|
Can I let you know?
I tap Ryan’s arm and hand him the note. Mr. Black walks to the chalkboard
and writes
POP QUIZ
and then a list of questions. Everybody groans and there’s the
71
sound of ripping paper.
Five minutes later, Finch breezes in, same black shirt, same black jeans,
backpack over one shoulder, books and notebooks and thrashed leather jacket
under his arm. Things are spilling everywhere, and he retrieves keys and pens
and cigarettes before giving Mr. Black a little salute. I look at him and think:
This is the person who knows your worst secret
.
Finch pauses to read the board. “Pop quiz? Sorry, sir. Just a second.” He’s
using his Australian accent. Before he takes his seat, he heads right for me.
He sets something on my notebook.
He slaps Ryan on the back, drops an apple on the teacher’s desk with
another apology to Mr. Black, and falls into his chair across the room. The
thing he set in front of me is an ugly gray rock.
Ryan looks down at it and up at me, and then past me at Roamer, who
narrows his eyes in Finch’s direction. “Freak,” he says loudly. He mimes
hanging himself.
Amanda punches me a little too hard in the arm. “Let me see it.”
Mr. Black raps on the desk. “In five more seconds … I will give each
and … every one of you an F … on this quiz.” He picks up the apple and
looks as if he’s going to throw it.
We all go quiet. He sets the apple down. Ryan turns around and now I can
see the freckles on the base of his neck. The quiz is made up of five easy
questions. After Mr. Black collects the papers and starts to lecture, I pick up
the rock and flip it over.
Your turn
, it says.
After class, Finch is out the door before I can talk to him. I drop the rock
into my bag. Ryan walks me to Spanish, and we don’t hold hands. “So what’s
up with that? Why’s he giving you things? Is it, what, a thank-you for saving
his life?”
“It’s a rock. If it was a thank-you for saving him, I’d hope for something a
little better than that.”
“I don’t care what it is.”
“Don’t be that guy, Ryan.”
“What guy?” As we walk, he nods at people going by, everyone smiling
and calling out, “Hey, Ryan,” “What’s up, Cross?” They do everything but
bow and throw confetti. A few of them are good enough to call out to me too,
now that I’m a hero.
“The guy who’s jealous of the guy his ex-girlfriend’s doing a project with.”
“I’m not jealous.” We stop outside my classroom. “I’m just crazy about
you. And I think we should get back together.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“I’m going to keep asking.”
“I guess I can’t stop you.”
72
“If he gets out of line, let me know.”
The corner of his mouth goes up. When he smiles like that, there’s a single
dimple. It was the thing that got me the very first time I saw him. Without
thinking, I reach up and kiss the dimple when what I mean to do is kiss his
cheek. I don’t know which of us is more surprised. I say, “You don’t need to
worry. It’s only a project.”
At dinner that night, the thing I fear most happens. My mom turns to me and
asks, “Were you in the bell tower of school last week?”
She and my dad are staring at me from opposite ends of the table. I
immediately choke on my food, so noisily and violently that my mother gets
up to pat me on the back.
My dad says, “Too spicy?”
“No, Dad, it’s great.” I barely get the words out because I’m still coughing.
I cover my mouth with my napkin and cough and cough like some tubercular
old uncle.
Mom pats me until I quiet down and then takes her seat again. “I got a call
from a reporter at the local paper who wants to do a story on our heroic
daughter. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I don’t know. They’re making a bigger deal of it than it is. I’m not a hero.
I just happened to be up there. I don’t think he really would have jumped.” I
drink my entire glass of water because my mouth is suddenly dry.
“Who’s this boy you saved?” my dad wants to know.
“He’s just a boy I go to school with. He’s okay now.”
My mother and father glance at each other, and in that one shared look, I
can see what they’re thinking: our daughter isn’t as hopelessly lost as we
thought. They will start expecting things, beginning with a newer, braver
Violet who isn’t afraid of her own shadow.
Mom picks up her fork again. “The reporter left her name and number and
asked that you call her when you have a chance.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks. I will.”
“By the way …” My mom’s voice turns casual, but there’s something in it
that makes me want to hurry and finish so I can get out of there fast. “How
does New York sound for spring break? We haven’t taken a family trip in a
while.”
We haven’t taken one since before the accident. This would be our first trip
without Eleanor, but then there have been lots of firsts—first Thanksgiving,
first Christmas, first New Year’s Eve. This is the first calendar year of my life
that she hasn’t been in.
“We can take in some shows, do a little shopping. We can always stop by
NYU and see if there are any interesting lectures.” She smiles too brightly.
73
Even worse, my dad is smiling too.
“It sounds great,” I say, but we all know I don’t mean it.
That night, I have the same nightmare I’ve been having for months—the one
where someone comes at me from behind and tries to strangle me. I feel the
hands on my throat, pressing tighter and tighter, but I can’t see who’s doing it.
Sometimes the person doesn’t get as far as touching me, but I know he’s
there. Other times, I can feel the breath going out of me. My head goes light,
my body floats away, and I start to fall.
I wake up, and for a few seconds I don’t know where I am. I sit up and turn
on a light and look around my room, as if the man might be lurking behind
the desk or in the closet. I reach for my laptop. In the days Before, I would
have written something—a short story or a blog post or just random thoughts.
I would have written till it was out of me and on the page. But now I open a
new document and stare at the screen. I write a couple words, erase them.
Write, erase. I was the writer, not Eleanor, but there is something about the act
of writing that makes me feel as if I’m cheating on her. Maybe because I’m
here and she’s not, and the whole thing—every big or small moment I’ve
lived since last April—feels like cheating in some way.
Finally, I sign onto Facebook. There’s a new message from Finch, 1:04
a.m.
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: | 
