by Leah Scheier
“There was alcohol,” Ethan chirps. I send him another death look. “But I didn’t have any. And we sat outside. We weren’t around the kids who were drinking.”
She doesn’t appear satisfied. “Did you drink, Rain? Where were you during the party?” she asks me pointedly. I open my mouth to lie. I don’t like lying to my mom, but I’m not pathologically truthful like Ethan. I can spin a story if I need to. Yet for some reason, at that moment the words are sticking in my throat.
But then Ethan answers for me. “She was watching me, like she always does. Even when I was with Hope.” He manages to sound wounded. “It was really annoying.”
I stare at him, open-mouthed, but he’s looking past me at our mother. The tension drains slowly from her face, and she uncrosses her arms. I know what she’s thinking. It must be the truth. Ethan’s word is gold. “Still,” she says after a moment. “You two were at a party with underage drinking. If someone had called the cops—”
“I know,” I say, relieved to have finally found my voice. “I didn’t realize there would be so many people. And that some of the seniors were bringing beer. I wanted to go home at first. But then Ethan was doing so well—”
“Marcus told me I was beautiful,” Ethan remarks.
That ends her lecture. Her stern expression melts and she laughs loudly. “Did he?”
“Yes. I think he wants to be my friend.”
The stress lines have vanished from her face, and she’s beaming at him. She’s so delighted that Ethan has made a new friend that she seems to have completely forgotten about the party…and Kathy’s strange behavior. “Well, you should talk to Marcus,” she gushes. How did Ethan just do that? He’d simultaneously gotten me off the hook and made my mother proud of him. “Maybe invite him over. It sounds like he needs a friend right now.”
“Okay,” he says. He appears to calculate something in his head. “I’m up to fifteen,” he says triumphantly and hurries off to his room. I decide to hurry off to mine, just in case Mom has any further questions I can’t answer.
Every one of my friends has gone through something huge in the last week. But out of all of us, I’m worried most about the one who’s vanished since that fateful party. I take out my phone and type a quick message to Marcus. I’m here if you want to talk. Don’t worry about the punch thing. I’m feeling better now. How are you doing?
He doesn’t respond. When I try calling a little later it goes straight to voicemail.
Later that evening I tap on my brother’s door. When I enter, he’s sitting cross-legged on his rug, surrounded by piles of open textbooks. He looks up and then quickly turns back to his notes. “Hello, Rain.”
“I wanted to thank you,” I tell him. “For what you did earlier.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies automatically. He has no idea what I’m talking about, though.
“When you said that stuff about me watching over you at the party. You lied for me. And you were convincing too. It was impressive. Especially the part about me being annoying.”
“I didn’t lie,” he says.
“What?”
He turns suddenly and focuses on my startled face; he studies me quietly for a moment, his eyes narrow and then he looks back at his book. “I didn’t lie.”
“Of course you did. You told Mom that I was watching you and Hope…” But the protest dies on my lips. “Oh,” I breathe, suddenly understanding. “You saw me. At the window.”
He doesn’t respond at first. He’s turning the pages of the notebook in front of him. For a second, I think he hasn’t heard me. But then his hands tighten around the binding of his journal.
“Yes. I saw you.”
ETHAN’S JOURNAL:
Ulcerative Colitis Cured by Fecal Transplant in Mice
Recent studies have shown complete remission of symptoms when stool from a healthy subject is transplanted into diseased bowels.
I’ve begun investigating methods of delivery for my proposed therapy. Dissolvable plastic capsules or a suppository seem to be the best options. I have plenty of samples that I could donate for the trial.
When I showed Mom the article, she said, “So you want to put your poop in a pill and make me swallow it?”
Rain and Mom both laughed. “Don’t you think Mom’s taken enough of your shit over the last few years?” Rain asked. I understood the pun, but I didn’t think it was funny. “Taking shit” is an expression for tolerating someone’s annoying behavior. I was trying to help, and Rain was implying that I was being annoying. Then Rain handed me her own research article about the digestive benefits of apigenin, found in wheatgrass, and presented Mom with a glass of wheatgrass juice with rice milk. I got up and left the room.
