Under Rose-Tainted Skies (5 page)

I
wake with a start, cold and drenched in blue light from the standby screen on the television. At first I think that's what woke me – it's blaring and I am the kind of girl who stirs at the beat of a butterfly's wing – but then I hear a voice.

Some guy shouts, ‘
That's not good enough!
'

My eyes pop, homing in on the sewing scissors, despite the fact that the voice is muffled enough for me to know it's coming from outside. From Sleeping Beauty to ninja in less than five seconds, I sit up, leap over the back of the couch, and make like a bullet to the front door.

I know it's locked. I checked it four times before it got dark. But my fingers find the bolt anyway and push on it. It can't slip any further into the latch without breaking free of its metal bonds and slamming straight into the wall, but I don't stop pushing.

‘Three years.
It's been three years
,' the voice keeps repeating. He says it in bursts of two. Quieter the first time, louder the second. ‘Three years.
It's been three years
.'

Hush. Yell. Pause.

The voice belongs to Luke. I can't hear anyone else talking, responding. Curiosity pulls me to the porch window on tiptoes, and with bated movements I peek around the edge of the curtain.

A security light shines on Luke pacing up and down his driveway, talking on his cell. I duck back the second I see him because he's shirtless, a bare torso covered in mounds of taut muscle. A pair of plaid pyjama pants hang off his hips. He looks like he paced right out of the pages of a magazine. My face heats up. I feel like I just tripped in front of a roomful of people. The thing is, despite the overwhelming embarrassment making my cheeks blister, I want to look again. So I do.

This time, his back is to me. He's walking down the driveway. Stealth becomes secondary to getting my face closer to the glass.

Hush. Yell. Pause.

His perfectly square shoulder blades jump when he raises his voice. A fist snatches hold of my stomach and squeezes.

Hush. Yell. Pause.

He exhales a sigh strong enough to make the trees bend backwards. Something is tearing him to pieces. He shakes his head, grabs a clump of his hair, and clenches his jaw.

‘I can't do this right now.' He ends the call, jabbing his thumb into the keypad.

I think maybe he turns to stone then, because he doesn't move for the longest time. Just stands at the end of his drive, stock-still, arms hanging heavy at his sides,
staring at the ground.

My fingers itch. I wish I could reach out, put a hand on his shoulder, and ask him if he is all right. A side effect of worrying about everything and everyone; I cry at least once a week over things that shouldn't concern me.

Minute after minute crawls by. My legs get tired. I stop caring about staying hidden and take a seat on the sill. Of course, when he finally does turn around to head back to his house, the first thing he sees is me doing my best puppy-in-a-pet-shop-window impression. He looks straight at me, and I'm forced to reanimate my ninja fu. I throw myself on to the floor, my body crashing against the wood laminate. I'll have bruises tomorrow.

I stay crouched and as close to the wall as I can. I hope he doesn't think I was spying. I mean, I know that's what it must look like. And, okay, perhaps I was a little. But beyond the minuscule amount of curiosity, it was all concern. Oh God. I hope he doesn't think I just sat there staring because he isn't wearing a shirt.

My pulse drums out the passing minutes, my thoughts running wild. What must he think?
Weird girl from next door, sitting like a flower in the window, watching me
. I need to explain that I was worried and evaporate out of existence simultaneously. But I can't do either of those things.

So instead, I wait. I wait for an entire lifetime, curled up in a ball of cowardice on the hall floor, until a burst of courage manifests in my chest and I check to see if he's gone. I cling to the sill and pull myself up.

Shit. He's not gone. He's got closer. Moved, in fact, to the foot of my porch. I jump back, startled. He's looking at me, all bare chest and raised eyebrows. I'm not quite sure
what to do, but my hand is up and offering him a half-wave.

He lifts his phone, grimaces, and mouths
Sorry
at me. His signature smile is nowhere in sight.

I wave away his apology, hamming nonchalance like a seasoned Oscar winner, even resting my hand on a jutting hip – a position that feels too odd to maintain, so I let it drop back down almost immediately. He jogs up the porch steps, stands right up to the window. I take two strides back.

‘At least I don't play the drums, right?' he jokes in hushed tones, but his voice is strong regardless. It carries, crystal clear, through the glass and straight to my ears. There's still no smile.

His chin hits the ground and he stares at his bare feet. My breath catches on the window and fogs up the cool glass. It's not right. Some things are just supposed to be. Like Harry Styles and his floppy hair. Or Captain America and his mighty shield. Luke New Boy Next Door should never not be smiling.

Twitching fingers tap out beats of eight on my thighs. I'm dying to open the door and ask him if he's okay, but I can't. I pick idly at a new scab on the top of my leg. Anxiety has created a million reasons why I can't. My heart is fighting back, but failing miserably.

Open the door. He looks so sad, like a kid lost in a crowd
.

Do not open that door. It could be a ruse. There is no one awake to hear you scream
.

Open the door. Are those tears in his eyes? Serial killers don't have sweet smiles
.

