Under Rose-Tainted Skies (11 page)

M
y hand is shaking. I can barely keep Luke's coffee in the cup as I take it over to the table. ‘You're so nervous,' he says when I set it down on the mat in front of him.

I shrink back inside my sweater. If he sees me squirm, he doesn't mention it – doesn't rush to rescind this line of conversation either. He still has those eyes, narrow and inquisitive, fixed on me. I wonder for a second if he's been taking how-to-study-your-subject lessons from Dr Reeves.

I sit opposite him, feet on the chair, knees up to my neck, trying to shrink myself down as much as possible.

‘I'm sorry I lied to you,' I say, desperately seeking to squash the suffocating silence.

‘No,' he says. ‘It's okay. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.'

I think maybe I want to tell him something, but I'm not sure what. There's a pulse in my tongue. It feels kind of eager and unpredictable, like if I start speaking I won't
know when to stop.

I peek over my knee, look him in the eye, and he smiles a smile that could wipe winter out of existence.

‘Why are you here?' I ask.

He keeps me speared with his stare, but in my peripheral vision I see his fingers twitch and dance around on the tabletop. He's bouncing a leg too. The vibration races through the floor. Nerves. Panic. Neon pink. I'd recognize it from a thousand light years away. Not on the same scale as mine, not even close, but I'm startled by it for a second. Sometimes I get so focused on how abnormal my reactions are, I forget a little panic is okay in certain situations.

‘Honestly?' he says.

I nod.

‘At first I thought you were cute . . .' He grins. I duck back behind my knees, but not from fear. I'm blushing, heating up the Earth's atmosphere by a thousand degrees and trying to stifle a giggle with the sleeve of my sweater.

‘At first?' I question, lift my gaze enough to watch his mouth move. It'll be a while before I can look him in the eye again.

‘I mean, I still think you're cute, obviously, but . . . I don't know. I'm intrigued. Curious about you. And . . .'

‘And?'

‘I wasn't lying when I said I was awkward.'

‘You threw a party and a hundred people showed up.' I don't know a huge amount about high school parties or, as the kids on The Hub call them,
partays
. They're another one of those things that didn't happen until after I got sick. Still, I'm pretty sure a full house means you're one of the popular kids. And I don't suppose there's much call for
awkward among the elite.

‘Yeah . . . and I ended up over here, talking to you.' As if on cue, the fresh slit on my thigh smarts. ‘I guess I have a tendency to gravitate towards people on a different wavelength,' he says with a shrug.

‘You think I'm weird,' I reply, because my special skills include sweeping away the words of a sentence and finding a brand-new meaning buried beneath them.

‘That's not what I said.' He's adamant. And now I'm curious.

‘But what if . . . what if I
am
weird?'

He thinks about the possibility, and I scratch, scratch, scratch the nape of my neck.

‘Have you ever eaten a cream-cheese-and-apple-sauce sandwich with mayonnaise?'

I throw up a little bit in my mouth before shaking my head. I'm not sure where this is going, but I find myself leaning forward. ‘Have you?'

‘All the time. It's, like, my favourite kind of sandwich in the world. Everyone who knows about it tells me it's weird.'

‘It's not,' I say, defending him. The thought of him feeling even a little like me makes my heart hurt. Turns out, he doesn't need any reassurance from me.

‘I totally agree. And you know what I realized?'

‘What?'

‘When people say “weird”, what they really mean is “different”. And difference has never been a bad thing.'

He's smart. I like smart almost as much as I like funny.

‘I think you'll be disappointed when you figure out what's going on with me.' It's not that I want to rain all
over his friendship parade. I don't. I just have this overwhelming urge to warn him that I can be hella frustrating to be around. It's not meant to sound maudlin. I'm not interested in him tuning up the world's smallest violin to play me a sad song. Fact of the matter is, people who depend on the level of perfection that I do are tiring. It takes some getting used to, and it won't ease up until I do.

He shakes his head at me and laughs lightly. ‘Are you always this pessimistic?'

‘Like you wouldn't believe.'

My words hang in the air like smog, so thick it's a wonder we're both still breathing.

‘Norah, I just want to be your friend. Will you let me be that?'

‘Yes.'

His smile sets my kitchen on fire.

‘Okay.' He stands, slaps his thighs and fishes a tangled wad of keys from his pocket. ‘I gotta get back to school. My free period is almost over, but can I leave you my number?' he asks, already heading for the notepad on the fridge.

I can see what's happening, but I don't believe it.

A boy is writing down his number on my fridge. I swallow down girlish squeals and wait for him to finish. The first boy's phone number I've ever been given is being written, on my fridge, right now. And there is no one around to tell. I kind of want to open the door and scream it to the street. But I won't. Who would have thought a bunch of digits could bring this much excitement?

We stroll towards the door in silence. ‘Chat later?' Luke says, stepping out on to the porch. He holds out his hand.
‘Are we still not shaking?'

