Fifteen
JUNIOR YEAR
It’s strange being a passenger in my own car. But it’s even stranger that I’m leaving the hospital without my necklace and that Ben doesn’t seem to know what to say to me since retrieving me from Joel’s arms in the hospital lobby.
So after a few minutes, I break the silence. “Thanks again, Ben. I’m really grateful that you stayed with me.”
His posture relaxes, like he’s relieved I spoke first. “It would have been a lot to handle by yourself.” He sneaks a sideways look at me. “Do you want me to stick around? I mean, instead of going home. I could keep you company for a while.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I asked if you wanted me to.”
I’m not the kind of person who needs constant company, but the thought of a silent, empty house amplifying the noise inside my head makes me fidget with anxiety.
“Maybe . . . maybe just until Meredith gets there? We have homemade lasagna,” I offer.
My mother forbade me to do any cooking while she was gone, though I’m sure I could’ve handled boiling water for mac and cheese without burning the house down. Then again, I also thought I could handle babysitting my brothers for a day, and look how that turned out.
At any rate, Mom left a whole roasted chicken and a lasagna the size of a picnic bench in the fridge, as if we were about to hibernate for the winter rather than survive two and half days.
“Worth it.” Ben pumps his fist in victory and then looks over at me. “Kidding. I would’ve come with or without the lasagna.”
But he still devours a brick-sized piece when we get back to my house. I pick at mine, more nauseous than hungry. I’m not sure if it’s because my stomach has been empty for so long, or because I keep touching the spot on my neck where my locket used to lie, or because every minute feels more ominous each time one passes without a call from my parents.
Ben follows me into the living room when I give up on trying to enjoy my food. I collapse onto the couch, but he stands next to the coffee table and picks up the oversized sketch pad that Michael left lying there.
“Did Aaron draw these?” he asks, clearly impressed at the superhero renderings inside.
“No. Michael’s the artist. They make their own comic books. Michael draws the pictures and they collaborate on the story and dialogue. Half the time they end up fighting and trying to color each other’s faces, though.”
“Typical. The face coloring, not the drawings. These are really good. I used to do the same thing, making up my own comics. I had one where Superman and Lex Luthor were both exposed to red kryptonite and it turned Superman evil and Lex good. Which probably couldn’t happen because Lex isn’t Kryptonian, but—” He cuts off when he glances up at me, and his brow furrows. “Are you feeling okay?”
I’m really not. I hate that I’ve made such a huge mess and that Ben squandered the majority of his day helping me clean it. I hate that I had to bail on helping with the homecoming float. I hate myself for not doing a better job of watching my brothers and for losing the gift they gave me, without even noticing.
And I especially hate that I’m going to cry again.
I cover my face, because there’s no stopping it. “Why haven’t my parents called yet?” I wail behind my fingers.
I hear the sketch pad hit the coffee table, and then the cushion next to me dips. Ben gingerly puts his arm around me. “Aw, Macy, don’t be upset. They probably haven’t heard anything yet. And don’t forget they have to call Michael and everyone else who’s worried too. Maybe no news is good news.”
“But what if it’s not? He fell so hard, and his head was bleeding and he kept saying he couldn’t see. What if no news is bad news?”
I wipe away the wetness on my cheeks with the back of my hand. Ben dashes into the kitchen and reappears a second later with a tissue, returning to my side as he hands it to me.
“It was scary as hell, I know,” he says. “But you handled everything like a champ, and Aaron is exactly where he needs to be so he can get better. That’s what you need to concentrate on right now.”
I nod. When I go to dab my eyes, my bracelet catches my eye. “The boys were right,” I say, holding up my wrist. “I am bad luck.”
Ben flicks the dangling horn with his fingers. “Maybe it is just a sperm after all.”
I can’t help cracking a smile.
“Here,” he says, stretching toward the coffee table. He grabs a red marker that’s lying next to the sketch pad and uncaps it. “Forget lucky chili peppers. Let me give you something way better.” He takes my hand and holds it so that my knuckles are facing him. The marker tickles my skin as he starts to draw, biting his lip in concentration. When he finishes, he tosses the marker back onto the table, still holding my hand.
“See?” he says.
“The Superman S?”
One side of his mouth turns up. “It’s not an S. On my world, it means ‘hope.’ ”
I want to tell him he wins everything for that quote. I want to hug him. I think maybe I do hug him. I’m not entirely sure, because the next thing I remember is waking up with my face smooshed against Ben’s shoulder. Only, now we’re not alone.
Meredith is standing over us, staring at my and Ben’s bodies slumped against each other on the couch. And more specifically, at the spot where my hand is still nestled on top of his.