Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

  Please kiss me.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Good,” he replies. “Friends.”

  But I want more. I picture Devon again. She had more. Then again, she probably never teased him for a stutter he couldn’t help and harassed him until he switched schools.

  “I should go,” I say. I’m still standing close enough for him to touch me again, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to. He doesn’t move, but his eyes are locked on mine like he’s trying to read my thoughts. If he could, he’d understand how much I want him to wrap his arms around my waist and rest his chin on my shoulder, looking as relaxed and happy as he did in that picture.

  He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Okay,” he finally says, and then he walks over to the door and turns the knob, and I reluctantly follow him down the hall.

  He grabs my car keys off the table in the entryway and dangles them in front of me. “Thanks again for helping Em,” he says.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  I don’t want to leave. I’m not entirely sure he wants me to.

  AJ stands on the porch, leaning against a post with his arms crossed, watching me climb into my car. I back out of the driveway, wondering what would have happened if I’d been brave enough to tell him what I was really thinking.

  Somewhere around midnight, I thought about taking my sleep meds and calling it a night. But I couldn’t stop researching, and so by four a.m., I’ve learned a lot about Devon Rossiter.

  I’ve been manically opening window after window, clicking on link after link, scanning site after site, but I’m still following this white rabbit down the hole, trying to feed my brain enough information to reach my own personal wonderland.

  Like Kyle, Devon’s an impressive athlete, well ranked on the varsity team. Carlton High posts everything from team to individual player stats, so not only can I see her official photo (again, pretty, very little makeup) I can see every point, goal, shot, assist, and steal for every game she played last season.

  There are lots of team photos, and in each one, she’s wearing her long blond hair in a ponytail with her bangs pulled back in a sporty-looking headband. There are a few videos, but she’s not in many of them.

  Across the Internet, I’ve uncovered a few articles about her. I can’t figure out where she lived, but that would be easy if I really wanted to find out. Even if my mom didn’t represent either side of the sale, I bet her laptop has all the details. I can’t tell where they live now, but I’ve located her dad’s new office in Boston on Google Maps.

  Devon seems to be settling in well at her new school, making friends both on and off the team. Her Facebook page is open, so I can see everything, including a long and photographically detailed history of her “almost a year” relationship with AJ. There are pictures from our winter formal—I recognize the background—and I notice that she’s wearing more makeup in these shots, but still not as much as I wear every day. There are photos of the two of them at the beach and the two of them at her niece’s third birthday party and the two of them at various soccer tournaments, including one of her standing in between AJ and Kyle, her arms draped over their shoulders. She checked in at a few movies and tagged AJ, too.

  Of course, that leads me to AJ’s Facebook page, but I find his almost completely untouched, save the times she’s tagged him. There’s nothing about him here. Nothing about music. Nothing about poetry. Nothing about his brother or his mom, and nothing that connects him to the people in Poet’s Corner.

  With every click, I feel the tightening in my stomach, the adrenaline rush, the need to learn more—not about her, about them. I have to understand this relationship and what’s at the root of that expression on AJ’s face when he’s looking at Devon and not at the camera, which he’s often doing.

  It’s not jealousy. It’s my OCD, this inexplicable, uncontrollable need to know one thing, and then one more thing, and then yet another thing, until my brain is exhausted. And tonight, I’m having a hard time reaching that level, because it’s been hours and I still don’t know what it feels like to be in a relationship like this one—to be that close, that connected to someone else—and I need to figure it out in a way no one but Sue would ever understand.

  Sue. If she saw what I was doing right now, she’d lose it.

  I shut my laptop and let it drop to the floor next to my nightstand. I shouldn’t be doing this. Devon doesn’t live here, and she and AJ aren’t together. And even if she did and they were, he’s not my boyfriend. We’re barely even friends.

  My logical mind knows these things are true, but still, when I close my eyes, there’s this image of AJ and Devon twisted up in the sheets together. His mom isn’t home until six o’clock on weeknights. His brother’s never home either. He loved her and he still might. How often did they meet at his house after school? Did they cut classes, spending full days together in his bed? They must have, at least once. Serious relationship, empty house, that’s what you do.

  I don’t want to think about the two of them, arms and legs intertwined under his blue comforter, but I can’t fall asleep because I can’t get the image out of my head.

  Caroline and I are sitting in the front row of the theater in our usual seats. I’m jittery from my lack of sleep and the three Cokes I’ve had since lunch. This morning, I found AJ’s guitar pick in the pocket of my jeans, and I’ve been fiddling with it ever since, like it’s my thinking putty. I’ve already decided I’m going to tape it up on the inside of my locker door.

  “You’re freaking out about a girl he hasn’t spoken to in months,” Caroline says.

  We’ve been trying to write a new poem, but I’m having a hard time concentrating. I keep picturing the way AJ folded his arms around me, his chest pressed against my back, his warm breath on my neck. I can’t stop reliving that fantasy when I crossed the room and kissed him. I’m trying to think about the good parts of being alone with AJ in his room yesterday—because there were many of them—but no matter what I do, that photograph pops into my mind every time.

