Cracked (17 page)

Nikole wipes her tears with the sleeves of her sweatshirt and smiles.

What about us here? We need her, too. She can’t just leave.

I need her.

MAN, THIS GIRL IS CRAZY. SHE HASN’T MOVED IN,
like, twenty minutes—not even to scratch her head or shake her foot or scribble crap in her precious notebook. Nothing. And she can wrap her one leg around the other one like a pretzel.

I have no idea what’s been going on in the circle. I haven’t taken my eyes off of this nut since I sat down, except when Lisa asked what was going on over here. The thought of whispering something in
her
ear comes to me, and I wish I wasn’t in this freakin’ wheelchair prison. I could never get close enough. If I could, I’d tell her she has pretty eyes.

No, I wouldn’t. I’m too much of a chickenshit.

The girls are crying again. Great. Do I care why? No. But wait a second—did Victor’s girlfriend and the “I swear” girl say they’re leaving tomorrow? I turn my head a little bit so I can hear. I don’t take my eyes off of Freaky, though. Yep, his girlfriend’s outta here tomorrow. So’s Lacey. And she’s filling her head with “You can do anything” garbage. I think they’re all gonna be the same messed-up group of psychos when they get out of here. Everyone’s going back to the same messed-up places they came from. Even Brian. The same messed-up lives. They’ll all probably be back here soon.

Except me.

I’m never going back to my apartment. Notice how I’m not calling it “home”? I don’t have a home, and I never have. The shore is calling me. As soon as I get out of here, I’m going straight to the shore. I didn’t try to kill myself. I’m more okay than all of them put together. I don’t even belong here.

Did Victor just talk? Yeah, he did. He’s probably going to start blubbering about his girlfriend leaving. I’ve seen him cry before, and his nose runs. Let me rephrase that: I’ve
made
him cry before. I wonder how Nikole will like looking at his snot. I really don’t care about Victoria’s boogers.

I go back to staring at the black-haired kook. She has a mole on her right ankle. No, wait, it’s her left ankle. She’s all
tangled up. Her sweatshirt is way too big for her and is hanging off her shoulder. I can see her black bra strap. I picture how she looks when she’s not wearing hospital-issued sweats and slippers.

I see black, all black. Black boots, black backpack, black makeup, all black. Does she have any friends out there? A boyfriend maybe? If she does, he probably has piercings and tattoos and combat boots. Damn, I want to know her story. I have a million questions. Where does she live? Go to school? What is her favorite thing to do? What the hell does she write in that book of hers? Anything in there about me? Does she have any brothers or sisters? Does she drive yet? Smoke? How did she try to kill herself? What made her do it? What is she afraid of? What would it be like to hug her? Make out with her? Touch her?

Great, I have a boner.

I have to stop looking at her. At least these sweats are big and loose, and I’m sitting down. No one can tell. God, at least I hope to shit they can’t tell.

Group is over. Kell unravels herself and walks out. Everyone else gathers around Brian and does the whole good-bye thing. I like the dude and all but come on, I’ve only known him for, like, two days. And I don’t know how to wish people well or any of that shit.

“I hope you lose weight,” is what I say to Brian. That’s about as emotional as I can get.

“Thanks. Me too,” he says, and we shake hands. “But I’ll always weigh less than an elephant. Right?”

I laugh. “Right.”

Brian waves to everyone and then walks out.

Andrew offers to wheel me to the common room.

“Yeah, cool,” I say.

“That chick is the craziest one out of all of us, dude,” he tells me.

I play dumb, “Who?”

“Kell. The one you’ve been staring at for an hour. She’s hot and everything, in a crazy kind of way, but she really
is
crazy. I overheard Agnes tell Ellie that this is her third time in here, and she’s only sixteen. That’s one effed-up girl.”

“I was just messin’ with her, you know, trying to make her crack,” I say.

“Wrong girl to mess with. I swear to God I think she plots out ways to fuck people up in that book she writes in. I heard her talking with Lisa the day she got here, and Lisa asked her how she’d been since juvenile detention. The girl’s been in jail. Lacey told me it was because she stabbed her stepdad. He didn’t die, but she is cray-zee.”

