The Infinite Noise

by Lauren Shippen

  I feel the last of my family members drift off to sleep—my dad, I think, it’s always my dad—and my whole body exhales. I do a mental and physical check of myself. I’m tired (what else is new), a little sore from my run earlier (but not in a bad way), and just a bit hungry (again, what else is new). Basically, your standard.

  The emotional check is a little more complicated. I’m stressed about a history quiz I have later this week but, in general, looking forward to school tomorrow. That’s new. New-ish. And I know exactly why school doesn’t fill me with dread anymore like it did at the beginning of the semester. It’s because of Adam.

  Which leads me to the heart of the matter: what are my feelings about him?

  I want to be around Adam all the time. I think about him constantly, I miss him when he’s not there, and when he is there I want … more. I let myself imagine for a second what that would be like and my breath catches in my throat, the pit of my stomach aching. Out of all the feelings I’ve felt—and I can safely say that it’s been a lot, the whole gamut—I’ve never felt anything like this.

  And he’s not here. He’s miles away, probably in his own bed staring up at his own ceiling, and every cell in my body wants to be next to him. That’s a feeling I’m feeling, right now, alone in my room. I don’t have the excuse of his emotions influencing mine—there’s no one else to blame. There’s no one else to thank. This is mine.

  This is mine.

  A strange mix of relief and anticipation swirls in my body. Finally, I have something that’s my own and it’s good and no one can take that away from me. It doesn’t matter how much other people invade me every day—fill me with things I’d rather not feel, confuse my head and my heart—because this is mine.

  But what do I do about it? That’s a totally different, terrifying question. A question I’m not sure I’m even at yet. Because it feels dishonest to try and be with someone when I’m only sharing part of who I really am with them. I mean, everyone keeps secrets. But this feels like a big secret.

  I want to tell him. I have to tell him. If I ever want to be more than just Adam’s friend, he deserves to know the truth. On Sunday, I’m going to talk to Dr. Bright about it, and if she thinks it’s all right, then I’m going to tell him. And then I can tell him how I feel and everything will be fine. No: better than fine. Things will be good because I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. As long as he doesn’t freak out about my ability, things will be great.

  Thinking about it makes my heart leap into my throat in anxious anticipation. The thought of Adam knowing—of anyone outside my family knowing—terrifies me. But I can do this. I can be brave enough. Because the alternative—keeping a huge secret from someone who I think is turning into my best friend—just isn’t acceptable. I was able to tell Caitlin I just wanted to be friends. I can tell Adam my biggest secret and that I want to be more than friends. I can. I’ll be brave.

  34

  CALEB

  I am a total coward. Before I know it, almost a month has gone by since Dr. Bright gave me the go-ahead, saying, “If you trust him, you should tell him,” and I’ve stayed completely quiet. School got busy and spring training got intense and Adam was constantly stressed out about his big debate competition (which he totally nailed like I knew he would) and there just hasn’t been a good opening.

  But today is Adam’s seventeenth birthday and I feel like I might spontaneously combust if I don’t tell him soon. And, let’s be real, with everything Dr. Bright has accidentally hinted at about her other clients, that might be a possibility. We still don’t know that much about this—for all I know, I’m gonna get worked up extra bad one day and just burst into flames. That might honestly be preferable over this constant state of standing in the open doorway of an airplane, wanting to jump but being too paralyzed with fear to take that final step.

  But first I have to go through the doorway in front of me. I hear footsteps and the creaking of the heavy door on its hinges, opening to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Hayes’s smiling faces.

  “Come on in, Caleb.” Mr. Hayes pats my shoulder as I step over the threshold. I’m bombarded with questions about how I am, about how my parents are, how’s school going, so nice of you to come over, Adam’s just in the kitchen he’ll be so glad to see you—I lose track of the actual words as their excited voices are drowned out by their feelings. Energized nervousness, hopefulness, and the warmth that comes from people’s bodies when they’re trying to make you feel comfortable.

