants his hands hard in his pockets. ‘I hate that,’ he says. ‘I hate that I’ve made you feel afraid.’
‘Then why did you? You didn’t have to. Or did you?’ Motive. Talking about flying to New York, buying me a journal for France, sitting here watching the fireworks like a normal couple. He thinks I’m beautiful, smart, funny, but he never actually said not crazy. I wonder if he only stayed at the ball for a few minutes because he felt like I used to watching my Hub feed on a weekend. I wonder if he sighed when he left a roomful of bodies swaying against each other, arms and legs free from scratches, for a girlfriend he can’t even kiss.
He didn’t leave the party because he was bored; he left that party because it was a slap in the face.
My head is having its own ball. Adding things together like this is Cluedo and we’re trying to uncover a killer.
‘No. Norah, please.’
I could breathe life back into the dead with the amount of adrenaline running through me. ‘Is that what this is about? You said you didn’t miss kissing, but you do, don’t you?’ It doesn’t matter what he says. I can’t hear him for the rush of blood in my head. Besides, the answers have already been decided in my mind.
‘It’s not about kissing, Norah. It’s about you, about how I feel about you. I got lost for a second.’
Under Rose-Tainted Skies Page 18
