“She’s part Snuffleupagus. From our mom’s side.”
“I like when you talk about her.”
“Sam?” Ben asks.
“Your mom.” I smile. Or at least I think I smile. I can’t really feel my face.
Ben leads me into his room. The smell of folded laundry fills the air, making me want to curl up in his clothes. He sets me down on his bed and wraps a blanket around my shoulders. Then he squats in front of me. I try to concentrate on one spot, but the room is spinning. He steadies my swaying body and pushes my hair out of my face.
“Your room is a mess,” I say.
“I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I like it this way.”
“Messy?”
“Exposed.” I smile.
Ben cocks his head to the side. “Water.”
“A combination of two hydrogen molecules and one oxygen.”
“You need some. Wait here.”
When Ben leaves the room, I start investigating his mess. He’s got an old TV, as old as my car, sitting on a desk. It has bent antennae sticking out of the top and a DVD player attached to it. I sit down in his desk chair and pick up the one DVD sitting next to the TV. The Wizard of Oz.
I swivel back and forth in the chair, examining the DVD, and then set it down on the desk. Ben’s soccer letter and a picture of the team are tacked to a corkboard hanging on the wall over the desk. I lean forward, finding Ben in the sea of uniforms.
“Please tell me you didn’t look in the desk?” he says, as he walks back into the room.
“No.” I sit back in the seat. “Is that where you hide your porn collection?”
He pops a pretzel in his mouth. “Maybe.”
I take the bag. After a few bites, the pretzels feel like paste in my mouth. Everything is so dry. I chug the entire glass of water.
Pointing at a stack of folded boxers sitting in a laundry basket, I say, “You weren’t lying.”
Ben laughs and sits down on his bed. I wheel myself over until I’m directly in front of him. If my brain actually felt like it was sitting in my head right now, I probably wouldn’t do this stuff, but right now it’s on vacation. Or oozing out of my ear. Or left behind me in the Boulder Theater with Katelyn.
“Isn’t it weird that we never really see ourselves? We just see reflections,” I say.
“It’s a good thing I like your face.”
“It’s kind of depressing, though, that we never really see ourselves,” I say.
“Maybe life isn’t about seeing ourselves. Maybe it’s about letting other people see us.”
I smile and blink too slowly. “You sound like Dr. Brenda.”
“Who’s Dr. Brenda?”
“My shrink. I’m not sure if you know this but I’ve been through something ‘traumatic.’” I exaggerate the word and make quotation marks with my hands.
“Life is traumatic,” Ben scoffs.
I lean in closer, so we’re almost nose-to-nose. “Tell me something I can’t see.”
Ben studies me for a second. “Your left eyebrow always pops up when you’re about to say something smart.”
“I’m not smart.”
“That’s another thing you can’t see. You are smart. You just don’t try.” Ben smiles and moves closer. I can feel his breath on my face. It smells like pretzels. “Now do me.”
I pucker my lips and squint my eyes like I’m trying to think of something. But I really don’t have to try. “Your eyes change color depending on your shirt.”
“What color are they now?”
“Dark blue, almost brown.” We’ve never sat this close before. Or maybe we have; we sit practically arm to arm in physics class, but it doesn’t feel this close.
“Anything else?” Ben asks.
“You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”
Ben’s gaze moves down to his lap. “Don’t say that.”
“Okay. Pretend I didn’t. I’m stoned.”
He gets up and paces the room. “It’s just . . . unreasonable standards lead to unreasonable behavior. And I never want to be . . . ”
“Unreasonable?” I turn the chair to face him.
Ben stops in front of his desk. “Yeah.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Maybe.”
“Was Katelyn . . . unreasonable?” I ask.
“Sometimes.”
“Sam said she cried a lot.”
“When did she say that?”
“Just now.”
“Well, Sam should mind her own business.” Ben’s hand grips the desk hard.
“Do you still miss her?”