Do not open the door. Remember the story of the homicidal
maniac who used his not-so-broken leg to lure victims? Better to be safe than sorry
.

This argument rages inside my head until I can taste fire, and smoke starts pouring out of my ears. When, at last, common sense kicks in, I could spit. Worry is such a drama queen. It takes the smallest thing, makes it so big and bulky that you can't see the obvious any more.

I don't have to open the door to ask him if he's okay.

There's a tremor in my throat. My voice isn't confident like his. It's rarely strong enough to work its way through air, let alone barriers. So, using my finger, I write letters in the steam on the window.

Are you okay?
Suddenly, spending three weeks last summer learning how to write backwards (and speak Elvish) doesn't seem like such a waste of time.

The glass squeaks as I draw the lines, and he looks up. A small, not-quite-at-full-power grin pulls on his lips. His left eye narrows and he gives me that look, the same look you give a crossword puzzle when you can't figure out an answer.

I curl inwards and my heart tries to thump out the same beat twice. Maybe I shouldn't have asked. Or perhaps I should have plucked up the balls to open my mouth instead of doodling on the window. I punish my finger by popping my knuckle.

He nods once, throws a half-wave my way. ‘I didn't mean to disturb you,' he says.

‘You didn't,' I whisper, but he's already turning around.

He makes it back to his driveway in twenty-six steps and one small leap over the boxwood bush that separates our houses.

I zombie-shuffle to the front room and flop down on the couch. I'm more thought than flesh; a thousand questions flop down with me and make the room shake like an earthquake is running right through it. New Boy has been living next door for a week and my circuits are fried from trying to figure out what he's thinking. I mean, I watch MTV, so I knew this was a thing. Boys and girls: same species, two completely different planets. But this teamed with my super-ability to overthink – it's just too much. I don't like this feeling of always messing up. I don't like that scrutinizing has tripled in productivity since he moved in. I know it's me, my issue, my problem, which is why I decide I'm going to avoid him from here on out.

I
t's Wednesday. As promised, Dr Reeves drops by for a coffee. She stays forty-five minutes. We talk about what I'm eating and how I'm sleeping. I decide not to tell her I spent yesterday in my pyjamas, building castles out of cookies and spit.

After we're done discussing Mom, the weather, what the world would look like without worry, she reminds me how to breathe, which is much easier to forget than you'd think.

She's gone approximately six minutes before I hear the squeak of the letterbox.

Neighbour,

Impromptu Eric Rhodes Day party at my house Friday night, 7.30 p.m.

Hope you can make it. Parent-free place! There will be beer!

Thank you, Jesus, for weekends.

Luke

Oh. God.

This is not good.

This. Is.
Not
. Good.

Beyond the fire and brimstone, everyone has their own idea of hell. Shopping, doing tax returns, fish-nibbling-at-your-feet spa treatments, or having to spend an eternity surrounded by people who click pens.

I screw up the neatly folded note I just found on my doormat and hurl it down the hall. I stare at it, lying in the middle of the floor, a ticking time bomb loaded with perfect handwriting. Then of course I stomp over, snatch it up, and dunk it in the trash, because I can't handle both impending party and mess stress right now.

I do laps. Walk in circles around our kitchen, being careful not to step on the pale beams of light the mid-morning sun is throwing through the window.

A party. With beer. Next door. This is my hell. We are at DEFCON 1. I can't think of anything worse. Oh no, wait. Yes, I can. A party with beer next door and me being home alone.

There are going to be people from my former high school fifty yards away. Tons of people. Flooding out of his front yard and into mine. I know my high school career was shorter than the lifespan of a fruit fly, but what if someone remembers me? What if someone remembers this is where I live? What if they want to come over? What if they want me to come out?

My head is about to explode and decorate the kitchen with pieces of petrified brain.

Drunk teens spewing vodka shots in Mom's rose bushes, trashing the street, probably getting high. The
police will come. I saw something like this unfold in a movie once.

‘Norah. Norah!' A familiar voice infiltrates my cyclone of despair.

‘Mom?' I look down at the phone receiver in my hand, Mom's tinny tones still emanating from it.

I don't even remember dialling.

‘Mom. Mom.' I jam the phone against my ear. ‘Mom. He's having a party Friday night. What do I do?' If she were here, I'd be clinging to her shirt collar.

‘What?'

‘It's Eric Rhodes. There's going to be beer.'

‘Sweetheart . . . Eric Rhodes is . . . dead.'

‘What? No.' Frustration makes me flap. ‘I know that.' Eric Rhodes, the founder of our small town, has been dead about a billion years. This coming weekend is something we do to celebrate his birthday. No, not we. Not I. Not ever.

My tongue is twisted up, feels ten times too big in my mouth. It's probable I'm not making much sense. Panicked, not to be confused with intoxicated, though the two often present as something very similar.

I take a breath. ‘The new boy next door,' I say like a kindergartener learning language. ‘He's having a party Friday night. He invited me. There will be beer. He said that, wrote it on the invite . . . in perfect handwriting.'