“Don’t be offended,” Rain shouted after me. “It was only a joke.”
I don’t usually get offended by jokes. But Mom had chosen my sister’s medical proposal over mine. I would have to review Rain’s article immediately. If the study is faulty, then there would be a good reason for offense. I’ll know how to feel after I’ve collected more data.
Chapter 22
It’s been days of polite lab experiments for Liam and me. Between taking care of my mom and preparing for exams, I haven’t had much chance to see him. We finally carve out a couple of hours after school for “studying.”
I’m sick with anticipation by the time Liam arrives. I really need this evening to be perfect. So far our relationship has been a short history of misunderstandings and screwups. I want to start again, like we’ve just met, like I hadn’t pined after him for a year without speaking to him and then exploded at him in chemistry class; like he hadn’t told me that he was leaving Montana, like we hadn’t drunkenly fallen on top of one another on our second date. I need to believe we can salvage this.
My mom and Ethan are both in their bedrooms, but I suggest we hang out in mine. As I wave him over to the futon, Liam hesitates for a moment; I suddenly realize that he’s never actually been inside my bedroom. The idea is sort of funny and a little embarrassing. Liam seems to feel it too. He settles next to me awkwardly, his arms stiff at his sides.
Neither of us speak at first. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are darting between me and the framed photo of Julia Child on my desk, like he can’t decide where to look. He seems to be waiting for me to break the silence. I want to be the sort of couple that can sit for an hour without speaking and be totally cool with that, the couple who can communicate through looks and body language. That’s the goal, eventually. But right now, someone really needs to talk.
“So… I went over to Marcus’s house the other day,” he blurts out, finally.
I’m not sure how to respond. I promised Kathy I wouldn’t give away his secret. “Oh, yeah?” I say. “I’ve tried calling him but I can’t get through. Is he sick?” That’s the best noncommittal answer I can give.
I can feel him staring at me, but I’m not brave enough to lie under scrutiny. Does he know? How can I ask him without giving anything away?
He hesitates again. “There was something in that punch.”
I lift my head and meet his eyes. “That was some powerful stuff.”
A barely perceptible smile. “Life changing, actually.”
“Liberating?”
The smile finally dawns, and he relaxes against the sofa. “How do you know?”
“Kathy. You?”
“I went over to bring him his homework, and he told me what happened at the party. He was relieved that no one else found out. But it wasn’t an easy visit. He’s totally freaking out.”
“He’s freaking out? Kathy’s heartbroken.”
“So is Marcus!”
“Really?”
He sighs and moves a little closer to me. “Kathy and Marcus’s relationship is over obviously. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her.”
“So why doesn’t
he tell her that instead of avoiding her?”
“That’s what I said to him. But I don’t think he’s ready to face her yet. Even if it means hiding in his room for a while.”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong. And it’s better that she find out now.”
He shrugs. “He wasn’t ready to come out, Rain. It kind of spilled out while he was drunk and vulnerable, and now he doesn’t know what to do. He begged me not to tell anyone.”
“Well, I’m sure you helped just by talking to him. He’s got no one at home to confide in.”
“I don’t know if I did much good. You probably had better luck with Kathy, talented psychologist that you are.”
I laugh and give him a playful shove. “Not talented at all, really. I’m finding out that there’s way more to psychology than memorizing a textbook. My mom’s been telling me that I was a born shrink ever since I can remember. But I’m not so sure anymore.”
He smiles. “Why not? Your brother’s a born surgeon.”
I turn to stare at him, my expression suddenly serious. “You really think so? You’re not just saying that?”
“No, I’m not just saying that. You should have seen him on that surgery ward. Absorbing everything. Asking questions—good questions—that Dr. Peters actually wanted to answer. He really pissed off all the medical students, though.”
