The Center of Everything - By Laura Moriarty Page 0,149

in silence.

“He hates me,” she says finally.

I glance at Jack.

“Oh please. He knows. He lives here. He’s not retar—” She turns away.

This is true. Clearly, Jack isn’t retarded. But I am even careful with what I say around Samuel. You don’t really know what’s in there—what they hear, what they understand. There is no way to tell how much of this is seeping into Jack’s brain, like water into a crack.

“You saw the way he looked at me,” she says. “He doesn’t think I’m pretty anymore. He thinks I’m stupid too.”

“Deena, you’re still pretty, and you’re not stupid.”

It’s true. I’m not lying now. She is lovely still, even wearing green sweatpants and one of Travis’s sweatshirts, the pink polish on her fingernails chipped and cracked. If anything, she is more beautiful than she used to be, her cheekbones more hollowed, her skin paler against her dark hair. But she frowns at me, looking down at my sandals.

Jack opens the book, pointing at the page. “Story?” he says. He looks worried. “Sun?”

She nods, and begins to read, but she’s crying now, her voice cheerless, wrong for the words. “Good morning, rooster! Good morning, cow!” Jack keeps glancing up. When she gets to the last page, he hands her another book, holding her hand against the pages.

I am trying to think of a way to escape. I can tell she is mad, not just mad in general, but mad at me. I haven’t done anything, but I can feel it, a heaviness between us. I could walk home, but it’s already getting dark.

After four books, Jack’s eyelids start to flutter. When they finally close, she stops reading and peers down at his face, her fingertips grazing his ear. She has told me before that babies actually get heavier when they fall asleep. I said that doesn’t make any sense, but she said she can tell when Jack’s asleep, just by the way he feels. “Let me put him to bed,” she whispers, and she stands up so smoothly that he doesn’t even stir.

But when she gets to the hallway, she stops and turns around, her eyes moving down to my feet and then up again. “By the way,” she says. “Nice dress.”

Travis gets home after midnight. I hear the Datsun rumble into the parking lot, the radio cutting off in the middle of a song. But he’s quiet coming down the stairs, and Deena does not wake when he opens the door.

“Hey,” he whispers. Deena is still stretched out on the couch, snoring lightly now, her mouth open, her brow furrowed, as if she had been getting ready to sneeze, or say something important, just before she drifted off. She lay down just after putting Jack to bed, and fell asleep immediately.

“Jack’s in bed?”

I nod. “She put him down around nine.”

He looks down at Deena, his hands in his pockets, his face difficult to read. “Well, let’s let sleeping Deenas lie. I’ll take you home.”

When we get outside, Travis takes off his sweatshirt and hands it to me. “It got cool out. There’s supposed to be a storm tomorrow. A big one.” His sweatshirt smells like the detergent Deena uses. I stand by the passenger door and look up while I wait for him to unlock it. It’s a clear night, the stars shining brightly as eyes against the blue-black sky.

“Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn,” he says. “Evelina.” I don’t know why he says this. I don’t smell the alcohol until after we have pulled onto the highway. He steers with one hand, whistling, his cheeks pink.

“Are you drunk?” I tug on my seat belt, making sure it will hold.

“No. Not drunk.” He smiles. “Little Miss Serious. I’m driving fine.” He turns on the radio, and country music comes on so loud it makes me jump. He laughs, turning it down. “Relax,” he says. “Relax.”

“Still with the country music,” I say. “And now you’re drinking too.” I’m joking about this, but really I am a little mad. I cannot get killed in a car accident now, just before everything is about to get better for me. Eighty-two days until I move into the dorm. Eighty-one and a half.

“Oh, come on, Evelyn. You’ll like this one. Just listen.”

The man on the radio sings about his heart being broken years ago, a guitar strumming gently in the background. Travis starts to sing along, sort of kidding around, but mostly not. His voice is nice, low and earnest-sounding, better than the man singing on the radio, I