Ben hunches over, resting his elbows on his thighs. “It’s getting better.”
“Are there pictures of her stuffed in your desk drawer? Is that why you don’t want me to look in there?”
“I can’t seem to get rid of them yet. But I can’t look at them either.”
“I guess we all try to hide the stuff we don’t want to see,” I say.
“Yeah.” Ben pushes off the desk and comes to squat in front of me. His eyes are stormy now, tense. “Let’s talk about something else.”
As he holds my gaze, so many more questions wrap around my brain. I don’t want to talk about something else. I want answers to who Katelyn was. I feel like knowing them might make everything better—or maybe it would get worse, but at least it wouldn’t be the same.
Ben puts his hands on my thighs, holding himself steady. The longer he keeps his eyes on me, the more I’m reminded that I know how he feels. I take a deep breath and let my questions go for tonight.
“Why do you have The Wizard of Oz?” I say.
“It was my mom’s favorite movie.”
“Maybe we could watch it?”
“Right now?”
“Well, I’m stoned, so now seems like an appropriate time.”
Ben puts the movie in the DVD player. I crawl across his bed and lie down, my head resting on one of his pillows. Ben scoots back and says, “I’m glad you’re here.” Then he nestles down beside me. His arm touches my arm and his leg touches my leg.
“Sometimes when you look at me I want to kiss your eyelids,” I say. “That’s what you can’t see in your own reflection.”
“Sometimes when you look at me I want to throw all the pictures away.”
“Don’t tell Ninny I got high,” I say, gazing up at him with tired eyes.
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Neither of us moves. For once, we just stay where we are.
When I wake up, Ben’s face is inches from mine. Everything is warm. His body curls around mine, holding me, his hands pressed into my back. I run my hand over his cheek and touch his hair.
Tears sting my eyes. I need to get out of here. The room is dark except for the television in the corner. The Wizard of Oz home screen sings on repeat.
I peel back from Ben and slide out of the bed, inch by inch. My clothes and shoes are still on. I run my fingers though my hair and pull out a pretzel. Oh, my God, I was high. Like floating in a hot air balloon with the Wizard himself about to soar over the Emerald City high. Ninny would be so proud of me. I vow at this moment never to tell her.
Holding my breath, I tiptoe out of the room. Before I leave, I take one more look at Ben. My clothes are still warm.
In the living room, I stop still when I see a grown man asleep in the beat-up recliner, Automobile Magazine spread out across his chest. Ben’s dad snorts, rolling over onto his side, and I jump. Shuffling across the floor, I open the front door, praying it won’t creak. Ben’s dad is a tow truck driver, which I know isn’t the same as a truck driver, but it’s the same genre of jobs. Truck drivers have hooks to replace the hands that they lost in Iraq—they’ve got bad tempers or prostitute problems. I don’t want to encounter that when my head is still kind of cloudy from the hash brownie.
I close the door as quietly as possible. Standing on Ben’s front porch, I’m cold. My breath crystallizes as it hits the air; I bend my knees
until they crack. There’s only one way to get home.
Running down the street, I pass dark house after dark house of people asleep in their beds. I make it back just as the sun is starting to come up. Going in through the kitchen, I chug a glass of water. Sweat rolls down my forehead. It’s cold on my already cold skin. I pass Ninny and Toaster, asleep on the couch, spooning. His bare leg is draped over her waist and he’s snoring in her ear. Toaster’s greasy scalp is nestled into the arm nook of the couch, and I make a mental note to Lysol that spot later.
In the shower, I stand under the water until my body warms to an acceptable level and my fingers turn into little shriveled raisins. My skin is red and raw with overexposure, but I don’t care. It feels good to just stand and listen to the sound of water hitting the cracked tile around the bathtub.
When I’m done, I twist my hair into a bun, crawl into my bed and just lie there, eyes open.