“I bet. Still, Ethan may be great at memorizing anatomy and stuff, but there’s so much more to this than he realizes. So many challenges—”
“He was happy, Rain. And he knows his challenges just as well as you do.”
“I guess. It’s just that I’ve seen him fall flat on his face so many times, and it hurts me each time he does. So I’m scared for him.”
“I know. But maybe you need to start hiding that fear. At least from him.”
He may be right, I think. That I should fade from Ethan’s life a little. Stop snooping behind curtains and give my brother some room. But what am I supposed to do with the sixteen years I’ve spent as my twin’s confidant and shadow?
“I was just trying to help.” Haven’t I planned my entire future around Ethan? Where do I go from here? The thought makes me feel sad and useless. What was the point, after all? What is my point now?
“I’m not saying he doesn’t need you,” he replies. “I’m just saying that you can make next year different. Follow your own dreams for a change.”
“What dreams?”
He hesitates for a moment and plucks at a loose thread at the end of his sleeve. “I mean, you’ve said that you want to leave Clarkson after high school, right? That you want to be free to go anywhere you want.”
I cast my mind back to our earlier conversations. When had I said that? It sounded good, like something that I wanted to say. But what about Ethan and my responsibilities at home? “Well,” I reply hesitantly. “I do want to go to college and then eventually to graduate school.”
“Oh, I know that,” he says eagerly. “But what about traveling? Seeing the world?”
“Well, of course I would love that!” I interjected. “I mean, eventually.”
“I know you would. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. What do you think about applying to the international program with me?”
It’s an abrupt segue; I hadn’t seen that one coming. “You mean the Global Gap program?”
“Yeah. Why not? It’s a great experience, and it’ll look good on your college applications.”
“But you were planning to go next year. And I don’t have enough credits to graduate early.”
“I’d wait. If you wanted me to. If it meant we could go together.”
He would wait for me? He’d put his dreams on hold in the hope it would give our relationship a chance? I don’t know what to say. His eyes are fixed on mine, earnest and waiting. His lips are open, as if he’s paused midbreath to hear my answer. And I’m frozen too, somewhere between gratefulness and fear, between happiness and doubt. How can I accept an offer like that? I want to embrace the idea of an adventure with Liam. But I have too many people relying on me right now. How can I abandon my mother when she’s sick? And who will take care of Ethan if I go?
“But we’ve only been dating for three weeks,” I falter.
It’s absolutely the wrong thing to say. The exact opposite of what he’d hoped to hear.
The light fades from his eyes, and his shoulders sag. “It was just an idea,” he says quietly. “Never mind.”
“No… I mean…”
I want to take it back. I want to bring that flash of hope into his eyes again. He’s staring off at my desk and chewing his lip.
“Maybe I just need to get used to the idea,” I tell him softly. “Liam, please look at me.” He glances back at me and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I feel pretty stupid. Of course it’s too early to think about that kind of stuff now. And I was the one who wanted to take it slow. But here I am pushing you to make this big decision. For me.”
“Yeah, what happened to you?” I ask him, smiling.
He shrugs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I don’t know. You kissed me, and then I guess you somehow got into my blood.”
“Is that right?”
He grins broadly. “Yeah, you’re like this unexpected, sweet…” He pauses uncertainly. “Poison.”
“Wow. That’s the best you could come up with? I’m like poison?”
“Well, there are good poisons. Look it up.”
“You’d better be careful with the romantic talk. I’m actually reconsidering kissing you.”
“You were considering it? No way,” he says, and brings his lips to mine so suddenly that I fall back on my arms.
And then neither of us speak. Because, suddenly, he’s way better with his lips than with his words. Hell, he could have called me a rabid tarantula if it meant I’d get kissed like that.
His hands run up my back as he pulls me close to him. His mouth leaves mine and travels to my chin, my neck, my chest. I brush my fingers through his curls, the little dark spirals I love. We’re starting over, I tell myself. Nothing can ruin us now. We have the power to turn our mistake into a quaint story, coat the past with a frenzy of new kisses.
