Under My Skin (17 page)

I push the plate aside. It bonks against a can of Boost. If Mom were here, she’d force me to suck it down.

But she’s not here and I doubt she’s coming.

I slide out of bed and shove my feet into my slippers. Shaw had paid for my food the other night, so I still had twenty bucks. I tug on my hoodie and make sure the money is in the pocket.

The hallway is empty. Two nurses at the nurse’s station have their backs to me. I sneak off the unit without being seen.

Shaw’s right about me sweating the taste of freedom.

My stomach growls. Holding my belly, I step out of the elevator on the main level and follow the yellow signs to the cafeteria. A few visitors wander around, talking about fountain soda versus canned and what their favorite pudding flavor is. I do a lap myself to scope the place out. Pizza, burgers, salads, soups, ice cream, sushi.
Sushi?
Yuck.

I settle on a slice of white pizza with broccoli and a half pint of caramel swirl ice cream. A group of staff take up half a dozen tables near the registers. They complain about double shifts on weekends.

After checking out, I pick a table on the empty upper level. I point the chair so it faces the window. The lights are dimmer inside and the streetlights are brighter outside, so I get slight hints of myself—the petite girl with a huge c-collar swallowing her up. The drizzly rain from before has turned to sloppy snow. Flakes cling desperately to the dead grass and bare tree limbs for a second, then melt into nothingness.

I have to wonder if I’m doing the same—clawing onto a life I don’t deserve by going out with Shaw … and letting myself look forward to seeing a boy with a double lip ring.

Adam.

The kid is cute. In an odd sort of way.

Bet it’s his British accent.

I sink my teeth in the pizza. Much better than the slop that was on my tray. I nosh until I get to the crust, then pry open the ice cream container. It’s soft from sitting out, but not soupy. I take a ridiculously large bite. Rich caramel coats my tongue. I close my eyes and savor another spoonful.

“I’ve never seen someone so happy while eating ice cream.” The guy’s voice has a clear accent.

I fumble my spoon. It bounces off my thigh before clanging to the floor. “Dammit.”

I twist, half-surprised and half-pissed at the interruption. My jaw drops. It
is
him. “Adam.”

“Hello.” He drops a heart-shaped pillow on the table and sits across from me. He’s got a facemask on, though it’s tucked under his chin. “Mind if I join you?”

So proper. “You already have.”

He snort-laughs. It’s shy. And adorable. “Yes, I guess I did. I can leave, if you want.”

“No,” I blurt. Way too fast. Heat burns my cheeks and I hope, no I pray, the dim lighting hides it.

He uses his tongue to wiggle his lip ring. I can’t stop staring. OMG.

“What’re you doing here?” My question comes out barely more than a squeak.

He frowns and leans forward. “Come again?”

I clear my throat. “Why are you here?”

His gaze wanders around the room. “I’m sick of being cooped up in my room.”

“I know the feeling. How come I haven’t seen you on the Pediatric unit?”

“I’m on the cardiac floor. The staff is more trained if my heart decides to go wonky.”

“Wonky?”

“Odd term, eh?”

“Does it scare you? Your heart, I mean.”

He scratches the back of his head. “Yes. A lot. But my heart is supposed to be … better now.”

“Good.” I tip the ice cream container in his direction. “Want some?”

One corner of his mouth slides up. “Need another spoon?”

“Since you made me drop mine and I didn’t grab two, yeah.”

This pulls a full smile out of him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

I stand. “It’s okay. Wait here. I’ll get two spoons.”

“Okay.” He settles deeper into the plastic chair. Comfortable. Not awkward at all like he was in the exercise room. What a quirky boy.

I force myself to take my time over to the plastic utensil dispenser, but I let myself rush—a little—back to the table.

“Here.” I offer him a spoon.

Our fingers brush against each other. My skin tingles from the contact.

“Thank you.” He stares up at me. The light above him catches his eyes. They’re a color I’ve never seen before, a mixture of blue, green, and brown. Didn’t look that way yesterday. Chameleon eyes. Beautiful.

I sit, trying to settle the somersaults in my stomach. A simple idea hits me: Paint them.

