The Infinite Noise

by Lauren Shippen

  I make an aborted step toward him, opening my mouth to say something, who knows what, but he picks up his bag and flees. That’s the only way I can describe it. He just full-on runs away.

  Another villain vanquished by the Great Amazing Feelings Boy. Hooray.

  12

  ADAM

  Oh my god.

  Oh my god.

  I need to go to calc but my legs aren’t working properly—it feels like I’m walking on two Twizzlers. I detour to the boys’ bathroom, rushing into a stall and leaning up against the door. Breathe in deep. And out.

  I can’t believe that just happened. An honest-to-god knight-in-shining-armor moment from the object of my stupid, illogical, uncontrollable teenage affection and that’s what happens? He defends me by calling out the fact that apparently I am noticeably some sort of depressed emo loser? What kind of messed-up twist of fate is that?

  Stupid Bryce. Just because he’s a complete cretin doesn’t mean I should be punished for it. But he always does that. It’s like he woke up one day and decided, “Hey, that Adam kid is smart and therefore the reason I’m not. I’m going to harass him until I can leech all his intelligence for myself or he punches me in the face and I get to beat him up. Whichever comes first.”

  It doesn’t matter about Bryce. Bryce is a dunce. Bryce I can deal with (even if being called a freak hurt more than I’d like to admit). It’s Caleb that’s the surprise element in all of this. Why did he—how did he—

  My heart and my brain are running circles around each other as I replay the moment in my head. It felt like he saw right through me. How did he do that? Is he really that perceptive? Or am I just that obvious?

  If someone who barely knows I exist is noticing that I’m low, then I’m being sloppy. I need to get this under control. Because if my classmates are picking up on it, then my parents will start to pick up on it and they’ll start hovering again and I’ll be back with the doctors and the open doors and I just … cannot have that.

  I stand in the stall for ten more minutes, waiting for the coast to clear. Waiting to not be this way anymore. Waiting to leave this place, and these feelings, forever.

  13

  CALEB

  Every part of my body aches and the euphoria of winning the game is beginning to float away as Coach Buckner lectures us on all the things we could have done better tonight. Can’t the guy ever just enjoy the moment? I can feel that he’s proud of us—we played a hell of a game—but it’s buried under his anxiety about the season. I get that it’s his job and all, but the dude is way too invested in high school football.

  “Jesus, do you think Old Buck could ever just give us a break?” Ryan moans after Coach leaves, sinking down on the bench to untie his cleats.

  “Oh who gives a flying fuck what that prick thinks,” Bryce practically shouts, “that last touchdown was legend!” He slaps Ryan on the back and I can feel Ryan brighten a little bit at the chorus of compliments from the team that follows Bryce’s swaggering.

  Ryan smiles, high-fiving and fist-bumping the guys in between getting out of his various pieces of gear. Despite what happened earlier, I’m reluctantly grateful for Bryce in this moment. As the quarterback, Ryan has a lot of pressure on him, and I know he wants to do everything perfectly. His self-doubt about how he played was really starting to bum me out—like the weight of the world was coming down on my shoulders. Apparently all he needed was some hyping up from the team idiot.

  “Hey—Mr. QB. I hear Jessica Hernandez asked you to that Sadie Hawkins thing,” teases Henry, the team sleaze. The guys all ooh and wolf-whistle, shoving at Ryan playfully. My stomach swoops and my heart rate picks up.

  “Yeah, she did. Not that it’s any of your business,” Ryan shoots back, swatting his towel in Henry’s direction. A blush is creeping up Ryan’s neck and I feel warm all over. My face scrunches in confusion as I pull my jersey over my head—is Ryan nervous? Why would he be nervous? He’s always talking about girls. I don’t understand why this is any different.

  “Dude, she is hot,” Justin says, and there’s a murmur of agreement through the locker room.

  “Super hot,” agrees Henry. “I certainly wouldn’t mind taking a bite of that sexy burrito.” Henry does a little dance, spinning his jersey above his head like a lasso, and the instant spike of white-hot rage from Ryan almost makes me fall over.

