Authors: Courtney C. Stevens
Bodee reaches across and twists the cord of my ever-present ear phones. His hand, brushing lightly against the side of my neck, makes me shiver.
“I noticed,” he says. “And you used to be in band.”
Bodee notices everything. “Well, the first time it happened was a fluke. He wrote something, I wrote something back and thought it was over. But then he wrote back again. ‘I’m okay. Just like I am every day when you ask me what’s wrong with my smile.’ On that day—a Thursday—the lyrics were just what I needed. Because they’re a lie. The name of the song is—”
“‘If I Say I’m Okay, It’s a Lie,’” he says. “My brother listens to Fondue Fortunes.”
“Yeah.” Still, I’m surprised he knows this. “I never see you with music.”
“You didn’t see me much before Mom died.” He sighs.
“I’m sorry.” The truth of his statement stings, but he shakes
his head as if it’s no big deal. “Well, that day, all I knew was somebody else out there understood me. Understands me. Because I was lying too, saying the same things and acting like everything’s cool when it’s not.” Bodee squeezes my hand. “So I wrote back ‘Trust me,’ the words that come next in the song. And that’s how it started. It’s what gets me through the school day.” I stop. “Stupid, huh?”
“No.”
“You don’t think it’s crazy to think I’m in love with some guy who’s never spoken a word to me?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how,” Bodee says.
“You figured out how,” I say.
“No, you did. You came after me during the funeral,” he says. “Hey, what do you know; junior year and the Kool-Aid Kid gets a friend.”
My head automatically cocks to the side as he uses his label.
“Hey,” he adds with a crooked grin, “at least I’m not ‘the kid who got beat up by the football team.’ Yet.”
“Yeah,” I say, “at least,” and grin back at him.
“So don’t you want to know this guy who writes you lyrics?”
“Like you and I know each other? Or does ‘know’ mean have a face for that name?”
“Face.”
“No, and I guess that’s even crazier.”
The left side of Bodee’s face scrunches up; an expression I’ve never seen before, but that I take as curiosity.
“This thing with Captain Lyric is one of the few perfect things in my life. Sort of like you. I don’t want to blow it. How awful would it be if the Captain is the kid who drives me crazy in English or the guy who always brings a liver sandwich every Thursday?”
Or a guy who would hurt me.
Bodee doesn’t blush, but I can see that my comment about him being a perfect thing makes him happy. His voice is steady when he says, “Not crazy at all, Lex. Imagination is a powerful thing. I used to imagine . . . now you want to hear something nuts . . .”
I lean toward him until our shoulders almost touch.
“I used to imagine that my dad wasn’t my dad. That my real dad was someone important like the president. Or someone nice like Vice Principal Oswald. Or a man like . . . your dad.”
“That’s not crazy. Sometimes I imagine Kayla is nicer, or at least less Queen of the Universe,” I say with a laugh. Then I relent. “Okay. Sometimes she’s cool. Just not lately.”
“Yeah.” Bodee wipes his palms on his jeans and then cracks his knuckles. “Point is, truth is a scary thing. Sometimes it’s better not to know.”
“I know, but how long can I love this guy?”
“Indefinitely,” he says with a smile, and presses his thumb against his lips and then touches it to my forehead. “My mom used to do that with me,” he explains. “And at night, before I’d leave for the tent, she’d hold her thumb up against the kitchen window until I was out of sight. It means . . .”
I realize I’m holding my breath as I wait for him to finish his sentence.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
If a heart can smile, mine does.
“Bodee, thanks,” I say, though I know he doesn’t need it. “I’m sorry you lost her.”
“At least I found you,” he says.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
BODEE
and I sit in our contentedness until it’s time to meet Mom.
She makes good on her promise to take us out to dinner and a movie. Bless her heart, she won’t pry into Bodee’s business, but I can tell how badly she wants to fill our casual silence with questions.
When we get back to the house, Kayla’s waiting for me in my bedroom.
“Out,” I say, and drop my purse onto my dressing table.
“This isn’t about the wedding. I swear.”
“Okay, talk fast. I’ve got homework.” The kind that happens in the safety of my closet.