  I’ve met Adam’s parents exactly once before, when they dropped him off at my house a few weeks ago. They came in for about two seconds to do the whole hand-shake-so-nice-to-meet-you thing with my parents and kind of look me up and down before going off to whatever fancy dinner they had that night. Adam’s parents go to a lot of fancy dinners.

  Standing in Adam’s front hall right now is the complete opposite of that night. The first time, they’d been stiff and formal—all dressed up and awkwardly polite to my drab-by-comparison parents. My parents are smart and accomplished and all, but the Hayeses are that kind of smart that makes you feel nervous the moment you make eye contact. Adam is the same way—there’s a fierceness to how smart he is. The conversation in our doorway—because the Hayeses never came in far enough to justify closing the front door—was short and devoid of any actual substance, but it lasted long enough for me to know that Adam’s parents were suspicious of me. They had their walls up—easy for me to find because they’re built with the same bricks as Adam’s defenses—and didn’t thaw by the time they waved a polite good-bye.

  I didn’t tell my parents this, that the Hayeses were wary of us. But I think they could tell. They would never admit it, but my parents were a little intimidated. I definitely was.

  But now, here the Hayeses are, warm and grinning at me. There’s a swirl of bubbly happiness and a frenetic orange stress radiating from them. The wall is gone—they are inviting me in (literally and figuratively) and I’m thrown by being cast in the role of “person to impress.” I know what wanting parental approval feels like, I feel it basically any time a classmate interacts with their folks (and sometimes when they interact with certain teachers). It’s a desperate, jittery energy, like drinking a soda that’s too sweet. This is like that except the Hayeses are the parents and I’m the kid, and the topsy-turvy ride I got on when I entered the house is starting to make me feel nauseated. I need Adam.

  Like simply thinking it summoned him, soft blue starts cutting through the gummy air, wrapping around me like a shield. My shoulders relax as Adam appears in the doorway to the kitchen, brow furrowed and holding a wooden spoon covered in what looks like chocolate. Our eyes lock and the lines between his eyebrows soften as he gives me the little half smile I’ve gotten so used to. The response in my body is instantaneous—the blue-green wave washes over me completely, clearing me out and lifting me up.

  “Hey,” I croak, my throat clogged from the stuff that’s been bogging down the atmosphere in the house.

  “Hey.” His smile grows a little stronger.

  “Uh.” I blink, knowing there’s a next step to this dance but forgetting what it is. Then it clicks.

  “Happy birthday,” I blurt out awkwardly, taking a step toward him, the hand holding his present—which I’d forgotten about until right now—hanging stiffly at my side.

  “Thanks,” he says. The blue-green lightens and expands, changing the colors on the butterflies darting between us.

  “What’s with the spoon?” I ask.

  “Oh.” He looks at his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding anything. “I’m making a cake.”

  “On your birthday?” I ask, confused.

  “Yeah, of course.” He grins and I feel the warm breeze that comes along whenever Adam wants to tease me. “That’s kind of the day to do it.”

  “Usually people don’t make their own cakes,” I counter, unable to stop myself from grinning back at him. He has a buoyancy that I haven’t felt in weeks and it’s making me carefr
ee and happy.

  “I like baking.” He shrugs, pleased with himself.

  “Adam wanted to make sure the cake was perfect and he doesn’t trust his old man to do it right,” Mr. Hayes jokes, reminding both Adam and me that his parents are still standing between us.

  “Dad,” Adam moans, rolling his eyes.

  “Okay, okay”—Mr. Hayes throws up his hands in surrender—“I concede, you are the better baker.” A brief beam of pride shines from Adam. “So I’ll go and deal with the boring dinner stuff. Are you all done in there?”

  “Yeah,” Adam says, “just put this back with the frosting?” Mr. Hayes takes the spoon from Adam and walks toward the kitchen, making a show of running his finger through the chocolate and taking a taste, winking at me and smiling big. I laugh politely at the dad humor but Adam is oblivious, which is probably for the best, given the quick, hot jab of embarrassment that shot up when Mr. Hayes spoke.