Guilt stomps it out. How can I think about picking up a paintbrush when my brother is dead? He’ll never shoot a basketball again, or drive his precious car, or get the sports scholarship Dad’s been rooting for. I don’t have a right to enjoy anything if he can’t.

“You alright?” Adam asks.

I chew on the spoon. “Y-yeah … Hey, you wear contacts?”

“No. Why?” The lean muscles in his forearms ripple and the tendons in his hands work as he fiddles with the ice cream container.

I sort out the color combinations I’d have to mix to get just the right shades to match his irises. I can almost feel my fingertips sliding across a blank canvas, reading it, urging it to tell me its story. My fingers twitch, aching to hold a brush again. Can I?

“Nevermind. How come you’re not with your parents?”

He offers me the carton. “I made them go home. Needed a break, you know? I’m sure they needed one too.”

I dig into a ribbon of caramel. “Yeah, I know.”

“How about you? Where are your parents?”

“Home.”

He sets his spoon down. “I think I’ve forgotten what home is like.”

“Me too.” It’s not a lie. I’ve been in the hospital so long, I’ve gotten used to the smell, the dry air, the noise all night long, and the craptastic color scheme.

“How long do you have to stay here?”

“Probably forever.”

He puffs his cheeks. “Sometimes I feel that way too.”

I wipe my mouth with a napkin and ball it up. Home is the last thing I want to talk about, or even think about. My stomach curls with anxiety. It won’t be too much longer before the doctor will say I’m ready to be discharged. Mom and Dad will have to pick me up. I’ll have to get used to living in the house, going to school, and just being … all without Daniel. “You supposed to wear that mask?”

He tugs on the elastic hooked around his left ear. “Yes, but it’s kind of hard to when I’m eating.”

“You weren’t wearing it when you came up to me.”

He twists his mouth to the side. “Touché.”

The angles of his cheekbones and chin contrast with the softness of his mouth. His black lip ring pops against his skin. I drool, thinking about the brushstrokes it’d take to capture his face. I could do it. He’d fit in my Fire and Ice collection.

I toss the container on my plate next to the pizza crust. “Why do you have to wear it? Are you contagious or something?”

He tugs the mask into place. “No. My immune system is crap because I have to take a bunch of medicine … ”

“Why?”

He slides his chair back and crosses his arms, stuffing his long, thin fingers into his armpits. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

He’s not the only one. “It’s too bad the mask hides your lip ring, because it’s bad ass.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkle with a smile. His laugh is muffled from the mask, but its warmth reaches me. “My mum and dad hate it.”

I giggle. “My parents hate my blue hair.”

“You have to keep it. It’s ace.” The joy in his eyes is genuine.

“Ace?”

“Um, yes. I think you Americans call it awesome?”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

He tips his chin down. “Let’s get something out in the open, yeah?”

I stiffen. He’s going to make me talk about Mom and Dad or the accident. “O-okay.”

He moves the chair to the table and leans his elbows against the tabletop. “Neither of us wants to talk about why we’re here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I say we call a moratorium on the subject.”

This kid uses some weird words. “A what?”

“A moratorium. It means we both agree not to discuss it.”

As long as he doesn’t dig into my story, I won’t dig into his. I stick out my hand. “Agreed.”

He slips his hand into mine. His skin is warm. “Ace.”

“Ace.” That tingle I felt before when we touched comes back, twice as intense. I pull my hand away even though I don’t want to. “You’re different, Adam. I like that.”

“You’re different too, Darby. I wish I could be as straight forward as you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, you just were.”

He gives his soft laugh again. It’s so simple, like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or eating buttered popcorn in a movie theater. “I should probably get back before the nurses send a search party.”

“Good point. Don’t want to be counted as going AWOL.”

Adam insists on picking up the garbage. After dumping the leftovers, we head to the elevator.

We hit buttons for different floors.

“Too bad we’re not on the same unit,” I say.

“Agreed, though I kind of like these clandestine meetings.”

“I like your vocabulary.”

My floor comes first. The doors open and I hesitate.

“This you?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He presses the door open button. “See you at PT tomorrow?”

I’m not ready to leave. But I have to. I lean into him, rise up to my tippy toes, and kiss him on the cheek. “Yep.”

Hyped on adrenaline, I dash out of the elevator before he can respond. I can’t breathe normally until I step into my room.