Kayla tugs on one of her huge loopy earrings, which tells me she’s nervous as she says, “I know what you told Hayden.”
Which thing
I told Hayden? That I’d go out with him? Or that I didn’t want him to send a football player after Bodee? Either way, I’ve been down this road with Kayla before, and I’d rather pedal a Big Wheel to and from school for a year than go down it again. “Kayla, don’t start acting like Mom and Dad again.” I rip my hoodie over my head.
“I’m not, and this is different. I think you have to tell someone.” She twists an earring until her earlobe turn sideways.
“Why?” I say, stalling, because I still don’t have a clue about what I’m supposed to tell.
“Because you
should.”
Kayla is impatient. “It’s too important not to when a girl gets . . . hurt.”
My heart nearly stops. “What exactly are you talking about?”
Kayla stops twisting and folds herself onto the edge of my bed. “You
know
what. Some guy on the football team raped a girl.”
That
is what Hayden told Craig? I never said football player.
Craig must have been totally out of it to let Kayla find out. He knows how she is when she gets onto something. I drop down beside her without bothering to pull my pajama top over my cami. “Maybe it was just a rumor, Kayla. I can’t go stirring up—”
“But you know who it is.”
I don’t know if she’s asking or telling, but I say, “No.”
“You can’t lie to me, Lex. Not about something like this.”
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
“I know I was busting your chops about ho-ing it up with
Hayden, but if I thought for a second”—her hand makes a fist—“that he forced you—”
“Hayden didn’t force me,” I say in a level voice.
Kayla puts a hand on my shoulder, and I shrug it off. “You have to know more than Hayden told Craig,” she continues. “And I think you need to do something about it.”
“I. Don’t. Know. Anything,” I spit at her. “It was just something I overheard in the bathroom. Might be total crap made up by some freshman.”
“Okay, look. I could see Craig doesn’t think so. Because he’s
worried,”
Kayla says. “And I think he’s afraid it might be Collie.”
Oh, no. Oh,
no
. “Why does he think that?” I stammer, and shove my arms through my T-shirt so Kayla can’t see my face.
“Because when I asked him who it could be, he finally said he’d caught Collie and Heather together in the locker room after he came back from running Hayden. And
she
was totally messed up. Crying and mascara running down to here, like, well,
you
know; he didn’t go into much detail. So, I think you better do something; check on your friend, get her to
talk.”
Kayla grabbed my hand. “I mean, to imagine this guy forcing himself on a girl. Like, what if that was you? That boy,
any
boy, lays one finger on
you
without you wanting it and I swear I’ll tear him apart. And after that, I’ll let Craig finish him off.”
“Kayla—”
“You think I’m a self-centered bitch right now, but you’re still my little sister. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Too late. But this declaration forces tears to my eyes. If things were different, I might release the lock on this dam and tell her everything. But that would change us forever, and I can’t.
“If it’s Heather, get her to tell someone. Okay?”
“Okay,” I tell Kayla so she’ll leave.
Once I’m behind two closed doors, I curl into a ball and suck in the familiar smell of the closet carpet. When I can’t make myself smaller, I cry and pound my fist on the floor. There’s an art to crying without a sound, and I’m a master.
But my silence only amplifies the quiet voice on the other side of my closet door.
“Lex.”
Unable to answer and unable to uncoil my body, I stay silent.
“Lex,” Bodee says again.
My toes start to cramp, and I have to stretch a little. “Yeah.”
“I’m here.”
“I can’t come out,” I say, which is better than “Go away.”
“Must be nice in there.”
If I wiggle a little, the night-light allows me to see the new pile of shredded football cards from the night before, and the discarded pj shirt I just barely managed to change before my fingernails went to town on my neck. I squeeze Binky to my chest and say, “Did anybody see you?”
“They’re all in their rooms.”
I exhale and realize Bodee’s presence won’t ruin my closet sanctuary any more than he ruined the fort. “Good.”
“Don’t want to barge in, but I know you’re upset.”
“How?” I push some of Binky’s loose stuffing back inside him and wish it was as simple to fix me—that somebody could push all the loose stuff in me back inside.