We’re in the common room now, and I look around for
her. That story doesn’t scare me. Kell’s in her usual spot in the corner, facing the window, her back to the room, hand flying across the page. Her feet are up on the windowsill, and she’s resting her back on the table. If I wasn’t in this stupid wheelchair, I’d sneak up behind her and read what she’s writing.

“I’d stay away from her, dude,” Andrew says.

Like I’d listen to this guy. I don’t even know him, and besides, he’s not the most reliable person in here. He can shove his opinions up his butt.

Her slippers are off. She has really nice feet, and her toenails are painted . . . black.

AFTER BRIAN LEAVES, WE ALL HEAD TO THE COMMON
room, and I watch some TV show on penguins. Nikole tries three or four times to engage me in conversation, and I give her one word answers. I want her to think I’m really into this show. That I’m a penguin lover.

The penguins could be tap-dancing in soccer cleats and I’d have no idea. I’m not watching the show. I’m staring at the TV and falling apart, one cell at a time. My heart is ripping itself in two. As the credits roll I am officially a broken guy.

But I think I love her.

I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. Talking is not
an option for me. Nikole’s voice rises above Lacey’s and Andrew’s. Even Bull’s. And his voice used to be the one I’d listen for in the hallways at school. No one else exists in this common room.

Only Nikole.

I battle in my head. I’m wasting precious time with her by phony-napping. I should be talking with her, memorizing the tone of her voice. Committing her face to a secret place in my brain. But I’m unable to move.

Nikole laughs. The sound fills my head, and I do everything in my power to store it somewhere inside me. But my heart has no room. It lies inside my chest in two quivering mounds, torn clear in half. I can feel it. She laughs again. It’s a rich, deep laugh, not like the girls at school, who laugh all twittery and giggly. Nikole laughs like she means it.

Everyone thinks I’m sleeping because they all ignore me. I sit there with my eyes closed for what feels like hours. Eventually I hear Agnes come in and announce dinner. “Best night of the week, everybody: pizza.”

I “wake up” and stretch to make my nap authentic. Nikole stands in front of me. I do my best to show no sign of my inner turmoil and smile at her. She reaches up, tousles my hair, and says, “You were out like a light.”

“Yeah,” I say. Fake yawn.

Nikole smiles and links her arm in mine, and we walk to the cafeteria. Her arm, warm and real, sends life into me. My skin prickles, but the connection is broken when we take our seats. I remain torn.

I’m not hungry. I don’t touch my dinner tray. I keep stealing glances at Nikole. Tomorrow? She’s leaving tomorrow? That’s ruined everything for me. I was so excited about getting to call my grandmother. Now I don’t care about anything. Again.

Lacey is chirping away like a bird on speed, and I wish she’d shut up. I want Nikole to talk. I want to hear her voice again and concentrate on it. But she doesn’t have a chance. Lacey is going on and on about how good Nikole will be out there on her own, and how she’s her inspiration, she swears.

Tape? Does anyone have a piece of tape?

Nikole brilliantly makes her stop talking by asking me a question. “So, Victor, you’re not hungry?”

I look down at my perfect platter and say, “No, I hate pizza.” I can’t believe I just said that. I love pizza. I could live on pizza. I’d eat it for breakfast, that’s how much I love pizza. And I told her I hate pizza. Why am I so stupid? That’s all I could come up with? That I hate pizza? Why can’t I tell her that I don’t want her to go? And that the thought of not seeing her big brown eyes and curly blond hair every day makes me
numb inside? That it actually makes my stomach cramp? Why can’t I tell her those things?

Because I don’t know how, that’s why. I don’t know how to talk to people. I especially don’t know how to talk to girls. But bottom line, I don’t know how to talk to people. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about this before. I think this is my biggest problem, besides having parents who don’t know I exist. I don’t know how to talk to people.

I’m not a good person.

People know how to talk to other people. It’s part of being human.

Maybe I’m an alien.

I can’t stay here. I have to leave, right now. I tell them I’m going to go back to my room, that I’m bored. They all look confused. No wonder—it was another stupid thing to say.

I start pacing in my room, thankful Bull isn’t in here in his wheelchair, because I’d have a much smaller space to walk around. I walk back and forth between the window and the door, over and over again. On one of my walks past Bull’s side I see a newspaper clipping on his nightstand. It stops me in my tracks. Bull Mastrick reads the newspaper? I find this shocking. I didn’t know he even knew how to read.

