Old Wounds (19 page)

“How do you feel about that?” she asked.

I shrugged, not really knowing how I felt.

“Sophie is obviously someone you feel you can trust. That was a big topic for you to discuss with her.”

“Y-yeah.” I shouldn’t have told Robin. Now I’d be forced to talk about it.

“How did she react?”

I thought about her loud voice and the scowl on her face. “Sh-she w-w-was m-mad.”

“At you?”

“A-at my mm-mm-mom.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

I closed my eyes. It was always easier to answer Robin’s incessant questions when I wasn’t looking at her. “She d-doesn’t kn-know.”

“What doesn’t she know?”

“M-my mmm-mm-mom. Sh-she th-thinks my mmmmmom w-was b-bad.”

“Did she tell you that?”

I opened my eyes and shook my head. “B-but m-my mmm-mm-mmom w-w-wasn’t b-bad.”

“No. Your mother wasn’t bad. She was sick.”

“I-I d-don’t think S-S-Sophie understands th-that.”

“Addiction and depression are illnesses. Your mother didn’t make the choice to be sick.”

I suddenly became conscious that my breathing had sped up and my fingers ached. I looked down at my right hand and saw that they were digging into the arm of the chair. My knuckles were white and I had the urge to do something else with them. “I-I kn-know.”

“Breathe deeply, Elliott.” I closed my eyes again and tried to do as she asked. “Did you talk to Sophie about your father?”

Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten. My lungs seized and I gasped for breath. “N-n-n-n-no. P-p-p-pleeeeease d-d-don’t, Robin.”

“Okay.” Her voice was soft and soothing, the way a mother’s voice would be. I forced my thoughts away from my parents and wondered if this was what Robin sounded like when Rebecca was young and had a bad dream, and she tried to comfort her.

“Focus on breathing, Elliott. Relax and try to calm down.”

She was silent for awhile as I did my best to regulate my breathing. It wasn’t until I opened my eyes again that she spoke. “Have you written anything new?”

I knew she was asking about music compositions. I shook my head. “D-D-David ssssays B-B-Becca’s p-p-planning a t-t-t-trip t-to SSSSSSp-SSSSpain.”

Robin smiled. “She’s got enough money saved, and so does David from what I’ve heard. Of course I’ll be worried about them, but they’re eighteen, and are entitled to go off on their own. Does Sophie mention her mother?”

I sighed and then shook my head. “N-no.” Besides drugs, Sophie didn’t really mention a lot about anything.

Most of Saturday was spent lying on my bed, worrying about Sophie doing drugs and being alone in the woods. I had never dropped acid before, but I didn’t think it was necessary in order to know that it was an incredibly senseless idea when you could get lost so easily.

When I wasn’t actively worrying about Sophie, I was thinking about how she ran her hands through my hair. No one but Jane knew how just that simple act could calm me down. How had she known?

Sophie and Jane shared Photography class, but there was no way Jane would tell her something like that, and it’s not like Sophie would ask her about it.

It didn’t matter. Her fingers sliding through my hair felt utterly fantastic. I wondered how I could get her to do it again.

I felt like a creep. Like a creepy creep planning out various ways to get a girl to touch him.

Then I felt worthless. Thinking about Sophie and touching wasn’t going to lead to anything productive, and I knew from past experience that it would just prove painful and send me into a fit of depression. I didn’t need to spend another night hoping to all that was holy that my erection would fade.

On Sunday I waited until eleven to call Sophie. Stephen had Mr. Young’s number written down in the address book in his study. I thought eleven was enough time for someone to recover from tripping on acid. I dialed, going over what I -planned to say.

Although I thought about music in an attempt to calm myself, when I heard Sophie’s father answer the phone, I froze.

“Hello?” There was pause and I tried to force words out of my mouth, but I only seemed to be able to make a clicking sound. “Hello?” he said again, this time in a more irritated voice. He sighed heavily before hanging up.

I couldn’t even use the phone like a normal human being. I hated being me.

Trying again, I redialed the number. “Hello?” His voice was booming and more than just a little scary.

“H-h-hhhhhh…”

“Who is this?” he demanded.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let Schubert’s Opus 90 Number 3 fill my head before I opened my mouth to speak. “MMMMMister Y-Y-YYYYoung? Th-th-this is E-E-Elli-Elli-Elliott D-D-Dalton.” I hated my own name coming from my mouth. “C-c-c-c-can I t-t-talk t-t-to S-S-SSSSS-SSSS…” I choked on her name.

“You want to talk to Sophie?”

“Y-y-yes, sir.”

“Hold on.”

There was a rustling sound and footsteps, and then a few knocks. I could hear Sophie’s father saying something about sleeping all day and then nothing for nearly a minute. “Mmmm?”

“S-S-Sophie?”

There was a deep intake of air. “Elliott?” Her voice was rough and slightly scratchy. “’Sup?”