“I saw Kayla leave,” he says. “And I heard your voice. I could tell.”
“Bodee,” I start, but I don’t know what to say.
“Because I know hurt when I hear it. I hurt too,” he confesses.
“You sit in your closet?” I hear him rest his back against the closet door, and there’s a pause.
“No. Mostly, I lie under the bed,” he says.
“But . . .” In my mind I see Mom’s extra Christmas decorations and a few rolls of wrapping paper stored under the antique bed Dad set up for Bodee. “Aren’t there Christmas decorations and stuff under there?”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you do under the bed?” I ask.
“Put my fingers between the slats and box springs and lift myself off the floor. I can do a whole bunch before I get tired enough to sleep.”
He’s not bragging; he’s just saying it. But that explains why there are muscles beneath his loose white Hanes instead of the nonathletic flab I assumed would be there.
“Lex?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Stop scratching your neck.”
“No.” My hands have a brain of their own, and they’re
disconnected from any logic. “I can’t.” But why is this
no
so easy to say?
“Yes. You can, Lex.”
“Says the guy who does pull-ups under his bed,” I say, but not cruelly.
“I’m not under there now.”
Sitting up, I bury my nose in my T-shirt and consider his words.
“You don’t have to come out,” he says. “Just stop hurting yourself.”
“Don’t think I can.”
“What would your Captain tell you if he were here?”
I think for a moment and talk-sing,
“What words are there to write? To describe this place in my life. It’s a painful peaceful day.”
“What’s next?” he asks.
“All in all. You have been. Redeemer. Pain Stealer. My best friend. Please hold my hand.”
“That’s nice. Well, then, imagine I’m him,” he says, and sings the lines.
“All in all. You have been. Redeemer. Pain Stealer. My best friend. Please hold my hand.”
I can’t smile, yet my body begins to relax. Like an involuntary reaction to Bodee and the Captain, it is a nice blend, and I am better. A little better.
Like fourth period in my bedroom.
“Bodee, can I tell you another secret?”
“I told you one of mine,” he says.
“You see that vent above my bed?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
“Tell me, how many slits are there in the vent?”
“One. Two. Three. Four . . .” He counts twenty before saying, “Not sure. I blinked and lost my place, but I think there are twenty-two or twenty-three.”
“Twenty-two slits. I count them every night.”
“Why?” He doesn’t sound as if this is stupid.
“Because I need to focus on something,” I explain.
“Guess it’s tough to do in the dark.”
“Actually, I count the metal strips instead of the spaces. Easier to see.”
“So you try to count around all twenty-two to reach twenty-three?” he asks.
“Yeah, but I can’t.” He sighs his understanding, and I say, “It’s impossible without blinking, so I have to keep starting over.”
“It is hard,” he says after several minutes pass, and I know he’s tried it a few times. “If you come out, Lex, maybe . . . we could count them together.”
Stay in here with the shredded pieces of football cards or count the vent slits with Bodee? Not a hard choice. “Okay.”
He moves away from the door while I change into a fresh pj top that smells Mountain Spring clean. Arms crossed over my chest, I exit the closet and slide under the covers. Bodee is standing by the light switch. He’s shirtless. His hair is sticking out everywhere. But there’s something about seeing him this way that helps me understand how complex he is. More teenager
than man on the outside; more man than teenager on the inside.
“In the dark?” he asks as his hand toggles the switch.
“Dark,” I say, hoping this will ease me into dreamland.
After several seconds, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can see Bodee’s silhouette. I wonder if he can see me under the mound of my comforter. Our quiet breaths are well under my parents’ radar, but my heart races anyway. What would they say if they found us together in my dark bedroom? Would they send him back to live with Ben? No, I decide. My parents are not usually jump-to-conclusion people. But he’d never end up in my bedroom again if they found out.
“You okay?” Bodee asks.
“Yeah.” Despite his words, he’s quiet. Or maybe I mean calm, and so am I. No more heaving and sobbing. We’re a duet of breaths as quiet as the whisper of butterfly wings.
Bodee eases into my dressing table chair and says, “If you count from the right and I count from the left . . .”
“We’ll meet in the middle.”