“I’m…?” I prompt, acting like this behavior is totally normal to me now, even though it makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
“You just seem a little bummed out, that’s all.” He shrugs, averting his eyes.
“What’re you, a human mood ring?” I quip, but my heart is picking up speed at his observation.
“You’re just really obvious, dude,” he counters.
I sigh, playing up the drama of it, trying to act like I’m not a ball of self-doubt and exhaustion. I’m mostly comfortable around Caleb now; I don’t feel like he’s going to bolt or say one day, “Gotcha! Joke’s on you, I never actually wanted to be your friend.” But I still feel like I’m splashing around in the shallow end. Even when we talk about serious things like our futures or parents, there’s a lightness to it, forced mostly by me and my stomach-clenching fear of Caleb finding out that some days I can’t get out of bed because my brain doesn’t work right.
Caleb rolls his eyes (fondly, I think. I hope) at my overdone sighing and gives me The Look. The Look that I saw that first lunch: the “you’re full of crap and you better start talking now because I don’t have the patience” look.
“My parents are on me about college apps,” I say, finally giving in.
“What? Already? Jeez, I knew they were intense, but…”
“Your parents haven’t started giving you grief about it?” I ask, disbelieving.
“I mean, we’ve been touring campuses and stuff,” he says with a shrug, “and they get on me about studying for the SATs, but they haven’t been crazy hyped about it or anything.”
“Wow,” I deadpan, “I can’t imagine that.”
“Dude, are you okay?” His eyes are doing that puppy-dog thing they do that makes my stomach flip over and dissolve. I get a flash of Caleb and my mom teaming up to do a Good Cop/Bad Cop routine and quickly determine that the world (least of all my sanity) would never survive.
“I’ve got a little less than a year to get my apps ready,” I deflect. “I’m really not that worried about getting them done.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” he says, staring me down. And no, I don’t know that, because I never know what Caleb means. What does he mean by these lunches? What does he mean when he looks over his shoulder at me in class? What does he mean when he reads me—me, who tries so hard to move through school completely unnoticed—like an open book?
“No, I don’t, Caleb,” I say honestly. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” He’s adamant, getting worked up. “You’ve been sad and jittery for days and it feels like the kind of sad you get when your parents are putting pressure on you, but I’m not sure so I wish you’d just talk to me about it!”
He’s practically glaring at me, like he’s mad that I’m having feelings. I sit there in a stunned silence and watch the frustration on his face melt into panic. His eyes widen and I can see his brain catching up with his mouth.
“I’m—” he starts. “I didn’t mean—I don’t know what I’m saying.” He shakes his head and stares down at the table.
“How—” My lips release sound I didn’t plan on making and I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. “Why do you say I’ve been sad and jittery for days?” I ask, even though there’s so many more things I want to ask.
“Because you have been,” he mumbles.
“No, I haven’t,” I lie. I’ve barely seen Caleb this week, where is he getting this from?
“Yes, you have, I can feel it.” Caleb spits it out and looks up at me.
“What?”
“I just mean—I—” His eyes dart around and his face is turning red, out of frustration or embarrassment I have no idea. “I can just tell, okay? You’re not that good at hiding it.”
“Ouch,” I say, trying to sound casual as my heart starts racing in panic.
“No, c’mon, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—I mean—fuck.” Caleb brings his hands up to his head, running his fingers frantically through his hair. My brain takes a quick detour from keeping up with this incredibly odd conversation to thinking about how much I wish I could replace his hands with mine.
“Caleb, are you okay?” I ask earnestly, partly to get the focus off of me but partly because he is looking increasingly not okay.
“Yeah, no—I’m fine.” His hands come around to cradle the back of his neck as he looks up at the sky, inhaling deeply. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so weird all the time.”
“I don’t think you’re weird,” I say, mostly truthfully.
He scoffs.
“Trust me, you would,” he says grimly.
“What?”
“Do you want to come over on Friday?” He tilts his head down from staring at the sky and I’m taken aback by the question and the sudden eye contact.
“What?”
I say “what” approximately three hundred percent more in conversations with Caleb than with anyone else. It is deeply confusing.
“We’ve got that stupid Sadie Hawkins thing on Saturday and I still have no idea what suit to wear so do you want to maybe come over and help me pick one out?” There are those goddamn puppy eyes again.
“Why on earth do you think I’d be good at that?” I ask, gesturing down at my oh-so-fashionable jean jacket/black T-shirt/black jeans combo.
“I don’t know, because you’re—” He stops himself again, and this time his face gets even redder. Oh. So the elephant in the room has finally been acknowledged. Sort of. And apparently this elephant comes with stereotypes.
“I don’t know, dude.” He breezes past the awkward moment with a roll of his eyes before I have a chance to reply. “I just need a second opinion from someone who’s not over the age of forty and not my kid sister. Doesn’t really matter if you know anything about clothes or not. Then, I don’t know, we could watch a movie or play Xbox or something.”
“Yeah, okay.” My mouth is continuing to say words before my brain has a chance to think. I don’t know if Caleb is asking to distract from the earlier weirdness or because he genuinely wants to hang out, but I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to see if his family are all as freakishly perceptive as he is. Plus, I can’t remember the last time I went over to a friend’s house.