At one point, I hover in that state between sleep and wakefulness when you sometimes dream about a ball coming at your face and jump, waking up. Except I don’t dream about a ball coming at me. I dream about a car coming at me. Two bright headlights.
I shoot up in bed, my lungs about to burst.
Light pours through my window, haloing Katelyn as she stands at the end of my bed.
“Please, no more blood,” I whisper, my voice wobbly. “It’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
Her face is like stone. She points at me.
I squeeze my eyes closed. “Please go away. Please go away. Please go away.”
When I finally make it downstairs for the day, my skin feels tight around my eyes and my stomach is a ball of knots. Ninny lies on the couch, watching TV. She looks me up and down. “How was the concert? You didn’t eat any apples, did you?”
And all I can bring myself to say is “I want a bike for Christmas.”
“You want a bike for Christmas?”
“Global warming is a real bitch.” I say, picking up a banana and then setting it back in the fruit bowl. My stomach is too sour. “It’s time I did something proactive about it.”
CHAPTER 19
I gnaw on my lip as I sit in Dr. Brenda’s office Monday morning. The coffee I chugged down on an empty stomach feels like acid burning its way through my system. And the caffeine isn’t even working.
Dr. Brenda sits in front of me, her trusty notepad and pen poised to jot down anything I say. I’m so tired that I have to hold my head up with my palm. And my entire skull hurts. I barely strung together a few hours of sleep last night. I was afraid to close my eyes for too long. But then, I was afraid to keep them open, too.
I rub my temples and wish my headache would go away.
“You’re studying physics, right?” Dr. Brenda asks.
“How’d you know?”
“You talked about a test once. How’d that go, by the way?”
“I got a C.”
“Average. Not bad. So you know Isaac Newton and his laws of motion?”
“Some would say biblically.”
“Pardon?”
“I know him,” I say.
Dr. Brenda moves forward in her seat, pulling down on her black pencil skirt. Her hair is darker today. Almost a cherry red, where it used to look more fiery. I like the new color better. It’s more natural. “So you know an object in motion stays in motion until it runs into something.”
“Newton’s first law of motion: An object in motion remains in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.”
“And you only got a C?”
“Definitions are my specialty.” I shrug.
Dr. Brenda brings her hands to prayer position over her chest and says, “I have a theory of motion myself. I’m not sure if Newton would agree, but in my experience it holds true. Would you like to hear it?” I nod lazily and pull my eyes wide so they’ll stay open. “When that object in motion runs into another object, all the energy moving forward at the time of impact gets caught.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve been in a traumatic car accident, Aspen, and somewhere inside of you is all the energy from that night. We need to figure out how to get it out of you so you can heal.”
“I am healed,” I say, and yawn.
“Physically, maybe. But there are some scars people can’t see.” Dr. Brenda puts her notebook down on the table. “I need you to tell me everything that happened that night.”
“I told you: I don’t remember anything.” I look at the clock.
“I think you don’t want to remember anything.”
I sit up straighter. “What?”
“The memory of that night is somewhere inside of you, and it will come out. If you shake a bottle of soda long enough, eventually the top will pop, Aspen.”
“Do shrinks take a class in analogies?”
“I can help you get the bubbles down, but we have to start at the beginning.”
I look at Dr. Brenda’s awful snow globe collection. “Can I leave early?”
I don’t wait for an answer. I leave Dr. Brenda’s office and vow never to set foot in there again. After all, what kind of person puts a deer head in their office?
Kim hounds me at lunch, waiting by my locker, arms crossed over her chest. The scowl on her face contorts her lips until they’re crooked and makes her eyes sharp like razors. She looks like Uma, all scrunched up and evil. This usually happens when she’s about to start swearing at me in Korean and flailing her arms.
“No goodbye.” Kim starts ticking things off on her hands. “No text. No anything. You just up and leave the concert without telling me?”
“I lost my phone.” I kick the ground with my sneaker. “And I had food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning?” Her hip pops out.
