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It takes me a moment to process—because of Noah's question. Why is he asking about my head? And more importantly, why isn't he kissing me right now?
"I mean, your headache," he clarifies. "I was thinking..." Noah swipes his bangs off his forehead—which is so wrinkled. And his cheeks are crimson.
What's obvious to me now is that I totally misread the situation. Noah doesn't want to kiss the girl who lied to him on the phone that day. He doesn't understand that she was like...an impostor who took over and ruined my life.
He points to his car. "Are you hungry or thirsty?" Then he takes a few steps in that direction, and looks back at me with raised eyebrows—until I follow.
"You probably don't want a milkshake," he says, when we're close to the curb. "My mom says sugar is a migraine trigger."
My house is three doors down and across the street. Mom's van is parked in the driveway. And Lindsay is probably off somewhere, doing something I don't want to think about.
But that's the exact thing—the only thing—I need to be thinking about.
"I should go," I say. "I could just walk from here. So, um. Thanks and—"
"Ally. I didn't mean to..." He sighs and shoves both hands in his pockets. "You said the medicine made you feel drunk," he finishes, like that explains everything.
But it doesn't—and I'm almost positive that is not what I said.
No, it can't be, because I don't know what drunk feels like. "I really should go. I need to figure out what's bothering my sister." And really, there's only one person left who might be able to help me fill in the blanks. "I think it's time for me to talk to Samantha."
"Yeah," Noah says. "I could go with you—if you think that might make it any less uncomfortable or whatever."
"Um." It's going to be uncomfortable either way. "Lindsay is doing things that are...unhealthy." And I'm terrified of what could happen if this older guy allows himself to get interested in her—especially if she's drunk or high or both when it happens. "Every time I ask her what's wrong, she tells me to talk to Samantha. And now...after the way she reacted to you at the high school. I'm starting to think it might something to do with me lying to you on the phone that day. So. If Samantha can fill in the blanks, it could be hard for you to hear. It would mean unearthing some of our ancient history."
"Do you want me to go?" he asks. So genuine in his willingness to compromise his philosophy.
"I sort of do. But is it terrible that I'm hoping you being there might make Samantha less likely to talk about everything she knows about me—like the things she mentioned in the text message from right before my accident?"
"No," he says, half-smiling. "You're probably right. But you should go ahead and text her now—she and I both have job schedules to work around. And make sure you tell her I'm coming. Samantha's not somebody I want to ambush."
I nod, get out my phone and open Samantha's thread. There are enough purple-heart messages now, that I'd have to scroll back if I wanted to read the scary text—and I don't. I type: I'm ready to meet you. Noah has agreed to come with me. Which sounds incredibly impersonal, considering this girl has been my best friend for the last three years. So I move the curser back to the beginning and add: Hi Samantha. And finish the text with: When are you available?
"I'm off again tomorrow," Noah volunteers. Like maybe he read the last sentence over my shoulder before I pressed send. "I'm also available Wednesday or Thursday afternoon, but the golf tournament starts early Friday and takes up the whole weekend."
Oh right. "What does golf have to do with being a lifeguard?" I ask.
"Nothing. I work at the golf course now."
"Why did you change jobs?"
"I took a couple of weeks off after your accident," he says, slow and careful. And his eyes are narrow, like he's considering each word before it leaves his mouth. "And then, I uh...wasn't into it anymore. When I called to tell the manager I wasn't coming back, he offered me a job in the cart house."
Noah shrugs. But there's nothing casual about the gesture. It almost looks painful.
Oh. "You took time off because of my accident," I say. "Is that why you're not a lifeguard anymore?"
He takes a breath like he's about to answer, but nothing comes out. No words. No air.
"I'm sorry," I say. And I truly am, because I wasn't... "The accident is like, one of a thousand things I've been told about that doesn't feel real to me. I mean, yeah..." I raise my arm, thread my fingers through my hair and find my scar. It's hard to imagine the kind of impact that could put a person in a coma. But Noah doesn't have to imagine anything. He was there. "Would you tell me about it?" I ask. "Like how—or I guess, why..."
I stop because Noah's leaning back. And the look on his face—which is obvious distress—reminds me of what Mom said about seeing him at the hospital that day. She used the word devastated, but it didn't mean anything to me then because Noah Dodge was just an image in my head. A boy with a beautiful smile.
"Thank you for saving me," I say—because when I said it before it was just good manners, an obligation. I didn't mean it the way I do now.
"No problem," he says, cold and impersonal. Then he opens my door and walks, stone-faced, around to the driver's side.
I lean into the car and grab my purse. "I'm just..." I point to my house to remind him that I said I'd walk.
"Ally," he says, in the same hesitant tone he used after he rejected my kiss. Right before he gave me the "explanation" I still don't understand.
"I'll be fine. I need the exercise. It'll help me think."
That's true, usually. But right now I just feel numb. Overloaded, I guess. I close the passenger door and walk, focusing on the front porch of my new house—and I don't look back until I'm there, knocking.
Noah is still standing beside his car. I offer up a little wave, that means, "I'm here now. Safe. Please go away."
The front door wafts open and Mom is there, happy. But her wide, hopeful eyes and warm smile quickly dissolve into crow's feet and worry. "I got one of my headaches," I say. "I took a half-pill and it worked for awhile, but I think I might need the other half now."
I can't say this is entirely true. My head does hurt a little, but really, I just want to sleep. For days.