Friends. I guess that’s what we are now. The warm feeling I get in my stomach from that thought almost distracts me from the genuine smile that takes over Caleb’s face as he nods and says, “Cool. Cool, cool.” For the first time all week, I don’t feel sad and jittery, and there’s something in Caleb’s eyes that tells me that, somehow, he knows.
23
CALEB
My palms are sweating as I make my way down the stairs. I don’t know why I’m nervous about talking to my parents about Adam but I am. The whole thing—this weird month of hanging out and becoming friends—has been between the two of us and no one else. I’ve talked to Dr. Bright about it but, I don’t know, it still feels special and protected and I’m afraid to disrupt that.
As I walk into the kitchen, feelings wash over me, momentarily drowning out the sound of my family’s voices. Mom is stressed but happy, Dad has got that weird little buzz that I think is, like, a writer’s high, and Alice is feeling … like there’s warm sunlight on her face. I pause for a second in the doorway, trying to figure it out. It’s not too bright or hot—it’s almost like the sunlight is coming from Alice instead of shining down on her.
“Hey, loser.” My sister’s voice cuts through the wave. “What are you doing?”
“Alice, don’t be rude to your brother,” my dad chastises as he puts some sort of casserole on the table.
“What’s up with you?” I ask, snapping out of it and moving to sit down.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“You’re all … warm,” I say dumbly.
“Alice got an A on her math final from last semester,” my mom fills in, and I feel the warm sun from her too. There’s something familiar about it and not just in the sense that my family
’s feelings are familiar. I think I felt this recently from someone else. Suddenly, it snaps into place.
“Oh, you’re proud,” I say, the feeling coming into focus.
“And what’s wrong with that?” Alice asks defensively.
“No, nothing,” I say. “I just didn’t know what you were feeling.” I think back to this emotion coming from Dr. Bright and feel an extra layer of warmth from the idea that she’s proud of me.
“Sheesh, you couldn’t recognize pride? This family might have a self-esteem problem if you haven’t felt that before,” my dad jokes.
“Caleb?” I feel a spike of worry from my mom.
“No, no, I have,” I rush to explain. “I just don’t think I’ve really paid attention to what it was before. But, you know, it’s getting easier to sort through everything, especially with you guys.”
We’re all sitting at this point, comfortable in our dinner routine, but my comment brings the flow of emotions to a weird stuttering stop. My family is mostly used to my Problem by now but I think it still freaks them out when I talk about it. Probably a good time to change the subject.
“So, hey, um,” I start a little too loudly, “would it be cool if my friend Adam came over on Friday?”
For once, I don’t really get a read on what everyone feels about the question, because my heart is in my throat and my palms have become the Atlantic Ocean again. I don’t see any reason why they would say no but it feels like the question has a lot riding on it. I’ve got this idea in my head that if I don’t make an effort to “solidify the friendship”—as Dr. Bright puts it—then Adam will just get bored and stop having lunch with me.
And here’s the thing—I really like having lunch with Adam. I mean, lunch was already my favorite part of the school day because a) food and b) I get to be alone with my own feelings for once. But it’s even better with Adam because then I’m not just stewing in whatever moods I’ve collected throughout the morning and because, well, his feelings are kind of great. I mean, the kid is stressed to the max all the time and there’s the deep blue water that is so strong sometimes I don’t understand how he even breathes, but he’s funny and smart and his feelings don’t make me want to crawl out of my own body. That seems like something worth solidifying.
“Who’s Adam?” my dad asks.
“Uh, he’s just this guy at school,” I say.
“He’s in English with you, right?” my mom asks.
“Yeah. Latin too.”
“Are you guys going to study on a Friday night?” my dad asks, disbelieving.
“No. No, we were just gonna hang out.” I shovel casserole into my mouth to distract from the rising tide of staticky confusion coming from my parents.
“Oh,” my mom says, a silent conversation passing between her and my dad that not even my Problem can figure out the content of. “Well, of course he can. You know you’re allowed to have any friends over.”
“Exactly,” my dad agrees. “We look forward to meeting him.”
They’re talking to me but looking at each other, their eyes having that separate conversation. There’s a swirl of feeling coming from them—confusion, concern … maybe a little hopefulness or something—and their emotions are in sync in a way that’s totally unique to them.
I guess if you’ve been married for that long, your feelings start to feel the same. It’d be cool if it wasn’t so fucking strange. Even Alice, who had been texting covertly under the table until now, is picking up on the weird vibe, her face a question mark as her eyes dart between them.
“Okay, what?” I drop my knife and fork and they clatter on my plate as my parents’ eyes snap to me. “Whatever it is, just say it. I’m not actually a mind reader, you know.”
“Sorry, sweetie.” My mom’s face crumples in sympathy. “We just didn’t realize you were making new friends! It’s been a while since you’ve had anyone over and we’re happy that you’re getting back out there.”
