One Last Song Part 7

"All right." I walked over to his stereo and sat cross-legged in front of it. "Lay it on me."

He pushed play and sat next to me on the floor. It was a little weird, a little too intimate, sitting there with him, listening to something that apparently gave him so much pleasure. Especially since he hadn't so much as acknowledged the one other time we'd spent time together.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye while pretending not to watch him, and also while concentrating on the music so I'd have something more intelligent to say at the end than "cool." It was exhausting. But after a few minutes and into the second song, I felt myself relax a little bit. The music was nice, more upbeat than I'd expected, and much more melodious than I would've thought from the name.

Drew paused it after the second song ended. "So?"

"It was pretty good," I said, nodding my head. "Not as 'whiny white boy' as I expected."

Drew laughed. "Well, that's a relief."

I gestured to the guitar leaning against his wall. It was one of those sweet wooden affairs, sleek and glossy. "How long have you played?"

"Since I was ten or so. It was sort of my escape from the world."

"So your childhood wasn't idyllic." I didn't look at him when I said it, because I wanted it to seem like a nonchalant statement. The truth was I wanted to know all about him with an intensity that could be described as voracious, or if you were feeling uncharitable, stalkerish. I don't know why-if it was the FA, or the fact that someone with this degenerative, life-wrecking disease still had a whole other life outside of it. When it came to me, my disease and I were one. I had no hobbies, really, no memories, outside of it. But this man, apparently, did.

"You could say that." He went and got the guitar, then came and sat beside me again. I watched as his fingers caressed the strings, coaxing out sounds that, in turn, caressed me. "My parents were junkies. They stayed together only because they wanted to get high together, and they were too stupid to use birth control."

I watched his bent neck, the soft skin on the back of it like velvet. There was no indication of anger in his voice, in his posture. How could that be? "Wow. That's awful."

"Yep." He kept strumming as he talked, the soft, tinkling music at complete odds with what he was telling me. "There were three of us, all boys. My brothers loved it. As far back as I can remember, they hung around the same people my parents were, for lack of a better term, 'friends' with."

"So you escaped."

" 'Escaped' makes me sound braver than I really am. I ran away. Had enough."

I put my hand on his without even thinking, temporarily stopping the strumming. Sometimes people did things completely at odds with their personalities. This was one of those moments for me; definitely one of my better ones. "I'm glad you ran away."

We stared at each other, and I felt the air around us tense up. It was a kiss-or-not moment. Drew took a deep breath, his shoulders and chest expanding until I felt utterly dwarfed. He touched my cheek with the tips of his fingers, setting my skin ablaze. "There's something about you, Grayson," he said.

When he didn't finish his sentence, I pulled back a little. Laughed to show I wasn't nervous or anything, just curious. "What about me?"

But he just shook his head, a smile in his eyes. "Want to listen to some more music?"

He turned to pick another CD, but I grabbed his hand. Again, totally out of character. When I had his attention again, I said, "Why haven't you mentioned China Garden? It's like... you don't want to even remember it or something." As soon as the last word was out there, I knew it was inarguably one of the most awkward, cringe-making things I could've said. And still, I was glad I'd said it. The thought had been like a pebble in my shoe, demanding all of my attention.

Drew hung his head a moment, soft curls begging to be touched. But I restrained myself. When he looked back at me, he was smiling a little. "Those few hours on Tuesday? That's the best time I've had in... as far back as I can remember. The only other thing that comes close is when I'm making music. I didn't tell anyone about it because-well, I was respecting your need to not label it a date, for one. I figured you probably didn't want everyone else to know." I nodded; he was right. "But it was also just something I wanted for myself. I mean, I don't even know if that makes sense. But it's one of those things that you dilute when you talk about, you know? It makes it..."

When he trailed off, I finished for him. "Less special than it really was." I knew exactly what he was talking about. I'd held it in my head, in my hands, examining each conversation we'd had like a kid with a secret treasure.

