The Starburst Effect, page 15
“All I did was drive you home. And I yelled at you the whole way.”
He shrugs. “You still heaped me even though you didn’t want to. Mom trusts you. She’s relaxed a lot. It’s made things easier for…for…”
“For your dad?”
He shakes his head. “For all of us.” His face softens, and he takes my hand in his. “You’re a miracle, Lily. That’s what Mom calls you.” The side of his mouth tips up into a soft but confident smile. “To me, you’re an ankle,” he murmurs.
I smile a little, not bothering to point out that he got the word wrong. I’m pretty sure he meant angel, and it’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. Emotion squeezes my chest at the thought that I could mean so much to his family.
His smile breaks with a big yawn, and he blinks a couple slow blinks. I remember his mom’s warning that he’d get tired, and I don’t want him to overdo it and get a headache, so I slide out of the booth. “Come on, Cinderella. Let’s get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”
Dad actually shows up when he said he would. I’m relieved, and Mason is overjoyed. After they leave, though, depression hits me hard. For once I have time to myself, but with Zoey not speaking to me, I have no one to spend it with. I sit in the empty house and put on a sappy movie so that if a few tears fall, I have something to blame it on other than my pathetic life.
I’m about to reach for the tissues when the doorbell rings. It’s probably a salesman, but I’m hopeful enough it’s Zoey coming to apologize that I answer the door. A delivery man with a huge bouquet of brightly colored flowers is the last thing I ever would have expected. “Lily Rosemont?” the man asks, checking his clipboard.
I’m so stunned it takes me a long moment to respond. Flowers! I’ve never received flowers before. It’s so thoughtful. And they’re beautiful. Huge blossoms of bright yellows, whites, and purples. My chest constricts with emotion I can’t contain. “Yes, that’s me,” I croak out.
Who could be sending me flowers? Zoey would just text. Bryce? Could he feel bad about what happened last night? I wouldn’t think so. He didn’t speak up when Nicole and I got into it. He didn’t stand up for Noah, and he certainly didn’t ask me to stay after Zoey told me to leave. Or maybe Tyler realized how awful his girlfriend was last night. Though, really, that apology should go to Noah, not me.
I sign the delivery receipt and take the vase of flowers. There’s a little card in an envelope that I wait to read until after the man drives off. The handwriting is bubbly as if it was written by a woman, but the message is from Noah.
Thought you could use some cheer today.
Love, Noah.
Short and sweet, and yet it says so much. My chest aches from the thoughtfulness. It’s just what I need. Not that I need flowers, but to know that at least one person out there is thinking about me. At least one person cares. It came from the most unlikely place, but somehow that makes it feel even more special.
After setting the flowers on the counter, I slip on my flip-flops and head next door. When Noah answers, I don’t wait for him to say hi. I throw myself at him, burying my face in his neck and wrapping my arms around him in a tight hug.
“Lily?” he asks, hugging me back.
“Thank you for my flowers.”
“Were they pretty? I told her to pick happy ones.”
I squeeze him tighter. “They’re perfect.”
I know I should let him go now. It’s going to get awkward if I don’t. But I can’t seem to accomplish it. I need to be held right now, and Noah seems happy enough to do it. His hands rub up and down my back in soothing strokes, forcing the tension from my body. I sigh into his neck, and he squeezes me tighter, kissing my temple. The boy knows how to hug.
Mrs. Trask breaks up our moment. “Lily!” Her cheerful voice turns to concern. “Is everything okay?”
I pull out of Noah’s embrace—is he as reluctant to let me go as I am him? “I’m better now, thanks. Noah’s flowers were exactly what I needed.”
Mrs. Trask smiles sympathetically. I’m not sure how much Noah told her about what happened last night, but the gratitude and guilt seeping through her concerned expression tells me she knows enough. “You know what else helps when you’re having a bad day?” she asks. “Brownies. If you don’t have anywhere else to be right now, you can hang out here, and I’ll whip some up.”