  “Dude, shut the fuck up. That is offensive on literally so many levels,” Ryan says, chucking an elbow pad right at Henry’s face.

  “What, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about tapping that? And now she’s asked you to the dance…” Henry trails off, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. I feel like I’m biting into Styrofoam—my teeth squeaking and sliding unpleasantly at Henry’s words.

  “You know, Henry, not all of us are creeps just looking for a lay,” Ryan counters. “It’s not like that. She’s a really nice girl.”

  “Oh yeah, she is. Real nice,” Henry says. I really hate the way that Henry feels. It’s cold and sharp and thin-edged—I never notice it cutting into me until it’s already gone too deep. I try to hold on to Ryan’s feelings instead, but that might be an even worse idea.

  “I think you should probably shut up now, Henry,” Ryan warns, and Henry’s ice turns hot.

  The white-hot anger from Ryan isn’t jabbing out quite as much anymore, but has turned into molten lava that’s mixing with toxic acid coming off of Henry in waves now. I’m trying to breathe deeply through my nose and not pay the increasing tension any mind. But Ryan is pissed that Henry is running his mouth and Henry is pissed that … what? Ryan isn’t joking around with him? Whatever is going on, there’s a lot of anger swirling around and that is not a good environment for me to be in.

  “Aw, c’mon, Ryan—”

  “How ’bout you, Caleb? You going to that dance?”

  My head snaps up at Ricky’s voice, which has successfully cut off whatever dumbass thing Henry was about to say. The lava still bubbles, but more quietly than before, and I gratefully play along with the change of subject.

  “Uh, I don’t know,” I say. I haven’t thought about it at all—school functions haven’t really been my thing this year, for obvious reasons.

  “Of course he’s going! I mean, look at this face, someone’s gonna ask this cutie out.” Ryan’s got his arm around my shoulder and his other hand smooshing my face. The lava is frothing but cooling and I allow myself a little smile at Ryan’s friendly ribbing. He’s burying his anger under the teasing and I relax a tiny bit.

  The locker room breaks out into playful conversation about girls and the weekend and I take a few more deep breaths, letting the tension seep out of my chest and into my sore muscles. I beg off the guys’ invitations to go out for a victory burger—claiming some bullshit family obligation—and finally get on my way home.

  I know that’s not what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to want to hang out with the guys, celebrate our win, hit on cheerleaders … whatever. But it’s all too exhausting. It only ever leads to a stomachache from everyone else’s feelings and my teammates looking at me weird when I get distant and quiet. I don’t know what people think about me—about the fact that I don’t really have any friends—but I try to get away from them before I can find out.

  But when I get home, it isn’t exactly the relief it usually is. My dad is on deadline, my mom has been dealing with a major crisis at work, and Alice … well, I actually have no idea what Alice is doing. She’s in some sort of mood and for once, I can’t tell what kind, so I’m just all out of sorts. My parents apologize for missing the game and congratulate me on the win, but no one’s heart is in it. By 9 P.M., I’m lying on my bed, scrolling through my phone and trying to block out everything else. I guess I could turn on my Xbox, but even that feels like too much work. I’m completely wrung out.

  After a little while, the strings that connect me and my family start to dissolve into the air—they’re falling asleep. My insides uncoil and I feel alone for the
first time all week. I get a moment of enjoying the silence before something inside of me tries to make itself known.

  Oh. Right. I have my own feelings. I sort of forgot about those. Honestly, I’d like to keep forgetting about them.

  I put my phone away (watching clips of the guys’ post-game celebration is definitely not adding to the calm feeling) and pick up The Aeneid—might as well get a head start on our next unit. But as much as I try to lose myself in the Greek tragedy of it all, I can’t stop thinking about Adam.

