I concentrate so my hand can turn the knob.
I open the door.
Chapter 4
I SHOULDN’T BE HERE. I’ve never done this before. It’s the sort of thing I believe desperate, self-involved people do. I don’t want to be one of those people.
But I’m angry and frustrated . . . and I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for a while now. That’s what happens when you start returning every “Hey, Liz,” with a hostile glance, waiting for the punch line at your expense. Followed by actual punches.
Most of my friends melted away over the course of the past year. When the rumors about Laurie started, those “friends” who weren’t really friends at all dropped off with the force of an avalanche. That hadn’t been surprising.
The slow drift of the few people I’d really trusted was what actually hurt. A couple of my BFF girls tried to stay loyal, but in the end I had to push them off and watch them float away. I couldn’t take the pitying, if well-intentioned, glances and sympathetic phone calls. I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted people to be as pissed off as I was.
When my friends were gone, I’d clung to Laurie and to Mom. And after it happened, just Mom, as we shuttled back and forth from the hospital to our house, all the while plotting our escape. But we hadn’t gotten any further than escape in our planning. It turns out our refuge leaves me alone most of the time. Mom’s at work. Laurie’s at summer school since, after it happened, he missed the last eight weeks of classes. They both seem happy enough.
Mom has always used her workaholism to deal with stress. Laurie assures me that even after a week of classes, he’s certain that two-thirds of his classmates are ten times gayer than he is. I have no idea how he’s made these calculations. I speculate that his glee at being stuck in summer school is less about the relative gayness of his fellow students and more about (a) the air-conditioning in his school actually works, whereas the tiny window unit for our apartment spends more time sputtering than cooling, and (b) unlike the punitive forms of summer school back home, Laurie’s attending a program for artistically inclined kids. Music, drama, literature, that kind of thing—and he’s loving it. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d been flat on his back in a full body cast, then recovering, he probably would be glad he missed finishing the school year since it meant he’s now enrolled at his version of Hogwarts.
I kind of wished I could go with him. The school’s visual arts program is kick-ass and would no doubt help me build my portfolio. But Mom can’t afford to send both of us, and I did finish the school year—with daggers in my eyes and hands constantly balled into fists.
Like they are now. I realize I’m not in front of Stephen’s door just because I’m lonely. I did what Mom wanted. I was polite. I tried to “make a friend” like a normal person would. I even offered the nectar-that-prevents-heat-stroke lemonade, so what if I didn’t actually have any, to begin our new friendship negotiations. But Stephen bolted, leaving me babbling to Laurie about a boy I’d met in the hall, which then subjected me to hours of little-brother torment about my invisible boyfriend. And it’s Stephen’s fault. I’m here because I’m frustrated and have no one to yell at.
It takes him forever to open the door. When I finally see his face, his mouth is twitching like he’s afraid or worried or annoyed. Whatever he’s feeling, it isn’t good. Not that I expected him to be overjoyed to see me. He’s obviously been avoiding me, and that only scratches my already-frazzled nerves like a burr. I open my mouth to bawl him out, but my voice gets stuck halfway up my throat. What comes out instead is a pathetic croak. A sound that’s limp and sad. It makes him grimace. His eyes drop to the floor.
I try again. This time I manage, “Hey.”
He mumbles something. I can’t tell, but I assume it’s a greeting because he’s human.
“So . . .”
He mumbles again. My anger starts to build up again.
“It’s your thing, right?”
The question draws his gaze.
I force a smile. “Rudeness?”
His eyes go wide, which I find very satisfying.
“No,” he says. Nothing else, just “no.”
We stare at each other. It’s getting really uncomfortable.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Explain to me how that’s not rude,” I say.
He sighs, deep and awfully weary for this time of day. Maybe he’s an insomniac.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I don’t expect that. I expect him to snark back at me or shut the door in my face.
“Would you like to come in?” He poses the question like he’s just asked if I need him to donate bone marrow.
Suddenly I’m uneasy. Why did I come here anyway? I realize I was expecting a shouting match at the door, ending with my stomping back to my own apartment and spending the afternoon cursing the utter horribleness of other people. Now I have a choice: I can be the rude one and the crazy one because after all I showed up at his door, or I can accept his invitation.
“Okay.” I walk past him as he steps back. His apartment is chilly, almost freezing, and I’m rubbing my arms to rid them of sudden goose bumps.
I can tell right away that his apartment is nicer than ours. The layout is identical, but our place is full of cardboard boxes and a mishmash of furniture. Mom put me in charge of organizing the apartment, which means it hasn’t been done. I think she was trying to be nice by letting me decide what our new apartment would look like. But it’s hard to get excited about unpacking, and we’re still living like we’d arrived in Manhattan yesterday.
This apartment is neat, if sparsely furnished. What’s the word? Utilitarian. Hooray—vocab. I’m guessing his room must have a little more character. The front hall and living room are stiffly adult. Whoever decorated it was deeply invested in neatness and perfunctory style. He must have a parent or two also calling the apartment home, but at the moment we’re the only ones here.
“Can I get you something?”
I jump at the question. His voice is calmer now, clearer.
“Uh, sure.”
“Lemonade?” He half smiles, like he’s made a joke.
I want to glare at him but just nod. “If you have it.”
“Make yourself comfortable.” He points at the couch, watching his own hand move as if he’s made a secret, symbolic gesture.