“I ate a bad brownie.”
“Cass said you were high.”
“I ate a bad brownie with hash inside.”
“Are you crazy?” Kim throws her hands out to the side. Arm flailing has commenced. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing.” I push past her to my locker.
“No. Something very weird is going on. Drugs? Ninny does drugs. You don’t do drugs.”
“It was one brownie. And you’re the one who said we needed to try new things our senior year.”
“It’s more than that.” Kim leans her hip against Tom’s locker. “You’re irritable. You don’t talk to me about stuff. You’re having trouble sleeping.” She points to the bags under my eyes.
“Sounds like I’m a teenager.”
“Just tell me. I want to help.”
I yank open my locker. Resting my forehead against the cool metal door, I close my eyes. “I’m just so tired,” I whisper.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” she asks.
“I have bad dreams,” I admit.
“About the accident?”
I can’t bring myself to look at Kim when I say, “About everything coming to an end.”
“What do you mean?”
I exhale the tightness in my lungs. “You and Cass are leaving next year. You’ll be making out with some dude who reads poetry to you on a college green. You’ll be fancy. You’ll start drinking coffee without sugar or cream in it. You’ll cut off all your hair. You’ll wear jackets that look like sweaters that look like jackets. And I’ll be working at Shakedown Street.”
Kim rubs my back. “I hate poetry. And drinking black coffee is for communists.”
“You are Korean.”
“That’s North Korea, you racist, not South Korea.”
“There’s a North and a South Korea?” I ask and smile. My shoulders relax. “Maybe playing ExtermiNATION isn’t such a good idea,” I say.
“I told Cass those video games are a fucking nightmare.”
“But the sex is cool.”
We laugh. I grab Kim and wrap my arms around her small frame, squeezing my best friend into me as hard as I can. And I don’t let go. Kim slumps down into my arms, and we just stand there in the hall
way, breathing into each other’s ears.
“Was it fun being stoned?” She asks as we walk down the hallway.
“I can honestly say I’ll never do it again.”
And I’m telling the truth. Finally.
I get to physics early, sitting myself in my seat, my eyes trained on my sketchbook. My foot shakes underneath the desk, and I try to control the bile coming up my throat. I could barely eat at Moe’s. I sipped on a soda, thinking it might cure my stomachache, but all it did is remind me of Dr. Brenda’s terrible analogy and how much I hope I never see her and her red hair again.
When Ben sits down next to me, he says, “You didn’t say goodbye.”
“I was afraid of your dad’s trucker hook hand.”
“He doesn’t have a hook hand.”
“My bad.” I stare down at the sketchbook.
“He has a wooden leg.”
“Well, I love a man with a wooden leg. I’ll stay next time.”
“Next time?”
“I didn’t mean that. I hate drugs.”
Ben laughs and grabs a notebook out of his bag. “That’s a bummer.”
“That I hate drugs?”
“That or the other thing.”
My heart stammers inside my chest, swelling seven sizes larger. I settle back in my chair, exhaling.
Mr. Salmon slams a book down on his desk. The noise makes me jump, and I knock my sketchpad to the ground.
“Let’s see who did their homework this weekend,” he says.
I bend down to grab my sketchpad as Mr. Salmon continues.
“Let’s say I’m driving in a car and there’s a red light ahead. I slam on the brakes, but I’m not wearing a seatbelt.”
I sit up. Did Mr. Salmon just say car? A few people glance at me. Or at least I think they glance at me. My stomach gets tight.
When I look to the front of the room, it’s like we’re alone in the classroom and Mr. Salmon is narrowing his eyes on me. “What causes me to go flying through the windshield?”
My stomach drops to the floor. I can’t take my eyes off Mr. Salmon. He’s staring at me.
“Aspen,” he says my name.
My heartbeat pounds in my head. The longer people stare, the faster it gets. I feel the blood drain from my cheeks.
Aspen Page 16