“I-I-I j-just w-w-wanted to make sure y-y-you w-were okay.”

A breathy chuckle answered me. “Of course I’m okay. I told you I would be.”

There wasn’t much more for me to say. If I had any courage, I’d ask her to do something with me today. If I was really forward, I would ask her to run her hands through my hair again. If I could speak like a normal person, I would say
any
thing just to keep her on the line.

Since I wasn’t courageous, or forward, or normal, I settled for, “O-o-okay. Sssssee y-you t-t-tomorrow.”

I hung up without waiting for her to say goodbye. I was just as awkward on the phone as I was in person, and she shouldn’t have to be subjected to that.

The rest of my day was spent listening to music and thinking of Sophie. She was my friend. Finally I had someone besides Jane who
wanted
to be friends me. Despite all of the differences, between us with her drug-use and my inability to fully communicate, we were friends. That thought would carry me through until I could see her again

I opened the door to put the phone back after Elliott hung up and found Tom standing right outside. He hadn’t been home at all last night and must’ve come home early this morning.

“What?” My voice was rough and raw, even to my own ears. It had been cold and damp in the woods, and after tripping all day yesterday, I’d probably come down with a cold. That, or I’d been yelling and screaming the whole day, but I had no recollection. “Your boyfriend has a pretty awful case of stuttering.”

I sighed and pushed the phone at him. “Way to state the obvious, Tom.” I shivered when his hand brushed against mine as he took the phone. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“You’ve been here a few weeks now and you haven’t had one phone call. Then all of a sudden, out of the blue, this delinquent of yours calls. The same delinquent you went to D.C. with, mind you, and you’re going to tell me he’s not your boyfriend?”

“Whatever, Tom.” I’d almost closed the door in his face, but then opened it again. “He’s my partner in Horticulture, okay? He’s the one your wonderful, extraordinary Wallace paired me with for therapy, got it?”

“So he’s not your boyfriend?”

I just stared at him for a moment, giving him my best “duh” look. “Yep, you can keep your shotgun on its rack for a little while longer.”

“It’s okay if you do have a boyfriend though, Sophie.” He looked flustered and shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, it’s okay if you have friends.”

“Whatever,” I said again. Usually the best thing about Tom was how little he spoke to me, and now it seemed like he wanted to be my best friend and have a heart-to-heart.

“Do you?” he asked quickly.

“Do I what?”

“Have friends, Sophie.” I was too worn-out to express my annoyance. “I mean, you don’t bring anyone over and you never talk about—”

“We,” I said, pointing to him and then back to myself, “don’t talk. It’s not our thing, and it doesn’t matter if I have friends. I don’t need them and if I had any, you’d just call them delinquents.”

“Sophie, you know I don’t—”

I cut him off, already tired of his voice. He had about as much right to know shit about me as Wallace did. “I’m going back to bed.” I stepped back and pushed the door closed, making sure to barricade it once more.

I couldn’t really get back to sleep. I kept thinking about Elliott. I’d been trying to call him Rusty Dalton again in my head, but to no avail. I’d been doing just fine ignoring him, and my growing feelings for him, until the end of group therapy on Friday. I’d made him work for it that time. I didn’t make the first move.

And he did it. He’d met my challenge.

With just a light nod of his head toward the stairs, he’d managed to make me come undone. Then he played guitar for me and it was exactly what I thought it would be – Perfect.

I’d never been one to go all mushy over musicians or, hell, anyone for that matter, but when he played guitar for me, looking all nervous and shy, I melted. I, Sophie Young, melted like a twelve-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.

It was… disgusting. And embarrassing. And fucking wrong, but intimate and special too.

If that wasn’t bad enough, he asked me if we were friends. What was I supposed to say? “No, we’re not friends because I’d like to see your naughty bits?” The worst part of it all was that I didn’t
just
want to do him. I wanted to hold his hand and shit. I wanted to touch his face just to feel it.

I was so silly about this boy.

So when he asked me if we were friends, of course I said yes. Elliott walked around every day with this look on his face like he’d just had to put his puppy to sleep, or someone just insulted his dead grandmother. I didn’t want to be the cause of that look. I wanted him to be happy.

I felt so silly. I couldn’t believe I was having
urges
to hold someone’s hand. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural and I hated it all.

Monday came ridiculously fast and I did my best to muddle through. I smiled at Elliott in the hall and tried to keep my thoughts platonic. When that didn’t work, I tried just thinking him as a purely sexual being, but that seemed off too. Why couldn’t I see him as just another high school boy? Why the hell did I have these impulses to be sweet and
romantic
with him?

It was wrong; so fucking wrong.

Despite my conflicting emotions, I promised myself that I would talk to him more than I had last week. He seemed to want it. Maybe he
needed
that. Thankfully I wouldn’t have to worry about talking to him until Horticulture.

During Study Hall, I met Jason in the woods as usual. He was sitting on our fallen tree, puffing on a blunt. I was surprised. It was the first blunt I’d seen him use.