I’m grateful she’s not bringing up last night. Also, she’s right about the brownies. If she wants to supply me with chocolate, I’m not going to stop her. “That would be amazing, thank you.”
“Awesome,” Noah cheers. He grabs my hand and starts dragging me through the house. “We’ll be in my sleep!”
As he tugs me down the hall, Mrs. Trask calls out from the kitchen, “Keep the door open, mister!”
My face heats up. What does she think we’re going to do?
Stepping into Noah’s room is a surreal experience. This is Noah Trask’s personal space. The room of the boy who tormented me for years. And it’s a normal teenage boy room. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. Still, I find it fascinating. It’s messy enough to look lived in without being disgusting, and it oozes his personality. This is a side of Noah I’ve never seen.
He has a double bed—unmade—with a navy-blue comforter and Arizona Cardinals sheets that he probably doesn’t want me to know he has because he quickly covers them up, blushing as he does. He’s got a TV on his dresser, and a bookshelf with all of his football pictures, awards, and trophies mixed in with a few books and lots of DVD cases. He also wasn’t lying about the shoes. His closet is hanging open, and the floor is covered with shoes that are spilling out into his room.
The most surprising thing is the autographed framed poster of one of my favorite rock groups. They’re up and coming and not very well-known. The signature is personalized to Noah. “You know The Mad Hatters?” I ask, plopping down onto the desk chair that Noah cleared dirty jeans off of for me.
I smile as he continues to tidy up. Once he’s thrown his laundry in the hamper in the closet, he sits down on his bed and looks at the poster. “Austin’s dad has corrections with the radio station. He got us…us…he got…”
“He got you in to meet them?”
Noah nods. “Before the Kyle Hamilton concert last year. They opened for him.”
“I know. I was at that concert with Zoey. We were in the nosebleeds and definitely not cool enough to meet the band,” I tease. “But it was still awesome.”
Noah lifts his eyebrows in surprise and grins at me. “You like Kyle Hamilton, too?”
Most people in the world like Kyle Hamilton. He’s only one of the biggest rock stars of this generation. “He’s one of my favorites. But when The Mad Hatters opened for him, I sort of fell in love.”
“Favorite song?” he asks, and together we say, “‘Alice Down the Rabbit Hole.’”
We laugh, and Noah reaches for his phone. After a moment, he finds the music app. He searches for a minute, then seems to get confused and hands the device to me, silently asking for help. I scroll through his music until I find The Mad Hatters’ debut album. I hit play, and music drifts softly from a Bluetooth speaker on his desk.
Noah falls to his bed, lies back, and puts his hands behind his head, looking up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars that have probably been on his ceiling since he was a little boy. “I like music,” he admits. “Can’t really follow lyrics anymore, but…” He struggles for a moment, then sighs.
“But you can still enjoy the music?” I guess.
“Yeah.”
There’s a hint of melancholy in his voice that makes me sad. How many things in his life have been affected, or even taken from him, because of his injury? His inability to follow a fast conversation or stay focused for long periods of time must make him miss out on so much.
Wanting to take his mind off of whatever’s got him down, I cross the room and push his arm, forcing him to make room for me on the bed. He scoots over, and it feels natural to lie down beside him as if we’re just two friends hanging out for the millionth time. “What else do you do?” I ask, staring up at the stars with him. “What are your hobbies now, besides listening to awesome music?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His brow furrows. Whatever he wants to say, he can’t come up with the answer. “I can’t remember the name,” he says with a grunt of frustration.
He leans up and reaches over me to grab a TV remote off his nightstand. My breath catches. I don’t think he meant to practically lay on top of me, but my body seems to come alive from his nearness. And have I mentioned before how good he smells? I need to find out what cologne he uses and then spray my pillow with it or something.