  “Why don’t the two of you go into the living room and I’ll make sure Elijah doesn’t burn the house down.” Mrs. Hayes shakes her head at the sky and waves an arm toward what I assume is the living room before turning to follow her husband.

  Adam shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. We give each other awkward, no-teeth smiles, unsure how to be around each other with his parents making a racket in the kitchen. Adam shrugs and swivels his head in the direction of the living room, his body trailing after like he’s being pulled by a string.

  We sit down on the big couch, which is so much less comfortable than it looks. I feel stiff, like we’re pretending to be adults who come over to each other’s homes for their birthdays and sit on settees and talk about stock options or whatever it is that adults do. There’s a weird pressure in the air, like we’re supposed to be doing something. What are we supposed to be doing?

  “So…” I start, “how’s the birthday been?” I’m hyperaware of my body—do I always sit like this, what should I do with my hands, is it weird that Adam and I are sitting on the same couch? Are we sitting too close? Too far apart? The questions run around, outpacing the green, pulling me away from the tether that’s keeping me in reality. Adam’s voice, like always, pulls me back.

  “It’s been good,” he says. “Pretty uneventful, but good.”

  “That’s good,” I echo stupidly. I’m nodding, unable to control my own body. Adam’s nerves are starting to entwine with my own and normally that’s okay, but these nerves are spiky and slimy and difficult to fit in.

  “Do you wanna go upstairs?” Adam mumbles, and I feel the ball of anxiety in my gut loosen a bit. There’s something comforting in knowing that even when we’re uncomfortable, Adam and I are still on the same page.

  “Yeah.” I nod and we bolt from the couch and up the stairs. We get to his room and I pause a moment to really look around. The last and only time I was here, I was too deep underwater to take it in. But now that I’m here with a clear(ish) head—full of soft butterflies and simple, uncomplicated happiness—I’m able to absorb it. I have to keep myself from smiling at just how very Adam it is. His things are organized within an inch of their life but there are little nods at rebellion throughout—the dog-eared and, no doubt, written-in paperback copies of classic literature on his nightstand, the band stickers covering his laptop, the USB piano keyboard on the end of his bed. I wonder if he composes. I wonder if he’s been composing in bed. My whole body goes warm at the thought.

  “Oh, here”—I shove my poorly wrapped gift toward him—“before I forget.”

  “You didn’t need to get me anything.” He smiles and a soft buzzer goes off. He’s not lying, but it’s a half-truth. He wasn’t expecting a present from me but he’s thrilled that I got him one. His pleased surprise is better than any football win or good grade.

  “Whatever.” I shrug. “Your current ones look like they’ve seen better days so I just thought … It’s no big deal.” That, of course, is a lie, and we both know it.

  He gingerly tears back the wrapping paper to reveal a pair of black, over-the-ear headphones.

  “They’re not, like, the greatest quality or whatever,” I explain, “but they’re wireless and, I don’t know, it seemed like you could use a new pair.”

  A foreign emotion is taking over my body—warm and golden, like the sun. But it’s not the sun-on-your-face sense of pride. It’s … softer. Fresher. Like I’m being held close by warm light.

  Adam looks up at me, bright joy in his eyes. His mouth is twisting in the way that means he’s trying to hold back a smile, and my heart tries its best to expand outside of my chest.

  “Thank you,” he breathes, his fingers curled protectively around the band of the headphones. “This is really, really nice.” The reverence lacing his voice clues me in to what the feeling is: gratitude. He’s grateful. And … hopeful. He hasn’t looked away from me, our hearts beating in time, and I swear we’re standing closer than we were a second ago. I see actual, literal sparks fly between us and it makes me flinch.