“Don’t make him sound like he’s some sort of sad spinster,” Alice says indignantly. A little ball of warmth swells in my chest. Alice shares my hatred of being pitied and it’s nice to know that we’ll always back each other up when it happens.
“We’re just happy you’re socializing, son.” My dad awkwardly pats my hand. Alice rolls her eyes.
“It sounds like you’re having an easier time with things,” my mom suggests, and I feel that light, tentative spark of hopefulness reach out for me.
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug. “I don’t know, it’s a little easier to deal with it around him.”
“His emotions don’t overwhelm you?” my mom asks. She’s met with Dr. Bright a couple times to talk about how to raise someone like me—an “Atypical” kid, I guess—and it leads to dumbass therapy questions at the dinner table.
“I mean, sometimes, yeah, but I mostly have it under wraps.”
“Mostly?” my dad asks.
Fuck. Can’t give parents an inch, can you?
“He hasn’t picked up on anything weird, I don’t think,” and god, why did I just say that? My nervousness had pretty much gone away but it’s back now and it’s not entirely mine—my parents are worried about something.
“You haven’t told him anything, right, Caleb?” My mom’s voice is gentle but I feel the anxious edge to it.
“No, of course not!” I say. “But would it really be so bad if I did? I mean, it’s not like I can move stuff with my mind or anything, I don’t get why it has to be this big secret!”
“It doesn’t have to be a big secret,” my dad says, and there’s something about this whole conversation that feels like my parents have rehearsed it. “But remember what Dr. Bright said, you have to be careful about who you tell.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I stare down at my half-eaten dinner. “It’s not like I was planning on blurting it out, I barely know the guy. But I just—I hate being the freak with the secret, that’s all.”
“You’re not a freak, honey.” Now it’s my mom’s turn to pat me, this time on my shoulder. “But we just need to make sure you stay safe.”
“What? Safe?”
My parents glance toward each other, something significant passing between them, and I feel a tight coil of stress squeeze their hearts. They’re—they’re actually concerned about something. Scared.
“Guys, what’s going on?” I lean forward, my eyes darting back and forth between them. Out of my peripheral, I see Alice leaning forward as well, phone long forgotten in her lap.
“Caleb, we just want you to be careful about how much you use your power,” my dad says solemnly.
“‘Use my power’?” I echo disbelievingly. “I don’t use it, it just happens to me.”
“Exactly.” My mom nods. “And while that’s still the case, it’s important that you keep it as quiet as possible. We are thrilled that you’re making new friends”—my dad nods vigorously in agreement—“but we just want to make sure that you’re not being…” She fishes around for a word.
“Careless,” my dad fills in. “It wouldn’t be good for anyone to find out about what you can do unless you’re sure that you can trust them.”
“Why?” Alice asks before I can.
“Because it’s not something you want to broadcast,” my dad answers.
“But why?” I push.
“Because there are people out there who…” My mom trails off, looking at my dad, and he gives her the slightest nod. “Who might not appreciate what you can do.”
“Why the fuck would I care about them?” I snap.
“Language, Caleb,” my dad chides.
Whoops, I didn’t mean to swear in front of them, but the staticky feeling is swelling through my body and making me squirm. I feel like an exposed wire jerking through the air, ready to land in a pool of water. My parents are legit stressed and I don’t get why.
“Sorry, I just…” My brain is buzzing and I can feel my parents’ orange, warm concern pushing through the static, and that’s a toxic combination for m
y ability to think. I’m squeezing my eyes shut, trying to keep it together, but the stress-concern-fear loop keeps going round and round and I’m trying to catch the end of it to pull it back but it’s moving too fast for me to grab on to. The thought crosses through my mind that I wish Adam were here so I could hold on to his feelings.
“Caleb,” someone says, their voice a hot, smothering steam.
“Mom, don’t—”
“He’s—”
“Sh, just let him—”
“Alice, we can’t—”
“Okay, but let me—” A cool hand covers mine where it’s gripping the edge of the table.
“Caleb?” My sister’s voice travels with the cool breeze of calm that’s coming through her hand. “You need to breathe, dude.”
I inhale and open my eyes. My family is still sitting at the table, their eyes wide but their bodies uncharred. I didn’t explode in a fit of electric rage. I grab on to the buoy of calm my sister has thrown to me and try to use it to clear the humming in my head.
“You guys can’t just throw stuff at him without explaining it, you know that,” my sister lectures my parents like she’s the adult. Twelve and the only one in the family who’s learned how to keep her head in a crisis.
“We’re sorry, son.” My dad looks shamefaced and my mom looks close to tears. God, everyone had been in such a good mood when we started dinner (all of ten minutes ago, I realize, even though it feels like hours), why did I have to ruin it?
“What the hell is going on?” I choke out, my throat still tight from the poisonous combination of feelings that’s been running through it. “What are you guys so stressed about?”
My mom blinks away her unshed tears and takes a deep breath.
“When we first took you to Dr. Bright, she explained that there are—” She pauses and I feel like I’m about to be told that I have three months to live. I unthinkingly turn my hand over and squeeze Alice’s. “There are people who like to keep tabs on people like you—people who can do special things.”
The Infinite Noise Page 11