"Yeah." His voice was soft, his eyes softer. My gaze drifted down to his mouth, that perfect pink bow. He s.h.i.+fted a little closer, and I got a waft of his cologne; something smoky, like a driftwood fire on the beach. I put my hands on his arms, felt the bulge of muscles there. I wondered if building up his strength was his attempt at fighting back against the FA, a sort of silent raging at the inevitable marching on of time. The thought made me unspeakably sad.

When he put his hands on the sides of my face, my skin engulfed in his, I wondered at the fact that we hadn't been doing this all along. It felt natural. When his lips found mine, moving softly at first and then with more urgency as my mouth parted, I was convinced this was not our first kiss. And I convinced myself that this familiar, beautiful, perfect, not-first kiss wasn't wrong. I convinced myself I was deserving.

Finally, Drew pulled back a little, his pupils dilated, breathing hard. Rubbing his thumb along my bottom lip, he whispered, "Like I said. There's something about you."

I smiled, pus.h.i.+ng the guilt that was starting to gain on me deep down into the blackened depths of my soul.

We listened to a lot more music. After about an hour, I got to my feet, a little unsteady from having been sitting for so long. Drew stood, too, and when he saw me wobbling, reached out for me. But he didn't have his cane. My lack of balance caused him to lose his balance, and we almost toppled to the floor. His cheeks flashed a deep crimson. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay." And then, just to change the topic, I grasped verbally on to the first thing I could think of. "Hey, if you need any help with that pet.i.tion for the dude who wants euthanasia, I'm free. No homework." I smiled to show I was poking fun at myself. As if that would alleviate his embarra.s.sment at losing control of his own body.

But he seemed to be grateful for it. Or maybe he honestly did need my help. "Really?"

"Totally."

"That'd actually be great," he said, handing me my jacket from the sofa. "I was going to hit some of the stores downtown Sat.u.r.day afternoon."

"Okay." I shrugged my jacket on and pulled Zee's car keys from my pocket. Sat.u.r.day was less than two days away, and Zee hadn't seemed to be in any position to go jetting off anywhere between now and then. "If Zee doesn't mind us hanging on to her car, I can pick you up. If you want."

He smiled, blue eyes lighting up as he stepped toward me. He brushed a lock of my hair off my cheek, and said softly, "I want. How about two o'clock?"

I grinned without meaning to. It was so easy to be happy around him. So easy to be normal. "Two o'clock it is."

Though I wouldn't have thought it possible, our second kiss was even better.

Chapter Sixteen.

I insisted he didn't have to walk me to the car. Once I was back on the road, I reached my hand across my chest, palpating for the forming abscess. It was smaller than I remembered. I reached into my hoodie pocket and felt for the syringe. Still there. I'd have to remember to do it tonight before I went to bed. Inject early, inject often-that was my current slogan.

The guilt I'd been burying for the past couple of hours began to surge back, bitter and strong. Had I really just kissed a boy I'd conned into believing I was sick? Had I really let him believe I was normal, that a relations.h.i.+p with me would be a healthy, happy thing? And had I really begun to believe that myself? I gripped the steering wheel tight, panic bubbling under the surface of my skin, ready to erupt. Because I really, truly had no idea how to undo what I'd set in motion. And more than that-I wasn't sure I wanted to.

The streets were icy, and I didn't so much drive as slide home. When I got inside the gates at The Mills, a quick look at Zee's dashboard clock told me it was a little past midnight. Mum was asleep, the house plunged into darkness.

Leaving the yellow car in our driveway, I let myself in the front door and crept into the kitchen in the darkness. I flipped on the lights over the sink and got myself a drink of water. I'd left puddles of water behind me from the melted snow. I wondered if Mum would ask me about them in the morning, if I'd tell her where I'd been and with whom. I couldn't picture us having a normal mother-daughter conversation like that, though. Even my daydreams couldn't conjure up something so farfetched.

My eyes roved over her crafting nook, and I saw that the minuscule planks of wood were gone. She must've finished the flooring. The roof was glazed; the window trim had been painted a bright yellow. Everything was perfect, just so, idyllic.

I set my gla.s.s down in the sink and walked over to the dollhouse, slipping the syringe out of my hoodie pocket as I went. There was a tiny queen-sized bed in the master bedroom, made with precise hospital corners in a blue-and-gold duvet and matching shams. I moved it to the side so the new wooden flooring underneath was exposed. Using the sharp point of my syringe, I scored my initials into the floor. Then, very carefully, I replaced the bed exactly as it had been.