  “Yeah, you’re welcome.” I shrug, trying to pretend like I don’t know that we both want to ignore the headphones between us and grab at each other. “What else did you get?”

  I’m suddenly shy, wanting to slow this train down. If we start something and then he finds out that I’m a total freak, it will be so much worse when I do tell him.

  Adam shows me what his parents got him for his birthday—a “new” old watch from his dad (passed down from his grandpa or something), a suit from his mom (“For college interviews,” he says, giving a truly epic eye roll), and a nice, probably really old leather-bound copy of Shakespeare’s collected works. Adam holds it like it’s fragile and priceless and I’m filled to the brim with joyful light. I ask him about his favorite play and he starts talking about Hamlet or Much Ado About Nothing or something and I should be paying attention but I’m distracted from the words themselves by the way his body leans against his desk, the minuscule smile on his face, the tentative happiness he feels at sharing this piece of himself.

  Now. Now is the time to tell him. Take a deep breath, straighten your shoulders, and tell Adam that you’re some kind of weird superhuman. That you’re not normal but that that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. Tell him that you like him. Then kiss him. Just do it. Jump out of the plane.

  “… so, I don’t know, we’ll see how I feel once I read the rest of them, I’m only, like, halfway through the histories.” Adam is shrugging like his Shakespeare obsession is no big deal but I know better than that. I know he’s secretly totally jazzed that he’s got a musty old copy of all the plays that he can treat like some sort of challenge. I feel his laser-focused enthusiasm: the bubbling in his veins and the tingly sugar crystals on his tongue. I can taste them so strongly it’s almost like I’m the one who gives a flying fuck about Shakespeare. But it’s not enough—I want to know what he really tastes like. If the ways he feels when he’s excited translate to sweet cotton candy in his mouth; if the big blue waves leave salt on his skin.

  “Caleb, are you okay?” Adam asks, a common question from him these days. Like if he asks enough I’ll finally tell him what I’m really feeling.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” I shake my head to clear it. “I’m good, actually. Really good.”

  He gives me that soft half smile again and tilts his head. “Where do you go?”

  “What?”

  “You get this faraway look on your face sometimes and you don’t snap out of it until I say something. It’s like you’re in a totally different world.” The cotton candy turns to Pop Rocks as Adam’s curiosity takes over in his body, and it makes me anxious. Here it is, the perfect opening, the moment when I’m supposed to step into open air.

  “Actually,” I start, bracing myself to take the leap.

  “Boys! Dinner!” Mr. Hayes’s voice cuts through the strings of anticipation hanging in the air and I feel our twin disappointment fall like weights on both my shoulders. Adam sighs, says, “Come on,” and l
eads the way back downstairs.

  Soon we’re back to playacting—sitting across from each other at the dining room table with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes on either end asking us questions about school like we’re being interviewed. The dinner is fine—the food is good and the Hayeses are nice despite how serious they are. Somehow Adam ended up with a diluted version of his parents’ intensity, which is really saying something, because he’s the most intense person I’ve ever met.

  “How about you, Caleb?” Mr. Hayes asks, making an effort to include me in a conversation I’d completely tuned out of.

  “Huh?”

  “What are you thinking about in terms of college?” Mrs. Hayes fills in, emitting a supportive warmth that reminds me a bit of the teachers at school. But coming from her, it feels like there’s a right answer.

  “Oh.” I look to Adam for some kind of hint on what I should say, but he’s staring at his mom, irritated embarrassment aimed like a laser beam at her. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s still a long way away. I think my parents and I are gonna do, like, a big college tour road trip this summer or something.”

  “Not everyone plans their lives out five years in advance,” Adam complains, and I learn where Adam got his head-tilt-half-smile expression from. On Mrs. Hayes’s face it reads like You’re being an idiot but I love you anyway and my brain gives me a quick slideshow recap of all the moments Adam has looked at me like that. Hope pushes my heart into my throat.

  “It was just a question,” Mrs. Hayes shoots back lovingly.