that they communicate on a different frequency than we do. They could be communicating faster than us or slower. We can use the computer to find those different frequencies.”
Sawyer’s lips flatten in disbelief, and Max notices. “What’s on your mind?”
Sawyer’s fingers move like that’s an answer, but then he says, “It sounds like you’re creating evidence for what doesn’t exist.”
“Wait until you hear the direct response to a specific question on an EVP. You’ll be a believer then.” Max then goes on to explain how to capture an EVP and then shows us different types of what he calls ghost boxes. Skepticism seems to be a hardwired DNA trait for Sawyer, and a part of me sinks as I realize this isn’t reeling him in like I need.
“What I hear you saying is that we have to spend money to do this project,” Sawyer says.
Crap. The boy who drives a Lexus and couldn’t pay his rent won’t be interested in a project that will cost him anything. Fan-freaking-tastic.
“Typically, yes,” Max answers. “But in the case of the two of you, no.”
Sawyer’s eyebrows rise, and I’ll admit to being stumped. “How’s that possible?”
“I’m going to let you borrow the equipment you need to do your assignment.” Max slides to the edge of his recliner, and the chair tilts forward with his weight.
He looks at me, and that stomach sinking goes to a whole other level as he gives me the sad, pathetic pity-eyes. Oh, God, he knows, and horror causes me to become paralyzed.
“Max,” I try, but my tongue is twisted. My heart is beating too fast, and he either doesn’t hear me, understand my desperation or doesn’t care because he doesn’t stop.
“V, your dad told me about your brain tumor, and I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. Whenever I see you, you put a smile on my face with how you live life—full throttle. As if there isn’t something foreign in your brain. You give me courage, and I want you to enjoy this project to the fullest.”
SAWYER
Sunday Feb. 10: Didn’t cure at all today. Didn’t even have my blankets out.
Oh Diary dear, I’m in the awfullest fix. Both Frank and Harry are at me. Harry wants me to sit with him, and only him. Frank doesn’t say anything, but he keeps up a “hurt silence” that makes me feel worse than if he’d get good and angry.
I wish Veronica would have gotten angry with me. Really, I wish she would have stopped. But she didn’t stop. She walked home and that didn’t sit well with me.
I had hauled the crate of Max’s equipment and the duffel bag to my car, placed it in my trunk, and there she was, leaving. I hurried, drove up beside her, but she told me to leave. I agreed with what she said to me, it wasn’t a far walk, but I’d brought her there and it seemed like the right thing to do to be the man who drove her back, but she asked me to leave, even adding a please.
It was the way her blue eyes ached with the please that caused me to leave. She had said a total of six words to me, but I wanted more. Needed more. But her hurt expression told me to go so I did, and now I feel like an even bigger ass. I let a girl with a brain tumor walk home alone.
Evelyn lived over a hundred years ago and I understand her completely. Sometimes silence hurts more than words.
A shove of my shoulder and Sylvia sits in the patio chair beside mine. “Hey, stranger. What are you reading?”
“Nothing.” I roll Evelyn’s diary into a tube again. I’ve done it so often that the sides are starting to curve on their own.
We’re at Sylvia’s house, hanging in the backyard. Miguel does a front flip from the diving board into the in-ground pool. When he hits the water, there’s a round of shouts and cheers of approval from our group of friends who are either lounging by or in the pool.
There’s about twelve people here. The combination of the group of guys I hang with and the group of girls she hangs with creates what my mom calls my tribe. At the grill, Sylvia’s dad cooks sliders, and through the open patio doors of the kitchen my mom, Miguel’s mom, and Sylvia’s mom are laughing as Mom pours all of them another glass of wine. Several other moms hover