Once the lights were out, I made my way through the shadows and up the stairs to my own life-sized bedroom.

When I woke up Sat.u.r.day, my first thought was-as it had been yesterday-about Drew, about how we'd kissed Thursday night. Which was an absurd first thought to have, because there were more important things going on.

For one, my abscess site felt swollen and hot. And two, I was definitely running a fever. I sat up and opened the top b.u.t.ton of my pajamas, peering down at my chest.

Yep, definitely getting to abscess status.

I pushed my knuckles into the tight, puffy skin for good measure, biting down on my lip so I wouldn't cry out. I put a hand to my forehead-101 at least. I s.h.i.+vered as I made my way from the bed to the bathroom mirror, where I gleefully took note of my reddened cheeks and cracked, dry lips. After a quick toothbrus.h.i.+ng and hair-combing, I threw on some jeans and a pink sweater (it brought out the redness in my skin) and went downstairs to find Mum.

She was in the den, sipping tea and watching a show about antiques shopping on TV. I sat next to her, laid my head on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen.

"I don't feel so good, Mum." The heat from my cheeks had to be blazing through to her skin.

"You're running a fever. I can feel it through my clothes."

"I can believe it. I feel like s.h.i.+t." I coughed to underscore my point.

There was silence. Finally, she said my name in a tone that screamed, Why are you such a f.u.c.king miserable piece of s.h.i.+t?

"What?" I asked finally.

Here it comes: the accusation.

"What did you do?"

I lifted my head and looked at her, but she wouldn't look at me, staring steadfastly instead at the TV. "I didn't do anything."

"Why are you running a fever?"

I forced myself to not touch the abscess. My sweater covered it, so there was no way she knew about it. One reason I was thankful for winter. "I don't know. Christ. Did you think about the fact that maybe I'm just sick? How about some sympathy?"

"Watch your language." She gulped down the rest of her tea and stood up. Abruptly, as if she were just learning to walk, she tottered into the coffee table. A metal vase went cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. "s.h.i.+t." She bent down and picked it up, set it back on the table. It fell over again.

Reaching to right the vase, I said, "Are you okay?"

"Fine." But she wouldn't look at me as she made her way to the kitchen.

She came back a minute later with some pills and a thermometer. I opened my mouth and she stuck it under my tongue. When it beeped, she took it back out and looked at it. "102. Do you want to go to the doctor?"

I shook my head, wincing at the pain deep inside. "Just give me some ibuprofen, please. And maybe a blanket and some warm milk?"

She handed me the pills and the milk, and watched as I took them. I'd been known to hide them in between the couch cus.h.i.+ons in the past. When I was done, she went to the wicker basket at the side of the couch and retrieved a throw blanket for me. "Would you like a book?"

"Yes, please."

I didn't really read the book she handed me. Instead, I reveled in the feeling of the fever burning inside me, inflaming tissue and muscle. I cherished the feeling of my mother sitting at my feet, casting worried glances my way every few minutes. She thought I didn't see her, but I did. I always did.

I'd fallen asleep, when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glanced at the screen.

Zee's cool with us hanging on to the car. Still on for the pet.i.tion thing at 2? Drew I texted back: Yes. Pick you up at 1:45.

Mum looked up, and I took it as a small sign of her interest in my life.

"It's a text from a friend I met at the hospital. He wants to know if I'm volunteering again this afternoon."

She nodded, took a sip of tea. I waited for a question, a quiver of her eyebrow, a twitch of her lip. Anything that would show me that she wanted to know more. But her face was a wax mask, as always.

When I went to Catholic ma.s.s with my mum as a little girl, the services always fascinated me. What I found especially spellbinding was the changing of the bread and wine (or grape juice) to the supposed actual flesh and blood of Christ. The priest said it was a mystery, that no one knew how it made that magical transformation. When I got older, I learned the official word for the process: transubstantiation.