Oblivious to the chaos he’s just put my body through, he sits back, placing his pillow up against the headboard. I sit up with him, attempting to get my heart rate back to normal, while he finds whatever it is he’s looking for. Once the TV and a Netflix menu comes up, things seem to click back in place for Noah. “There it is.” He finds what he’s looking for in his Continue Watching list.
I grin at the show he pulls up. “You watch Bob Ross?”
He acts offended by the teasing tone in my voice. “Bob Rock is cool.”
I hold my hands up. “I don’t disagree. I just didn’t figure you for the type.”
He shrugs. “I like art. Plus, he talks slow enough, and it’s not over…over…”
“Overstimulating?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t hurt my head.”
It makes sense. Bob Ross is very slow and soothing. I’m sure it’s one of the few shows he can follow fairly well. He clicks on an episode and leaves the show on mute. For a minute, we watch Bob Ross paint the beginnings of a mountain landscape while The Mad Hatters jam out softly in the room. It’s nice. “You ever painted along with him?” I ask, pointing at the screen. “I’ve always wanted to try it. I bet you could follow along. Or at least you could pause and rewind as much as you needed.”
His eyebrows climb his forehead. He watches the screen, and after a few seconds, nods his head. “Maybe.”
“Could be fun.”
He perks up the tiniest bit, and there’s a touch of excitement in his voice when he says, “Let’s tire it. My mom will get us the…the…” He mimes painting. “She always wants me to try new things.”
“Sounds good. You, me, and Bob Ross.”
Noah nudges my shoulder with his. “Next weekend. It’s a date.”
I smile to myself. Painting with Noah sounds fun. I could play it off as a “friends” thing, but something stops me. Taking a breath, I force myself to take a chance on something that might be strange but could also be amazing. “It’s a date,” I agree.
We’re sitting there, enjoying a comfortable silence—Bob’s mountain landscape with the beautiful lake is almost finished—when Susan pokes her head in the door. “Brownies are ready.”
Noah holds my hand all the way to the kitchen where two plates with huge warm, gooey brownies are sitting. Susan is pouring two glasses of milk. When we take our seats, Susan sets the milk in front of us. Noah gives his mom a wry smile. “You know we’re not five, right?”
Susan rolls her eyes and heads back into the kitchen to put the milk away. “You’re never too old for brownies and milk.”
“I’m not complaining,” I say, grabbing my fork. The brownies are soft enough that picking them up to eat them would be difficult. In other words, they’re perfect. “Thank you, Susan.”
“Anytime.”
Susan disappears into her office, leaving Noah and I to enjoy our brownies alone. I take a bite and moan in pleasure. Noah laughs. “You see, all you need to be smiles in life is a good brownie.”
His words hit me hard because he seems to mean them. He is happy. “How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you let the bad things roll off you like they don’t matter?”
He takes a bite of his brownie and shrugs. “Because they don’t matter.” Seeing my incredulity, Noah explains further. “If my friends stop hanging out with me because of my injury, then…then…” His brow furrows in concentration.
I wait, letting him work it out without trying to put the words in his mouth. The more time I spend with him, the more I’m learning his facial expressions. He has something important on his mind, and he wants to make sure it comes out right. “Then they weren’t my real friends to being with. I don’t care if they make fin of me. I have…have…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head once. “I have bigger problems to worry about. Real problems.”
I supposed that’s true, but still. Losing all your friends is hard.
“Besides,” he says, contradicting my thoughts, “It’s so most easier being on the bottom of the social ladder.”
My eyebrows fly up. As someone who has been at the very bottom of the high school food chain all year, I can’t fathom it’s easier than being the most popular kid in school. “How so?”
He stares at his plate for a minute, collecting his thoughts. “There’s so much…much…so…” He shakes his head. “There’s so much pressure being at the top. People are always wrenching you. Wanting to either follow your example, or watch you fall.”
He says that last part bitterly. As good as he is about letting the painful comments go, he’s still hurt that it happened. How could he not be? At least a little bit. It’s human nature.
