were talking about.
“It’s okay,” I mumble, stifling a yawn.
“Merde, tu va me faire bailler.”
You’re going to make me . . . yawn?
“How did you know—”
“Your voice changes when you yawn. And it makes me picture your mouth going long, like an oval, the way you scrunch your eyes together when you finish.”
He can see me in his mind. . . . He remembers—
I don’t know what to say. I want to be in the car next to him so I can see his eyes, so I can tell if this is just a thing that Zeke notices or something . . .
“I should probably let you go to sleep.” Zeke’s voice is quiet, smooth like caramel, and I don’t want to lose this Zeke. I don’t want to let him slip away, to see him tomorrow morning in the cafeteria laughing with some girl, see the way his arm so casually rests around her shoulders.
I want us to slip into this universe of darkness outside, the two of us alone in this make-believe world.
“Where are you now?”
I hear the catch of his breath and he’s right: I can picture him yawning, the way he thrusts out his chest a little, the way his chin comes down to his clavicle. I know what he looks like yawning.
“I’m about twenty minutes away.”
“I’ll stay with you, then—”
“You don’t need to. I’ll be okay.”
“I know. I want to.”
I don’t say that it doesn’t matter how far away he is, that he could have been slipping his key into the front door of the dorm, walking up the stairs, and I’d still want to stay on the phone with him. That I won’t give up this . . . this whatever it is . . . until I absolutely need to.
There’s a pause, and I don’t know what he’s going to say.
“What do you do when you go to Boston anyway?”
Zeke’s exhale is loud enough for me to hear, and I know he’s about to shut me down, get off the phone, tell me it’s none of my business. My fingers grip the hot phone to my ear and I scrunch my eyes shut. I want to know. Even though it might involve another girl. Or drugs. Or money laundering. Or—
“I’m seeing doctors there. For my shoulder.”
Oh. Apparently I watch too much television.
“What happened to your shoulder?”
There’s a chuckle but it isn’t laughter; it’s discomfort all rolled up into a filthy little ball. “I was in a car accident. It wasn’t serious but the way the seat belt pulled across my shoulder and the way I jerked forward caused significant injury. That, and I sprained my ankle. It’s all mostly healed, but I’ve been doing rehab in Boston, trying to make sure my shoulder isn’t . . . permanently affected.”
“Oh. Are you going there alone?”
When I banged up my wrist in volleyball during gym class, either Si or Jed came with me to every appointment if Mom or Dad were at the store. Which was ninety percent of the time.
I couldn’t imagine doing those painful exercises on my own, never mind having to drive back and forth more than an hour before and after.
“Uh, I have a friend who meets me there. A friend of the family.”
There’s an odd squeak in his voice when he speaks these words, like he isn’t altogether comfortable saying them, like they balance on a sharp blade and he isn’t positive where they’ll land.
Like he’s lying. Like my suspicions are correct and he’s involved in something nefarious.
Except that wouldn’t make sense. Zeke would have no reason to lie to me.
It must be the exhaustion.
But before I have a chance to really think it through, he’s changed the topic to favorite comfort food to eat when you’re on the road (me: licorice, him: chips; me: caramels, him: candy corn; me: Coke, him: coffee). And while there’s something niggling at the back of my mind, it’s quickly replaced by the realization that Zeke has terrible taste in snacks.
SIXTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE up to find Alice sitting on her bed, biting her fingernails and staring at me.
“You’ve got to stop doing that,” I mutter, rolling over and stretching my blanket over my head. “It’s creepy.”
“I wanted you to wake up.” Alice’s voice might be muffled, but I can hear the need in her voice, which makes me quickly flip over and peek my head out.
“What’s going on?”
I’ve got the tone down pat. Casual and easy, but present. Not like I’m thinking of