  Despite my fist’s history with other people’s faces, I don’t actually like hurting people. And I think I hurt Adam today. Actually, I’m pretty damn sure I hurt Adam today. That’s sort of the benefit (well … curse) of my Problem. It’s not fair that when I hurt somebody, I have to feel hurt too. And then I feel guilty on top of that and … well … it all really sucks.

  I lie The Aeneid on my chest and stare up at the stupid stick-on glow stars Alice made me put on my ceiling. I’ve hurt Alice before, I know I have. She’s my sister, I’m bound to get into fights with her. But it didn’t feel like this. Hurting Adam hurts more and I don’t know why. Maybe because when I piss off Alice we’re still stuck living together and I get to be around her feelings enough to know how to make it right. Or at least, I know when she’s mostly over it and it’s safe to approach again. With Adam, I don’t know if he’s over it. Based on how he felt earlier today, I would be surprised if he’d already forgotten about it. But maybe he has. Maybe he’s out with his friends (does he have any?) and the whole dustup he had with me and Bryce is a distant annoyance in his brain. Maybe he’s fine and I’m just overreacting because the moment I’m given space to have my own feelings, they all rush in and overload my brain until it goes completely on the fritz.

  It’s only 10 P.M. and I know it’s a weekend and my life should probably be more exciting than this, but I turn off the light and try to go to sleep.

  14

  ADAM

  Looks like they won the game. I try to rustle up some school pride or happiness at this, but come up empty.

  I really shouldn’t be Instagram-stalking Caleb but I can’t help myself. I know this is probably a betrayal to my generation but: social media is such a curse. Back in the Stone Age when my parents were dating, all they could do was wonder what the other was doing when they weren’t together. They didn’t have to be exposed to every second of every day, every person the other was hanging out with, every experience they were missing out on. They could just let their imaginations run wild.

  I don’t have to wonder if Caleb has spent the entire evening thinking about our terrible encounter earlier today like I have—I know. I know he hasn’t, because he’s been thinking about football and winning and the girl he’s inevitably sharing a milkshake with at the local burger joint the football team frequents because apparently we live in a fucking CW show.

  And why should he be thinking about it? He tried to do a nice thing for someone he barely knows and I reacted like a complete weirdo. Nothing to write home about. A blip in his day and a loud, screaming, neon warning sign in mine.

  “Whatcha looking at, honey?” my mom asks from the doorway, snapping me out of my reverie.

  “Nothing,” I say, shoving my phone in my pocket and turning the sink back on. Jeez, what used to be the semi-relaxing cool-down time of washing dishes has apparently become “corner Adam and ask him about his life” time.

  “Oh really?” She grins. She places the rest of the dishes on the kitchen counter and I shrug as I hand her a plate.

  “Are you going out with friends tonight?” she asks, unable to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.

  “What do you think?” I scoff, not looking her in the eye.

  “What about that Caitlin girl?” she suggests. “It sounds like you two have a lot in common.”

  “We have a lot of classes in common,” I correct her. “She’s really popular,” I add after a moment, as if that explains everything.

  “What’s wrong with that?” God, my mom cannot let anything lie.

  “Nothing’s wrong with that, Mom,” I say, exasperated. “But I’m, you know, not popular, so we don’t really run in the same social circles.”

  “What about the other kids from debate?” she presses. “You never hang out with any of them outside of school?”

  “Not unless we need to practice.”

  “I’m just worried about you, sweets,” she says, putting down the plate and brushing my curls down.

  “I know you are, but you don’t need to be,” I assure her, even though we both know that’s not exactly true. “I like being alone. I’ll make friends in college.”

  “You know, you don’t have to save up—you can have friends now and in college,” she teases gently, giving me that big-eyed “worried about my little boy” mom look. It’s a killer look.

  “Yeah, thanks, I know that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But not a lot of high schoolers want to hang out with the depressed gay kid. I’m not exactly first on people’s lists for keggers.”