I wasn't even remotely a Catholic anymore, if I'd ever been one at all. But I still believed in transubstantiation. I believed in my mother's ability to reverse-transubstantiate, to change from one substance to another; her flesh and blood to smoke and shadows when I was near.

I left for Drew's house close to one thirty p.m. The ibuprofen had, unfortunately, reduced my fever, so I'd managed to eat a few bites of lunch. I was counting on walking around downtown with Drew to bring it raging back.

Mum had disappeared into the bowels of the house, so she didn't see me getting into Zee's car and driving off. She likely hadn't even noticed it sitting there like an Easter egg in our driveway. I wondered what she'd think if she knew her forbidding me to drive a car didn't curtail my freedom to drive one after all. Would she feel impotent anger like a normal parent would? I'd learned it was nearly impossible to predict my mother's feelings or behaviors, but it never prevented me from trying. She was my Everest.

Chapter Seventeen.

Drew came out of his apartment the moment I pulled into his parking spot, like he'd been waiting for me at the window. He started toward me with a wave, gingerly treading the grayish slush on the ground. His boots occasionally slid instead of stepping firmly, and I watched, barely breathing, as he clutched his cane tighter, his long body listing like a boat in high winds. By the time he opened the door and got in, concentration had etched deep worry lines beside his eyes and mouth.

"I f.u.c.king hate this weather. Makes me feel like I'm going to face-plant with every step."

"Mm." I stared at him for a long moment, wondering if I should say what had been hovering in my mind while I watched him walking toward me. The intricacies, the customs and courtesies, of Drew's world baffled me. And yet, I was supposed to be a part of it. I was supposed to know how to broach delicate subjects.

When he felt my eyes on him, he turned. I looked away quickly, but it was too late-he'd seen me. "What?"

I shook my head, but knew he wouldn't let it go. "Nothing. It's just... Have you considered getting a wheelchair?"

He had a look on his face I couldn't decipher. It wasn't anger or the look of someone who'd taken offense at what I'd said. "Not until I absolutely f.u.c.king have to, Grayson. Not until it's either that or army crawling everywhere. Those have to be my choices before I choose the f.u.c.king chair."

He said "the chair" like he was talking about the electric chair. And that's when I realized what that expression was on his face: resolve. It was completely and utterly foreign to me, this determination to stay mobile for as long as possible. I'd give just about anything to be in a wheelchair, to be the very symbol of handicap. People holding open doors for you, peeking glances at you when they thought you weren't looking-those were the things my dreams were made of.

"But enough of that." He put his gloved hand on my own that rested on the steering wheel. "How are you?"

I smiled as casually as I could and slipped my hand out from under his, not quite able to meet his eye as memories of Thursday night flashed through my mind. How could I explain that things looked-felt-different in the light of day?

This was all happening much too fast. We were poised at the top of a hill, Drew and I, our sleds almost to the tipping point. I knew once we went sailing over the edge that I wouldn't be able to hold back. I would choose keeping Drew over telling the truth. And so, now, my only choice was to delay the inevitable. My only choice was to hope that the truth about me would come out so Drew wouldn't get hurt, while simultaneously hoping to h.e.l.l he'd never find out.

I began to back out of the parking s.p.a.ce he'd never use. "So, where are we headed first?"

I pulled into a centrally located parking garage so we could walk up and down the streets that had the most shops. Downtown Ridgeland had a more liberal culture than the rest of the city, and Drew felt it would be our best bet for signatures. Most of the store owners were youngish and well educated, their principles in direct opposition to the crowd that owned the mini-mansions in the outer boroughs of the city, like my parents did.

I watched from the corner of my eye as Drew hobbled alongside me, slowing down so people could pa.s.s him on either side when the sidewalk narrowed. I wondered how long he'd last before I'd have to go get the car and take him home. Would it be a blow to his manly ego? Would I have to step in and ask him to stop, insist that it was time to go home, or would that be offensive? Did people with major illnesses have that kind of authority with one another that outsiders would never be permitted? There were so many ways I could go wrong. Thursday night had been easy. We'd been in a safety net of sorts, ensconced in his home where I was the only one to witness it if he fell. But today, we were surrounded by strangers. And I was so afraid to mess up.