‘You got asked to a party?' my mom exclaims in a voice that implies she's going to magnet my invite to the fridge door the second she gets home. She's completely missed the point.

‘Mom.'

‘Right. Sorry. They've got me on some crazy painkillers over here. An hour ago I swear I was floating above my bed.' She giggles.

Oh. This is so not good. Well, at least not for me. For her it sounds pretty euphoric.

‘Mom, you'll be home by Friday, right?' Oh God, please let her tell me she'll be home by Friday.

Pause. Longer pause. My hair is going grey.

‘The doctor that came to see me this morning – he said I might be here until Monday.'

My nails dig into my palm. I squeeze until the taut flesh on my knuckles feels like it's going to split. ‘He went on and on and on and on about putting pins in my bone. Said something science-y about my wrist healing wrong,' Mom slurs, and she either swallows water or slurps back some drool. I jam my fist into my mouth and bite down. I absolutely refuse to whimper into the phone.

My mom is hurt. She does not need me to fall apart. Plus, I don't want to freak her out. She sounds pretty jazzed, and I remember reading about this girl who had a heart attack and died while she was high. That probably works differently with medical highs. Legal drugs. Pain meds . . . but then, you can get addicted to pain meds. I hope that doesn't happen—

‘Sweetheart? Are you still there?'

Mind melt. There's too much to think about.

‘I'm here.' I slam the heel of my hand into my forehead, the equivalent of spanking my brain for misbehaving. ‘My head's a mess. I don't know what to do about the party.'

‘Well, I think the first thing you need to do is take some deep breaths.' She tries to walk me through what a
deep breath should sound like, but all I hear is her hyperventilating. Think Darth Vader in labour. Still, it works because my OCD uses my lungs to correct her off-kilter pace.

‘Remember what Dr Reeves says about being unable to control everything? Norah, honey, my sweet baby girl, I'm afraid this is beyond your control.'

The beyond-your-control speech is my least favourite of all the pep talks. It's the hardest one to corrupt. It's immortal, the adamantium of arguments. There is no ‘but . . . but . . . but'–ing my way out of this one. Sometimes, things are going to happen and the only way out is through. Like childbirth; it doesn't matter how afraid you are, that baby has to be born.

I sit on the kitchen floor. Mom's voice turns to whale song as she talks me down off this impossibly high life ledge. At least she's a smart stoner.

We talk for two hours, and she convinces my broken mind that I am safe. Even if the party turns into the hybrid love child of freshers' week and spring break, it won't affect me if I just stay locked in my room and ignore it. This is a wave I have to ride, but at least I can do it buried in a blanket fort.

It's a good talk, a little wordy, a lot off-topic. But when the advice comes, it's easy, obvious. Like always. And, like always, by the end of it, I'm wishing I could have slowed my mind down sooner and processed this like a normal person. That's the dream.

‘One last thing before you go,' Mom says. ‘A boy asked you out?'

I look over at the trash can, envision the crumpled
piece of paper turning to rot in yesterday's garbage.

I don't know.

There was no time to analyse that. But there should have been. There should have been excitement. Excitement should have been bigger than fear. I wonder how many of my former friends would have been freaking out over being invited somewhere by a boy instead of sinking in possible party-apocalypse scenarios. Depression blows on the back of my neck, and I feel cold to my core.

It can't come in.

I force a smile and clear the clump of sadness from my throat. ‘I mean,
technically
, yes. But it's a party, with lots of people. So does that
technically
mean he's asked out everyone he sent an invite to? There are many subcategories to consider.'

‘Wow. Dating has subcategories these days?'

‘Of course. God, Mom, sometimes it's like you're a dinosaur and we don't even watch TV.' She laughs. Really laughs. It's hard not to notice that she enjoys the normal snippets of conversation we share. So few and far between, they really stand out.

I spend the rest of the day trying to finish an English paper.

Yeah, right.

The flashing cursor on my blank page blinks at me with a sense of urgency. I'm supposed to be dissecting the morals and motives of Lady Macbeth, but my brain is too stewed to translate Shakespeare.

I'm forever an overachiever . . . unless there is something else to think about. You can chart my bad months by checking out my report cards. Like the semester Mom
thought we were going to have to move and my grades slipped.

I'd love to see out my homeschool career with a 4.0. It sounds odd, cruel even to suggest, but shining in one of the recesses of my mind is the idea that being intelligent will force people to see past my crazy parts. Maybe even make them obsolete. I don't know. That's probably dumb, but no one remembers Charles Darwin as the guy who suffered from panic attacks. Ludwig van Beethoven isn't the bipolar composer, he's the composer who was bipolar. I'm sure it's not as simple as all that. I just want to have proof that I can think straight, that I am more than the girl who believes that odd numbers will cause a catastrophe.

Unfortunately, right now studying is about as likely as skipping to the store.

Instead, I hack at my keyboard until my restless mind composes a passable tune before I drag my butt off to bed.