Suddenly self-conscious, he looks down at the band, toying with it. He allows me to change the subject. “It’s kind of dumb,” he admits. “But it’s a therapy thing. Well, more of a habit, now. A couple months after my mom died, Sally gave it to me. You know Sally, right?”
When I nod, he goes on. “Anyway, I was ten and I wasn’t talking to anyone. I was depressed, I guess; I started getting into fights with other kids. No one could get anything from me, not even the therapists my dad forced me to go to. So one day Sally comes up to me in the grocery store, squats down so she’s looking me right in the eye, and gives me this rubber band. ‘Every time you think about hurting yourself or someone else, snap this on your wrist,’ she tells me. ‘A rubber band has got to be better than a fist, right?’” He smiles faintly at the memory.
“Most therapists would try to stop the pain completely,” I comment.
Joshua shrugs. “That was what was so great about it. She didn’t try to change me or fix me. She just gave me another option. One that didn’t land me in a hospital or more therapy sessions.”
Joshua doesn’t give me a chance to process this. “Now it’s your turn.” He raises his brows in challenge. He wants the truth—there’s no need to say it out loud. The breeze picks up, and leaves stir above our heads. It’s a content sound.
So I tell him. “I’m human. I know you’re thinking alien or vampire or something like that, so you can relax. But I don’t feel any emotions. I can run a little faster than a speeding car, and I also see things that no other human can see.” There isn’t much more, but I offer what I can: “I’ve been told I feel nothing because of some sort of power over me, and that I’m expected to break through it soon. I’ve already started to, actually.” I go on to explain the other plane.
Joshua takes this in without the reaction I was anticipating; there’s no wariness, disbelief, disgust. Even so, it’s a little too much for him.
Once I’m finished I wait about a minute for him to think about it, then shoulder my bag again. “We really do have to go in,” I remind him.
He looks around, as if seeing the school for the first time, and lets out a breath. His bangs lift off his forehead, and slowly settle back down, covering his eyes. An odd instinct consumes me to reach out and brush all that hair aside.
I start to walk toward the doors, and Joshua recovers quickly. He catches up with me. “We’re not done talking about this, you know,” he says. “Not by a long shot.”
“What else can there be?”
“Hey.” Joshua touches my elbow, stopping me yet again. His eyes—amber in the sunlight—are solemn. “Just because I know about you now doesn’t mean I’m going to treat you like Sophia Richardson.” He grins. “I mean, you’re still you, right?”
I study his face. “And who is it, exactly, that you think I am?”
The boy frowns. “Well, first off, I don’t buy the ‘no Emotion’ shit. You may not be obvious about it, but you’re definitely human in that area.”
Another person who’s going to deny the truth. Even if I can’t discourage Fear, I can set Joshua straight. “I meant what I said that day on the steps, Joshua,” I say. “Maggie’s death didn’t affect me. You ignoring me didn’t bother me. The fact that my own mother doesn’t love me doesn’t matter. When my father hits me, I feel nothing. My brother acting like everything is perfect and nothing is wrong doesn’t infuriate me. I don’t—”
“Knock it off,” he cuts in with a downward slash of his hand. “I’m not the one in denial. You are.” It’s as if he’s read my mind.
I think of all those little things that make him believe this. Memories that aren’t just his. Seemingly human moments. Me offering him a smile in our kindergarten class. Me comforting Maggie on the playground after a boy had called her ugly. Me staring out the classroom window as one of our teachers droned on and on. Me studying the mural on my wall with an expression akin to frustration. Me looking down into Maggie’s casket, those strange tears trailing down my cheeks. Our hands laced together on the table in the library.
I’m shaking my head. “Joshua, no matter what it seems like—”
He still won’t let me finish. “It’s a lot to take in, I’ll admit,” he says as if I haven’t spoken. “But I’ve always known something was different. I didn’t care. Do you understand that?
“Joshua—”
He sighs. “And as far as me ignoring you, well, that wasn’t just because of what you said on the steps or because of what I saw at the party. If you’d bothered paying attention to me at all, you’d know that the crops have me pretty worried, okay?”
Silence falls between us. A bee whizzes by. The only words that come to mind are
“Do you want to come over tonight?”
It’s out before I’ve thought it through, before I have a chance to stop it. Joshua seems just as taken aback as me. As if my hand has a mind of its own—no, I must be
“It’s always in the way,” I offer by way of explanation. He just keeps staring at me, and I know he’s wondering what this means.
Then he grins. A big, slow, smug grin that shows the extent of his renewed hope.
I spin on my heel and go into the school, my nothingness trembling inside of me. I can hear him following.
“So I’ll see you tonight?” Joshua calls just as the door closes. I poke my head back out, trying not to think of all the repercussions this entire conversation could have on everything and anything.
“After my parents are asleep,” I answer against my better judgment. “Late.”
He nods, jogging up the steps. Just as he’s getting closer I make to vanish again. He says quickly, “See you then, Elizabeth.”
The way he says my name makes the trembling increase. As if we have a delicious secret no one else in the world knows.
It reminds me of Fear.
“Won’t be back until morning!” Charles shouts on his way out the door.
Sarah waves at him, soap flicking to the tiles, but my brother is already in the driveway. We can hear his truck starting. Silence fills the house again. I’m in the laundry room adjacent to kitchen, standing in front of the washer. I know Sarah’s listening to every move I make, unnerved by my being here. In an effort to put her at ease, I don’t bother attempting conversation.
There are laundry buckets all around my feet. Bending over, I find and pull a pair of Tim’s jeans inside out, checking the pockets before dropping them into the wash. Next I find one of Charles’s T-shirts and put that in as well. When I pick up a pair of Sarah’s jeans, I check the pockets as usual, but pause as my hand collides with a folded-up piece of paper.
Maybe I should hesitate to look, invade Sarah’s privacy, but I’m opening it before I think about it.
It’s an airline ticket. One-way to New York City.
As I scan the words on the small piece of paper, I remember Sarah mentioning, long ago, that her mother lived there. It was Christmas morning; she’d had such a pained look in her eyes.
I glance at the date—three days from now—before shoving it back into the pants pocket.
Eighteen
“Psst!”
“Hey, Elizabeth, are you up there?”