  “They were together for almost a year. It was serious, Caroline.”

  “So? It’s not serious now.”

  I close my notebook, leaving the pencil in the binding to mark our place, and lean back in the crushed red velvet theater seat. “See, this is good. Keep going,” I say, curling my finger toward me. “This is why I told you. I knew you’d talk some sense into me. Did I tell you she’s a senior?”

  “Three times now.” Caroline shifts in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. “Do you really want to hear what I think, Sam?”

  “Of course I do.” I throw my head back and stare up at the ceiling. She doesn’t say anything. I look at her, so she knows I mean it. “Please. I want to know what you think.”

  “Fine,” Caroline says. “I think he likes you.”

  “You do?”

  She doesn’t answer my question; she just keeps talking.

  “I also think you’re overcomplicating this whole thing. I think that even when good, totally normal, completely healthy things happen in your life, like”—she starts articulating her points on her fingers—“your new car, writing poetry, spending an afternoon at AJ’s house, meeting me…” She sits up straighter wearing a big fake grin, then returns to her serious tone. “You seem determined to find a way to make them unhealthy.”

  “You? I haven’t turned you into anything unhealthy.”

  “Maybe not yet.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She laughs. “You’re missing the point, Sam. These are all good things, all normal things. And rather than enjoying them, you find a way to twist them into something toxic.”

  I roll my eyes and let out a sigh. “Trust me, I want to stop thinking. I wish I could.”

  Caroline kicks her feet out in front of her and leans way back in the chair, crossing her arms behind her head and staring off into
the distance. “You should hit baseballs.”

  “Baseballs,” I say flatly.

  “My dad and I used to go to the batting cages at the park. Have you ever been?”

  “I think I went when I was a little kid. It was ages ago. I don’t really remember it. Why?”

  “You get in the cage all alone.” Caroline sits up straight and begins talking louder and faster, using her hands for emphasis. “Then you grab your bat and take your stance, and even though you’re expecting it, there’s a sense of surprise when this ball comes flying out of the machine right at you.” She points to her head. “So you grip the bat tighter and bring it to your shoulder. You watch the ball. Then you step into it and swing.”

  “Okay,” I say, wondering where she’s going with this.

  “You hear this crack when the bat connects, and then the ball’s gone, soaring off into the distance. But you can’t relax, because now there’s another ball speeding your way. So you tighten your grip, take your stance, and swing again. And you keep going until your time runs out. By then, your shoulder is throbbing and you’re totally out of breath, but you feel pretty damn good.”

  “You’re saying my thoughts are like baseballs.”

  Her lips curl into a satisfied grin. “Exactly. And you, my friend, stand there in the batting cage and let those balls smack you in the head, over and over again. But you don’t have to.” She taps her finger against her temple. “You have a perfectly good bat.”

  “I have a broken bat.”

  “Eh. It’ll do,” she says. Then she leans back in the chair again and crosses her arms, looking proud to have said her piece. “Are you still glad you asked me what I thought?”

  “Actually, I am.”

  “Good. Can you be happy, please? Things are going well, aren’t they?”

  They are. I can’t wait to get downstairs on Mondays and Thursdays. I’m even starting to look forward to stepping up on that stage. I haven’t had an Eights-induced thought spiral in weeks.

  “Yes.”

  “You can trust them, Sam,” she says. “Let your guard down with AJ and everyone else. And please, stop thinking so much. You’re exhausting.”

  I give her foot a kick. She kicks me back. And we return to writing.

  Over the next week, I see AJ everywhere.

  I pass by him between classes, and not only after second period the way I’ve intentionally scheduled. At lunch each day, I see him sitting with Emily and Cameron, and when I catch him stealing glances at me, he quickly looks away and pretends to be deep in conversation. I’ve seen him in the student lot twice now, climbing into Sydney’s car. Both times I drove away wishing he’d climbed into mine.

  On Monday, I tried to talk with him after Poet’s Corner, but he said he had somewhere he needed to be and sped up the stairs so fast, Caroline even looked at me and said, “Well, that was awkward.”

  I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the whole thing last week, because it’s as if the two of us never chatted over linguistics and playlists, I never saw his room or his clipboard filled with music, and that an incredibly sexy acoustic guitar lesson—the one I’m still obsessing about and not even trying to block from my mind—didn’t happen at all.

  As I’m walking to third period on Wednesday, I see him heading right toward me. I’m expecting one of his usual nonchalant chin lifts, and preparing to return it with one of my own, but instead, he slows his steps and actually makes eye contact with me.

  “Hey,” he says under his breath as he comes to a stop. “Do you have a second?”

  I nod and he waves me over to the side of the corridor and out of traffic. He dips his head toward mine. “How are you?” he asks.

  He’s not wearing a cap today, and when his hair falls forward, I have to fight the urge to push it away from his face. “I’m good. How are you?”

  “Fine.” He looks so nervous, shifting his weight, like maybe this isn’t going the way he’d planned. Then I realize he’s picking at his imaginary guitar strings against his jeans. I wonder if I’m fidgeting too, so I check myself and find my hand at the back of my neck, my nails all set to dig in. I wrap my backpack strap around my finger instead.