“What’s up with that?” I asked as I sat down next to him. “No papers?”

He shrugged. “Someone owed me. Paid me with this.” He took a hit and I laughed when his face twisted up. “Shut up,” he said, his voice strained as he held in the hit.

I took it from his outstretched hand. I hadn’t hit a blunt in a long-ass time. They were usually party favors and not my everyday smokes. “How was your weekend?”

“Shitty.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “My dad.”

I passed the blunt back. “What happened?”

“Got tanked on Saturday and carried it through to Sunday.”

“Didn’t you say he drinks a lot?”

“Yeah, but…”

When he trailed off, I looked up at him. He looked sad. “But what?”

He let out a harsh breath, his eyes fixed on the glowing end of the blunt. “Nothing.”

I sighed. Was I supposed to pry? Could I just let it go without being a shitty person? Was I Jason’s friend now too? If I was, wasn’t it my duty to pull all the shit out that was bothering him? Before I could even think about answering my own questions, he continued. “Sometimes he drinks
too much
, like even
more
than too much, and now he’s off his meds. He’s nuts without them.”

“Doesn’t he just pass out? I mean, after drinking? That’s what Tom does.” I wanted to tell him to hurry up and take a hit so I could take another one, but I thought it’d be rude.

Shaking his head, he finally pulled another drag and passed it to me. “No. Usually he passes out, but when he drinks like
that
and he’s off his medication, he gets mean.”

I nearly choked on my hit. Why the hell was Jason confiding in me? What? Did I have the words “trusted confidante” tattooed across my forehead? Did I radiate friendship? “Mean? Like what? He hits you?”

“No. I’m about twice his size. It’d be hilarious if he tried. Come on, Sophie.”

“Well, don’t get snarky, I just asked.” I couldn’t even remember how big his dad was and I didn’t see him when I was over at his house, so how was I supposed to know?

“No, he gets... He starts calling my mom a whore and…”

“Your mom’s dead.”

“No shit, Captain Obvious.”

“Again with the snark. You don’t have to be an ass about it.” When I saw his head hanging low, I mumbled, “Aw, shit, Jace,” I nudged him with my shoulder, “fuck him.”

He looked up, this time with a small smile. “Can I fuck you instead?”

I beamed at him, happy that his mood had turned around. “Hell yeah, but you’ll have to be quick. I have to be in the greenhouse soon.”

He made no move to make with the sexing, so I took another hit.

“Sophie?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to go to Homecoming with me?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, coughing on the smoke as it released from my lungs. “Hell no, I won’t go to the dance with you.” His face fell and I realized he hadn’t been joking. “Seriously? You’re asking me to that lame-ass dance? Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m a guy. You’re a girl. Guys and girls go to dances.”

He had to be kidding. “
I
don’t.”

“Are you going with
Dalton
?”

Holy Shit. Anderson thought I was going with Jason, and Jason thought I was going with Elliott. Could it be any more like a romantic teen comedy? “Jesus, you don’t listen, do you? I just said that I don’t go to dances, all right?”

“Fine,” he sulked.

“What’s your deal?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. It was dumb. Forget it.” He paused. “You gonna pass that blunt or what?”

I made sure to look encouragingly at Elliott when I got to our lab table. I didn’t want him to think that we weren’t friends. It wasn’t his fault that my whole system of beliefs was being challenged. Again, I did my best to think of him as a purely platonic friend, but I’d never had many of those, so it was easier to imagine myself slowly working him over.

Still, by the end of the hour, I just wanted to hold his hand and run my fingers through his hair again. I’d done it twice now and both times it seemed to calm him down or give him some kind of comfort or something.

I wanted to see him lit up with happiness.

I told myself my thoughts were ridiculous when the bell rang, and I stood up and gathered my books. I remembered that friends usually parted ways with some form of verbal goodbye, so I turned around to find that he was standing too.

Shit, he looked nervous again. The dude clearly needed to relax. It was no wonder he had panic attacks.

His eyes were fixed on Anderson’s retreating form, but when he finally looked at me, he flashed me that sexy little smile.

I had to stop myself from keeling over. He had a tiny little scar above his top lip and I wanted to know how it might feel under my fingertip. Wait, did friends trace each other’s scars? Before I could drool or attack him again, I smiled and quickly said, “See you.”

“S-S-So-Sophie?” he called before I could do more than turn around.

I faced him again. “Yeah?”

“D-d-do you w-w-waaaant t-to d-do sssssomething th-this w-w-w-w-w, on Saturday?”

I realized that last Friday I’d never given him the chance to ask me to hang out again. We’d gotten too deep into a conversation about drugs. “Um, yeah, sure.” Relief seemed to flood his features and the rise and fall of his chest slowed to a normal pace. “What do you want to do?”

My positive response caused him to brighten. “I-I w-w-want to-to take you sssssomewhere.”