I look toward the door. No one is coming, so I walk over and quickly pick up the clipping. It’s a poem. This shocks
me even more. Bull reads poetry? I immediately turn it over expecting to see a cartoon; that’s about all I can picture Bull reading out of a newspaper. But there is just part of an advertisement for shoes. The clipping seems old, and I handle it more gently when I turn it back over.

I check the doorway again. Nothing. And I read the poem. When I get to the end, the last line about waiting for no one and filling
yourself
up, my hands starts to shake. My hands never shake. Well, that’s not completely true; they only shake when I’m about to cry. It’s this weird thing my body does. This time it’s no different. My eyes fill up and let loose.

I cry because I am almost filled up. With Nikole.

And she’s walking out the door tomorrow.

VICTORIA DISAPPEARED FROM DINNER. I WAS TALKING
with Andrew and I looked up at one point and his seat was empty. His tray was untouched. After ten minutes or so I asked Lacey to pass it down to me. If the dick was going to leave a tray full of perfectly good pizza, then hell, I’d eat it.

I watched Kell play with her gum all through dinner, watched her write, and watched her run her fingers through her greasy hair. I don’t know why her dirty hair doesn’t bother me. Usually that would be something I’d rag on someone for, but I don’t want to make fun of her.

Later I try to get comfortable in bed, but I’m having
problems with it. My stitches are so itchy. Ellie told me it’s because I’m healing. She said she’d come in here and tie my hands to the bed if I scratched them. The thought of her tying me to my bed makes me feel woozy. I have a good ten-minute fantasy on that one. But I promised her I wouldn’t scratch, so I don’t.

I look at the clock and it’s 1:03 a.m. I’m wide awake. Doofus is snoring like a champ next to me, so I know he’s out. Why can’t I sleep? I forgot to ask Ellie for a book today. Shit, I would kill for a book.

A shadow walks by my closed curtain. Ellie never comes around on this side. A hand pulls back the drape.

It has chipped black nail polish.

What the . . . ?

Kell slinks inside my curtain and has her finger up to her mouth, shushing me. At least she’s not
giving
me the finger this time. Before I can think about what is happening, Kell crawls over my bed and lays down next to me with her head on my shoulder.

What the . . . ?

She shushes me again and takes my left hand, the one with the cast on it, and puts it on her boob.

What the . . . ?

Her boob. My casted hand is on her boob. Insta-boner.

I pull my hand away. Why did I just pull my hand away? What the hell is the matter with me? She puts it back where it just was and whispers, “I know you want me.”

Uh, duh.

“Why are you doing this?” I take my hand off, again. What a stupid thing to say. Why would I question her? She put my hand there twice. Twice!

“Because I’m horny, you idiot.” She reaches for my hand again,
and I pull my hand back!
“Wait, are you gay?” she asks me. “Because if you’re gay, I’m cool with that.”

“No,” I tell her, “I’m not gay.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.” Oh, I’m so convincing.

“If you’re not gay, and you don’t have a problem, then why won’t you touch me?”

Good question. I go for the easy answer.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re weird,” she says.

“So are you.”

This whole situation is weird. I have the girl I’ve been drooling over all day curled up on me, in my bed, putting
my
hand on
her
boob, and I just called her weird. Really romantic.

“I know you didn’t try to kill yourself,” she says.

Wait, hold up. How would she know that? How
could
she know that?

I huff. “You don’t know anything about me,” I say. God she smells so good.

“I know you smell like springtime,” she says, “right after it rains.”

That must be the hospital soap. No one has ever told me I smelled like anything except for my pop. He would sometimes tell me my breath smelled like dog crap in the morning. I wish I’d brushed my teeth before bed. What if my breath smells like dog crap?

“Don’t you want to know how I know your secret?” she asks.

I don’t know how to answer her. If I say yes, that’ll mean I do have a secret. If I say no, she might leave my bed. I tell her I don’t have a secret.

Then she kisses me.

It is a perfect, vanilla-filled kiss. No tongue, just lips touching in all the right places. I have no idea what I’m doing, but it’s clear she does. She is the first girl I’ve ever kissed. Yeah, I know, I’m sixteen. Whatever.