“You have to be perfect,” he says. “Everything you say. Everything you do. Everything you wear. Who you hand out with. Who you date.” He looks at me then with an emotion in his eyes that I can’t identify. “I wasn’t stupid to Brooke’s personality. I knew she was mean and…and…”
“Shallow?”
“Right. I didn’t even like her that much. But she was hot and popular. People inspected me to date her, so I did.”
I’m horrified by this revelation. I’ve never thought about the downsides to popularity. I hadn’t even realized there were any. But then, I’ve never been popular enough for it to matter.
He starts stabbing his fork into his brownie, staring through it, lost in his thoughts. “The worst piece is, you feel like you have to stay at the top.” He swallows hard. “I tore others down to keep myself up. Nice people. People like you.” He looks at me then, with something beyond guilt. It’s more like self-loathing, disgust. “I didn’t care because being the most popular kid in school was all that mattered.”
He lets out a big breath and turns to hit me with an intense gaze. “I was wrong. None of it matters.” He takes my hand, trying to drive his point home. “If your…your…people are too worried about their reputations to stick with you, they aren’t ready your friends anyway. Trust me. One meaningful relationship is better than a lots fake ones.”
That makes so much sense, and it’s enlightening. I’ve always wondered why Noah was a bully. Why someone who seemed to have everything going for him was so heartless. I felt like he had no conscience. But he was just scared. That doesn’t justify his actions, but it makes him more relatable. It helps me understand. Popular people have as many insecurities as anyone else; they’re just better at hiding them.
He starts rubbing small circles on the back of my hand with his thumb. It’s a gentle touch that softens the mood, and when he speaks, it’s in a low, soothing voice. “Now that I’m not caught up in that word anymore, I don’t have to worry what everyone thinks. I can…I…I can be myself. My real self. It’s freeing.”
I’m a bit speechless. I had no idea he was so self-aware. If I could only be so lucky to learn the lessons he’s learned. To recognize my flaws and try to overcome them.
He may have a hard time with numbers or reading now, but he can still think and feel and learn just fine. Maybe he has some setbacks because of his injury, but he’s progressing as a person. It’s admirable. “Would you change it?” I wonder out loud. “If you could?”
He lifts his gaze from our joined hands to my eyes. “Change what?”
“If you could go back in time and not be injured, would you?”
I almost feel guilty for asking this question, because I know what my answer would be, and it feels selfish. But Noah surprises me. He opens his mouth, the “of course” on the tip of his tongue. But then he stops and thinks about it. His brows pull low over his eyes. His “I don’t know” comes out in a whisper that’s equal parts astonished and unsure.
“I hate my limitations,” he admits. “Hate them. I spend most of my day frustrated or exhausted. My head always hurts. But…”
He finishes off his brownie while he gathers his thoughts. After washing it down with the last of his milk, he leans back in his chair, tipping his head back and scrubbing his hands over his face. “As hard as this is,” he says, “I’m better off in a lot of ways. I care about much than myself. I have a better…a better…relationship with my parents.” He gives me a small smile. “I have you.”
My heart flutters. I’m in awe of this boy. He’s the strongest person I know. I wish I had half of his courage. I wish everyone could see the person I see. I wonder how many people he would ever let his guard down with, allow himself to be so open and vulnerable with. But at the moment, he doesn’t seem vulnerable. He is strong and confident and so smart. I’m lucky he’s chosen to let me be a part of his life. And it means so much more knowing that he only bothers with things and people that matter. I matter to him. And I’m beginning to think he’s right. One meaningful relationship is better than a hundred fake ones.
Come Monday at school, Noah and I are, once again, the topic of conversation. It seems the kids at Bryce’s party were more than happy to talk about the drama Noah and I caused. I’m standing in the lunch line with Noah when we hear our names brought up. Brooke and Austin and a few of their friends are standing in line ahead of us, and they aren’t talking quietly. “…said he couldn’t even play Uno because he can’t count anymore,” Brooke said. “He’s such a complete freak now.”