  “Well, first of all, you’re not to drink if you get invited to any ‘keggers.’” She raises her eyebrows and takes another plate from me. “And secondly, I think people might surprise you. I know you sometimes feel worlds away from everyone else—”

  “Mom, please—”

  “But that doesn’t mean people can’t relate. I’m sure there are other kids at your school who struggle with mental health or their sexual identity—”

  “I’m not struggling with my ‘sexual identity,’ Mom—”

  “You know that’s not what I mean,” she says sternly, pinning me with a look. Uh-oh, somehow we’ve wandered into Serious Talk territory. “I just mean that, while you are a very special young man for many reasons, you are not the only—as you put it—‘depressed gay kid’ in the world. But if you never give anyone a chance, you’ll never know.”

  I turn off the sink and start to put the dry dishes away.

  “Look, I know that, but that doesn’t help me. I don’t want to hang out with someone like me. And that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? I don’t even like me, why the hell would anyone else?”

  “Adam.”

  Fuck. Why did I say that? Now she’s got her Very Concerned voice on. She puts her hands on my shoulders and turns me around to face her.

  “I like you.”

  “You’re my mother, you have to like me—”

  “I like you and your father likes you”—she talks over me—“and anyone who gets to know you will like you. Sometimes that’s enough. We don’t always have to love ourselves in order to receive love from others. Sometimes that’s how we learn to love ourselves.”

  “Okay, Mom, I get it.” I shrug her hands off my shoulders and turn back to the sink, where I pick up a sponge before remembering that I’ve done all the dishes already. I toss the sponge back and start wiping my hands on the dish towel, pointedly not looking at her. I know this conversation is probably far from over but I really, really don’t want to be having it.

  “Adam, I just don’t want you to—” she starts, and, yep, this is exactly the last thing in the world I want to be discussing.

  “I know, Mom. But I’m fine.” I turn around to face her as I say this, knowing I need to sell it. I can see the growing panic in her face. If I’m not careful, she’ll go DEFCON 1 on me—call in the therapists, start checking my bathroom for sharp objects, keep tabs on where I am at all times … that’s a hard pass from me.

  “Really, I’m good,” I reiterate, looking her unblinkingly in the eye. She looks skeptical and I reach for the emergency lever on Mom-Calming. “I actually sort of made a friend today.”

  Um, what?

  I remember reading something once about enhanced interrogation techniques (a nice term for “torture”) and how if anyone is interrogated for long enough, they’ll eventually say something, even if it isn’t true. That’s what getting a stare-down from Rebecca Hayes is like. I always crack.
Even if it means creating more problems for myself, I’ll tell her what she wants to hear. I would bug my mom a lot more about her work—especially after that conversation with my dad—if I thought I’d ever get anywhere.

  “Really?” Her whole face lights up and my stomach plummets in guilt. Why, oh why, did I say that?

  “Um, yeah, sort of,” I mutter, throwing the dish towel on the counter and moving around the kitchen trying to find something else—anything else—to do.

  “Well? Tell me about them!” she demands after a moment. Why haven’t I made up some imaginary homework by this point and escaped upstairs? How is this how I’m starting my weekend?

  “I don’t know, it’s not a big deal, Mom. I was just in an argument with this guy in my English class and this other guy intervened and it was kind of nice. So I guess you’re right—people can be nice and I should give them a chance. Cool, good talk, Mom, I’m gonna go upstairs now,” I say all in a rush, moving toward the doorway with my head down.

  “Wait just a minute, young man. What kind of argument?” she asks, crossing her arms and getting back into stare-down mode.

  “It was nothing.” I plaster a fake smile over my face. “Just about our class presentations.”

  “Adam, darling, are you being bullied at school?”

  “Jeez, Mom,” I groan, “are you trying to hit on every single after-school special tonight?”

  “I’m just—”

  “Worried about me, yeah, I get it,” I snap, and my mom’s face crumples up just a little. That’s not fair. You’re not supposed to feel bad for your interrogator.

  “I’m just tired, okay? It’s been a long week,” I say by way of explanation and pseudo-apology.