She pours me a glass of water and leads me up the stairs. Her curiosity is obvious, but Mom seems to understand my need for silence. She tucks me in and lays a comforting hand over mine—and for a moment, I'm truly home.
<> <> <>
I open my eyes to a different worried face. Lindsay is sitting on the floor, hugging her knees. "Samantha sent you a text," she whispers, lifting a finger to indicate the phone on my bedside table.
It takes me a moment to wake up. And then another one to catch up: Samantha's message is a reply, an answer to my request to meet her. Live and in person. "Did you read it?" I ask.
"She can meet tomorrow morning—with you and Noah—but I don't think you should go."
What?
"Are you serious?"
Lindsay holds a finger to her lips, silently shushing me. And there are tears rolling down her cheeks. I scoot out of bed and huddle on the floor beside her. "Why don't you want me talk to Samantha? Did something happen after I left you and Mom?"
"Yes," she says, quivery. "You got that. Headache today. Because of me."
The words are hard to decipher because my little sister is crying—the hysterical, hiccupping kind of sobs that make it difficult to breathe. And she's right. It would be so much easier to be in this house—to live this life. My transition would go a lot smoother if I didn't have to contend with Lindsay and her unhealthy behavior.
I wrap my arms around her. "I am worried about you, Linds, but that's only part of it. I'm stressing about Mom and Dad and the problems they're keeping from me. And the thought of going to that gigantic school—of all those people I don't remember."
"You left Faircrest. Because I told you. About the app," she sobs. "I've made. So many mistakes. And I keep doing it. Over and over again."
"I made mistakes too. That's what I was trying to tell you in the dressing room this morning. If you could just tell me what it is that has you so upset, then I won't need to talk to Samantha. Look..." I grab my phone off the bedside table. "I'll text her and say I changed my mind."
I wake up the screen. There's a missed call and a voicemail from Noah. I leave it unopened and read Samantha's text: I was having the worst day ever before I got this text message. Thank you so much, Ally!!! I can meet you guys any morning this week! But tomorrow is my first choice because I'm dying to see you!
"She'll be crushed if you cancel," Lindsay says. Which is probably an understatement.
And yeah, I'd feel guilty, but... "No one is more important to me than you," I say. "I was worried about you before I started reading those messages. I left Faircrest because I wanted to make sure you were okay—because I want to take care of you. So please, Linds, tell me what is it that's making you so miserable. It has something to do with Noah, right?"
She shakes her head and the sobbing starts again. I've only seen my sister cry this hard one other time. She was eight, I think. Her guinea pig went missing and we looked everywhere. Dad almost had her convinced that Luigi found his way outside and that a very nice guinea pig family took him in. But then we found him behind the dryer, stiff and smelly.
"I wasn't supposed to say anything," she says. "But I don't. Know how to. Take it back."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," I say, pulling her closer. Part of me wishes I'd never opened that app. Or that I'd stopped reading when every cell in my body was telling me not to dig any deeper. "But we have to get you better, Linds. Because I can't be okay unless you are. So how are we going to make that happen? Are you going to tell me or do I need to meet Samantha?"
My sister shrugs out of my arms, pushes to her feet and bolts out of my room. I lift myself off the floor—which is not an easy feat, because I feel like I'm made of lead. I open the small, almost useless drawer in the bedside table where I've been keeping my journal. My timeline is bookmarked with the photograph of me and Noah in ninth grade. I ink though the question: Why did I join the swim team? But that makes the page looks disorganized and ratty, so I rip it out and start over—in pencil this time.
March 22: fifteenth birthday / Raisinets cupcake
April-May: Lindsay sabotages The First Move
May: first reference to "parental arguing" in the IM transcripts.
June 21: first Kiss / wrong boy
June 30: Lindsay tells Noah about the kiss
September: tenth grade starts / friendship with Noah back on track
November: Grandma Dodge dies :(
Christmas break: Noah calls from Georgia / I lie to him about boy #2 (?)
January: Why didn't I tell Samantha about the phone call or boy #2? And If there's not another boy, why would I want Noah to think there was?
February 18: lunchroom blow up / was I messing with Noah's head? ( not convinced that's true because I spent the rest of February and all of March being depressed because he wouldn't talk to me.)
What am I missing? Where does Lindsay fit into this equation???
March 22: sixteenth birthday
April 12: last IM message
May-August: is a great big black hole of missing information. :(
September: eleventh grade / quit track team because of Dad / joined swim team to be closer to Noah?
November-February: Noah and I start talking again (yay!), but we don't talk about the alleged boy or the phone call that nearly destroyed our friendship.
March 22: my seventeenth
April: When did Lindsay start smoking pot to "escape" her problems? Is she getting drugs from the older guy who lives on our street?
May: text message on Noah's phone / Parents arguing / Raisinets in my glove box.
June 5: scary text convo with Samantha
June 10: accident
The list doesn't answer any of my questions—obviously—but it helps to have the information written down. It's...cathartic. I think. I use my shirtsleeve to swab my cheeks and grab my phone so I can look up the definition of the word.
But, oh. There's still a red dot on the voicemail app. I have a message from Noah.
"Hey, Ally. I'm sorry for the way I acted when you asked me about your accident, but I'm good now. I'm ready to tell you everything that happened that day—and I had this idea, but I don't know if it's uh...
"How about I just put it out there and let you decide. Would you be interested in seeing the pool where you were working when the accident happened? If not, we could go somewhere else. Anywhere you want. Can I pick you up at ten tomorrow morning?"