I stare at his outstretched palm. I want to take hold of it, feel his skin against mine, but I'm already wondering when he last washed his hands. It's not fair of me to make assumptions, but I can't stop it. OCD destroys any romantic notions pressed flesh has to offer.

Deep breath. ‘Maybe . . . maybe next time you come by, I can tell you why?' Wait . . . what? Was that me? Did I just say that? It sounded like me, but that's not something I would say. I touch my throat. I've no idea why – checking to see if it's still warm, maybe.

‘Yeah?' He looks . . . excited.

I solidify, can feel butterflies beating their wings against my ribcage.

It's not too late to take it back
.

But I don't want to.

This is new.

And a little unnerving
.

Over his shoulder I see a yellow taxi pull up. Mom is sitting in the back, her eyes stretched wide open, trying to swallow the sight of a boy standing on our porch. I can't decide if what I smell is exhaust fumes or her burning curiosity. It's a wonder her face isn't pressed against the glass.

‘Talk later, Neighbour.' Luke sprints off down the driveway, hops over the boxwood bush as Mom climbs out of the cab. The slam of the car door echoes around Triangle Crescent.

Rachael Dean, aka Mom, is about as subtle as the
Titanic
. Not even a car accident can shake her spirit. Her bright red hair has been pulled into space buns on the
sides of her head, and she's dressed like science fiction threw up on her. Cosmic print everywhere. She eyeballs me, scurries towards the house like she's being dragged by a Great Dane, her jaw trailing on the ground behind her. She looks well. Really well. The giant knot that's been in my shoulders for over a week unravels and my arms suddenly feel ten feet too long.

‘Norah Jane Dean.' Mom is so excited. I'm really looking forward to showing her his phone number, just as soon as my muscles come unstuck. ‘Is that Party Boy?' Mom asks. I nod. ‘He's cute,' she exclaims, turning around to wave at Luke as he pulls his car out on to the road. He waves back, then drives away.

‘You okay?' Mom asks, nudging my shoulder. ‘You're looking a little pale.'

‘I'm okay,' I reply, falling into her chest and wrapping her in a bear hug.
I think
.

D
ear Luke
. . .

I hit the delete button for the eleventy-billionth time. What is he, my lawyer? Nobody writes ‘Dear Anybody' in a message unless they're paying a ton for a Mr Somebody to read it.

Luke
. . .

And that's about as good as it gets for almost five hours.

I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to balance Luke's phone number on the tip of my nose. Every time I exhale, it floats away, and turns trying to catch it into a game.

‘Knock, knock.' Mom pops her head around my door and I snatch the piece of paper out of sight. Mostly because I'm embarrassed by the meal I'm making out of this. ‘I think I'm going to call it a night,' she says. ‘I can't wait to be in my own bed.' She's all kinds of dreamy, imagining her fluffy duvet and soft sheets as she says this.

‘It's good to have you back.' I mean it. Listening to her potter around downstairs has been music to my
ears. ‘Goodnight.'

She looks at me, uncertain for a second, and then her bloodshot eyes spot my phone on the floor. It slipped off the bed about an hour ago, and I've yet to pick it up, a what's-the-point attitude oozing out of my pores.

‘Uh-oh.' Mom steps into my room. ‘Did he not text back?'

‘No.' I sit up, clear my throat, and braid my fingers together. ‘But then, he has nothing to text back to. I didn't send anything yet.'

‘I see,' Mom replies. She scoops up my phone and perches on the bed. The faint scent of industrial-strength disinfectant and antiseptic still clings to her clothes.

‘TV didn't adequately prepare me for talking to boys in real life.'

‘Is there maybe something I should have done?' Mom winces.

‘No!' I exclaim. ‘Not at all.' What's she supposed to do? Tag on some boy advice after she's done convincing me there isn't about to be an apocalypse? Talk me through dating etiquette once she's finished assuring me I won't choke on my food? ‘You've done everything.'

Also, let's be honest, two weeks ago, the likelihood of me ever talking to another human being beyond her, Dr Reeves, and the staff over at Helping Hands was slim to none. At least for the foreseeable future. Two weeks ago there was still an infinite amount of time to talk to me about boys.

‘Maybe I can help now. What are you thinking?'

My face crumples and I give her that look, the one that says
Have you got a spare sixty years while I take you
through the list?

‘Right,' she replies, reading my mind. ‘So what's your biggest fear?'

‘I have two.'

‘Hit me.'

I count them out with my fingers. ‘I don't know when the right time to text is. Like, I'm thinking today is too soon?'

‘Not at all. Did you not see the size of that boy's grin as he left? Any time would be a good time.' When she smiles her nose scrunches. I like the way her long-since-dead Southern accent wakes up when she says ‘boy'.

‘You lie.'

‘Hand to God. That boy wants you to text him as soon as poss, I guarantee it.'