And yet, somehow the shadow of Halloween still haunts us. I feel it when he hesitates, I see the question in his eyes as he pulls back and looks at me. What am I okay with? Where can he touch me? How much of that night do I remember, and how much of this is new?
How can I pretend to forget when his every kiss feels like an apology? I want his questions to fade, my mind to go quiet. No fears, no embarrassment, no past or future. Just now, this moment, his warmth, and the drum of his heart against my chest.
But the harder I kiss him, the more I grasp at his shirt and press him to me, the louder my thoughts clamor. Because, now, as I lie back against the sofa and pull him on top of me, I feel the rush of a lost memory. Maybe it’s the moan of his excitement, or the heat of our bodies moving against one another, or possibly the spice-wash smell of him which awakens me. But I remember. For the first time since that night, I remember every detail of everything I said and did. And it comes back so suddenly that I gasp and pull back, sliding out of his arms so quickly that he kisses the air.
He looks startled for a moment, then pained as understanding dawns. “Oh,” he says softly.
“I’m sorry. I just need a second.”
But I’m going to need more than that.
It shouldn’t matter, I tell myself. Just because I remember that night doesn’t mean I can’t make my peace with it and move on. But the harder I try to push the memory from my mind, the brighter it gets. I don’t recognize myself in that truck, don’t understand how a little whiskey could have drowned out the Rain I know. What’s the big deal, anyway? Hadn’t I wanted to be less cautious, more spontaneous? Wasn’t I the one who’d asked L
iam out in the first place, who’d pulled him close to me? Wasn’t I the one who’d urged him to go farther than either of us had wanted? So why can’t I take a step back and start over, climb that relationship hill with him again, but slowly and soberly this time? I take a deep breath and edge closer to Liam, who’s sitting silently slumped at the edge of the sofa.
But the romantic moment has passed and all that’s left is a rising squeeze of nausea. My stomach lurches suddenly, and I double over, my hand going to my mouth. I don’t throw up, thank God. But I gag. And he sees it. I can’t bear to look at his face.
He reaches out to me, gently lays his hand on my shoulder. But my neck is damp and cold, and I don’t want him to touch my sweaty skin. I pull away from him. He flinches; I can’t see him, but I can sense his hurt. My insides twist, and I swallow against the urge to heave again. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Liam, it isn’t you,” I stammer.
I hear him exhale. “Yeah, I’m trying not to take it personally.”
But every time we kiss, something seems to go wrong. If I were him, I’d take that very personally. It’s like the fates don’t want us to be together. “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m getting sick.”
“Do you want me to go?”
I nod dully, and wipe my sleeve over my clammy brow. “Please.”
“Maybe you need to go to the doctor?”
There’s a note of anxiety in his voice I refuse to acknowledge. I want him stop worrying about me and leave so I can vomit alone in peace.
He finally goes, and the nausea fades as soon as the door closes behind him.
I consider calling the doctor to make an appointment, if only to calm Liam down a bit. But as I’m looking for the number, I’m interrupted by a hysterical text from Kathy: I’m driving to Marcus’s right now! I don’t care if I’m grounded. I don’t care if his parents are there. I’m going to make him speak to me!
So I’m on the phone with her until late. By the time I hang up, I feel better, mentally and physically. The nausea has vanished completely, and I’m calmer than I’ve been in weeks. I’d just managed to talk Kathy out of a big confrontation in front of Marcus’s family. As she headed home, Kathy thanked me for understanding; I even made her laugh a little, despite her pain, and at that moment her brief chuckle was the sweetest sound I’d heard in ages. Recently, I’d been messing up whenever I talked to Ethan and Liam, so it’s comforting to know I can still get through to one person at least. I’ve finally managed to help someone—and I hadn’t used a single diagnosis from my psychology book.