  “I just wanted to…to see how you were doing.”

  I try to think of something interesting to say—something open-ended that we will have to continue talking about when we have more time. But before I can speak, he reaches out and brushes his thumb against my arm. It’s not a mistake. It’s deliberate.

  “I’d better get to class,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  He drops his hand and slips back into the crowd, and I look around the corner, watching him walk away. It’s all I can do to not follow after him. I want to talk to him longer. I want him to touch me like that again.

  I bite the inside of my cheek three times and head off in the opposite direction.

  “It must be Wednesday!” Colleen chirps when I open the door. She walks around to my side of the counter and gives me a bottle of water. “It’s been a crazy day around here. Sue had an emergency at the hospital this morning, and we’ve been running behind schedule ever since.”

  It’s funny. Sometimes I forget that Shrink-Sue has other patients, let alone patients who require her to drop everything and come to a hospital for them. I’m glad I don’t need her that much.

  “Get comfortable,” Colleen says.

  I stick in my earbuds, and instead of choosing my usual waiting room playlist, I turn on Song for You. Leaning against the wall, I mentally bring myself back to the school corridor, happy to have a few quiet moments to think about what happened with AJ this afternoon. He was so nervous, and so cute, and so close to me. As music fills my ears, chills travel through my body, and I realize I’m brushing my thumb back and forth across my arm, exactly the way he did.

  Something catches my eye, and I see Colleen waving from behind her desk. I give a tug on the cord, and my earbuds fall into my lap. “She’s ready for you.”

  I shuffle into Sue’s office. She doesn’t waste any time getting down to business. “So, fill me in on your week.”

  As I stretch my putty, I give her the basics. Everything with my family is good. School’s fine. The poetry’s going well, getting better, still therapeutic. We get to the inevitable conversation about the Crazy Eights, but surprisingly, there isn’t much to tell. Things have been fairly drama free.

  “How are things with Caroline?” she asks, and today, I don’t smile like I normally do. Instead, I feel my blood pressure spike.

  “I’ve been thinking about her a lot this week. I’m feeling really guilty, you know?” I picture her the way the Eights would see her: frayed flannels and weird T-shirts, blemished skin and stringy hair. “She’s my friend. I shouldn’t be keeping her a secret.”

  “Does she mind that you haven’t introduced her to the Eights?”

  I shake my head. “No. I asked her earlier this week. She told me she has no interest in meeting them.”

  “What would they say if you told them about her?”

  I squeeze my putty hard. “They’d feel threatened. You know how they are about other girls. It’s a loyalty thing.”

  Sue writes something down in her portfolio. “Then maybe you shouldn’t tell them?”

  “Is that okay?”

  “It sounds like it’s okay with Caroline. Is it okay with you?”

  “I guess so.” My heart starts racing again. “Actually, I don’t feel like talking about this today.”

  She considers me for a moment, and then returns to her portfolio, flipping pages back to review her notes from earlier sessions. “How’s your swimming going?”

  “I’ve been going to the pool six days a week since school started. I’m still swimming with the team, but I’m also starting to swim by myself at night. It feels great. I feel great.”

  This is going to be an easy session. Sue’s had a busy day. She’s behind schedule. Let’s wrap it up so I can get to the pool.


  I’m trying to decide what to say next, when Sue closes her portfolio, rests her elbows on her knees, and locks her eyes on mine. “Why do you look so tired?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “How have you been sleeping?”

  Sue doesn’t move. I’m pretty sure she’s not even blinking. I consider cracking a joke, or coming up with an excuse, but after a long pause, I decide to tell her the truth. “I stopped taking my sleep meds,” I whisper.

  “When?”

  I blow out a breath. I know the exact date. It was the week Caroline first introduced me to Poet’s Corner. I couldn’t get AJ’s song out of my head, and at some point, an obsession with his words turned into an obsession with my own. “Over two months ago.”

  She lets out a heavy sigh. I can’t see what she’s writing, but knowing she’s documenting my failure makes me feel even worse.

  “You can’t get by with four to five hours of sleep each night, Sam.”

  I’ve been doing exactly that for the last couple of months, and I’m fine. I’m not failing my classes or anything. Well, I might be failing Trigonometry, but that doesn’t have anything to do with the amount of sleep I’ve been getting. That’s entirely about me sucking at trigonometry.

  “What are you working on that late at night?”

  I tuck my feet underneath me and recline into the chair, staring up at the ceiling. “Poetry,” I say, which is true, but not entirely. Sometimes I’m writing. Sometimes I’m reading other people’s poems on the Internet. Sometimes I’m listening to music and looking up lyrics, but that counts as a form of poetry, doesn’t it?

  “Can’t you do that during the day?”

  I shake my head hard. “No time.” But it’s more than that. It’s not that I don’t have the time, it’s that the time’s not right. Even when I’m writing during my swim, or in the theater with Caroline, it’s dark and quiet. I need it dark and quiet. I need to write at night, where no one can see me.

  “Sam,” she says strictly, and I smash my putty between my fingers. “Have you stopped taking your other medication?”