‘Huh.' My eyes go glassy and I get lost in thoughts of Luke and his smile, his eyes, his arms, the way his shirt grabs his body.
Click
. Mom snaps her fingers in front of my face.

‘You need me to get you a cold compress to go with that swoon?'

‘Ha ha.' But in all seriousness, that might not be a bad idea. It's hot in here; I have to shed my sweater.

‘You were saying?'

‘Right, the second thing . . . I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing.'

She starts chuckling. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for. ‘Hey. Why are you laughing?' I give her a slight nudge with my shoulder. ‘This is serious.'

‘Ahh, baby,' she says, running her palm down my cheek and giving it a slight pinch. ‘You realize what this is?'

‘Horrible?'

‘Perfectly normal,' she says, wrapping normal in air quotes. That's a thing we do a lot around here. Both her and Dr Reeves are forever exercising their fingers to defuse the definition. ‘There's not a person in the world at your age who doesn't worry about this stuff. Bad news? There is no one answer. You just have to be yourself and do what you think is best.' She kisses my forehead and stands to leave.

‘That's it?' Normally her advice is more helpful, more . . .
more
.

‘That's it.' She shrugs, and her palms slap down against her thighs. ‘You'll figure it out. Have fun. Be yourself. That's all you need.' Her tone is teasing. I'm surprised she doesn't slip in a wink before she disappears down the hall.

‘Ugh!' I exclaim, feigning an aneurysm and falling back on my bed.

Why do people keep telling me to be myself? Honestly. It's like they've never even met me.

Hi
:)

That's it. After a millennium, an ice age, a fricking era of dissecting dialogue, that's the grand conversation starter I settle on. I hit send and a fizzing current zips through my veins, making my body buzz. Excitement is electric. It reminds me of this one Halloween night, for ever ago, when me and a couple of kids from school dared one another to knock on the door of the abandoned house beside Bennick Marsh. Legend had it a witch lived there.

My phone bleeps to tell me the message has been sent, and without thinking, I throw my cell to the end of the
bed. I don't know, maybe my subconscious was going for out of sight, out of mind. It doesn't matter; I retrieve it a half second later because it feels like a galaxy too far away.

My heart is in my throat, my intestines all tangled up. I'm not sure any more if it's nerves or excitement. Maybe a bit of both. I place my phone on my pillow, flip over on to my stomach, and lean up on my elbows. With hawk eyes I watch my screen fade to black, then start willing it to light up with a text.

It doesn't.

The second hand on my clock goes round and round and round, sending my head into a spin. Reluctantly, I stop scrutinizing the dial and collapse into the crook of my arm. I don't have the latest cell, one of those that tell you when a text has been read. I'm completely in the dark. An agoraphobic obsessive-compulsive's most favourite place to be.

I'm listing forms of torture that would be infinitely more merciful than waiting for a boy to text back when, at last, my cell bleeps.

My fingers are slicker than oil as I unlock my phone and punch buttons to find the message:
Amy?

Ouch. At least the message I sent him was better than that. A picture of a monkey scratching its butt would have been better; almost anything else would have been better.

One Thanksgiving my mom bought a deep-fat fryer. On Sunday mornings, she likes to load it with everything she can find in the fridge, and the smell of greasy food floods the air. It lingers for hours, clings to your skin, your hair, and the fabric of your clothes. It's sticky and gross and the only way to get rid of it is a scalding-hot shower and
plenty of soap. I feel like that right now.

Deep breaths.

My brain starts pitching ideas: don't freak out. He couldn't have known it was me texting. I didn't sign my name and he doesn't have my number. So how could he have known? But then, he was obviously expecting a message from Amy. Amy, the girl whose name keeps cropping up. Why doesn't he already have her number? Should I be texting a boy who wants to talk to Amy? Should I be texting a boy that Amy wants to talk to? Am I going to become one of those girl-friends? You know, a girl that is his friend and nothing more? And if I am going to become that, will I have to hear stories about him and Amy?

I chew on my nails, pick up my phone, heart thumping fast, and hammer on the buttons that spell out my name. This time it takes me less than a minute to write my message.

It's Norah
.

My thumb dances around the send button until I utilize a burst of courage and punch it. It's gone. M
ESSAGE SENT
flashes up on the screen. I hope to God I'm not texting someone else's boyfriend. I've seen love-triangle fights go down on my Hub feed. It never ends well.

I wait for Luke's reply. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more.

He doesn't text back.

I watch my phone until 5.00 a.m., occasionally illuminating the screen to make sure my signal bar and battery are both still full. They are.

It's possible I've ingested enough of my own fingers to call myself a cannibal. They're so chewed I have trouble
straightening them. I very much doubt every girl my age does this. This is perhaps bordering more on my unhealthy levels of panic.

By 5.30, I'm begging sleep to drag me under.