I’m used to kissing boys, but it’s different with Adam. I don’t know why, but things mean more with him.

I snort. Things mean more with a boy I don’t know. But somehow it’s like I’ve known him forever. Maybe I’m just desperate.

I mean, really. I’m getting all romantic and sentimental. What would Shaw say about that?

In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection. I draw my fingers along my upturned lips. It’s a smile. Haven’t used one of those in a while. I’d forgotten the pull and tug of muscles. The tingling in my belly from the urge to laugh.

I can’t wait to see Adam again.

Adam

Shaw and I visit the hospital’s atrium during our next session time, taking full advantage of every spare nook and cranny of the hospital with every passing day. We sit on a bench under a pergola ringed by holly. A fountain sits dry in front of us. Water isn’t flowing from it and the flowerbed at its base is empty, already cleaned out for winter. The slate under our feet is a dull gray, but the square of sky above us is a vibrant blue. Sunlight bathes us in warmth so it’s not too bad sitting here in a longsleeved t-shirt. Since we’re surrounded by the interior hospital walls, we’re sheltered from the wind.

Shaw takes a sip of her latte, then opens the session by saying, “How’s your Live Life List coming along?”

It isn’t, but I can’t tell her that. I could mention Darby, not that there’s much to say. Well, nothing I’d want to share with Shaw anyway. I rub my cheek where she’d kissed me last night. My skin tingles at the memory of it. I wish I could so easily embody her ability to take any moment and turn it into opportunity.

“Earth to Adam.” She nudges me with her shoulder.

I swirl the coffee Shaw brought for me—I wonder if this is some new tradition—and take a tentative sip. Less grit than before, but it’s still there. I prop the cup on my heart pillow that’s resting on my lap. “This is a bit gritty.”

“Must be the sweetener. So, are you actually going to talk about what’s on your mind? Because you have to if this is going to work.”

I’d prefer sitting here for the entire session in silence, but Shaw will keep prodding until the words pour out of me. I don’t have the mental energy for another drawn out battle with her. “I met a girl.”

Shaw shifts position to catch my sightline. “Really?”

“She isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met before.”

“How so?” Her gaze falls to my coffee. She purses her lips slightly, then adopts her usual clinical flatness.

A smile plays at my mouth as I take another sip—I don’t want to give Shaw another reason to think I’m resisting her by refusing to drink it. “She’s interested in talking to me,” I joke. Only it doesn’t come out as a joke. It sounds pathetic. Internally, I groan, knowing Shaw will delve deeper into my lack of self-esteem.

Shaw relaxes a bit. “I’m sure a lot of people want to talk to you, but you don’t let them in. What about your friends? Have you reached out to them since you were admitted to the hospital?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Right, which means you push people away.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just like you’re doing now. You’re afraid of letting people in.” Shaw picks a piece of fuzz off her wool jacket. Imperfections aren’t allowed in her world. Maintaining an immaculate persona must be her way of dealing with the messy lives of the people she treats. I wonder what she’d think of my pop psychology interpretation of her.

I give a non-committal shrug, even though she’s wrong. I’m not afraid of letting people in. I’m afraid of letting her in. Doesn’t matter. She’ll burrow through anyway. She always does.

“So what’s different about this girl that you’ve decided to bring her up?” She takes another sip of her latte, then bonks her cup against mine. “Cheers, by the way, for stepping out of your comfort zone.”

I chew on my lip ring. Every word I say has significance. I can say I hate hangnails and Shaw will interpret it to mean I hate a part of myself and fantasize about ripping it off. Ordinary conversations don’t go like this. They’re spontaneous, words are just that—words, and there’s no pressure or wondering if what you say will be torn apart and analyzed bit by bit. Finally, I say, “Meeting people is living life.”

“True. But you didn’t have to talk to her.”

“She came up to me first. I couldn’t ignore her.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at. What was it about
her
that drew you in?”

That couldn’t possibly be important for Shaw to know. I consider asking her, but my last question got shot down so I’d be wasting my time by following up with another. “She’s direct. Says what she means. She doesn’t twist my words around or analyze them. And I don’t have to talk about the surgery or my heart or anything.”