"I think I saw his eye twitch."
"Owen. This is the sixth time you've said that. You're imagining things."
"C'mon, Karen, it's a faint, not a coma; he should be waking up soon. Look— did you see that? His eye twitched again. He'll come to in minutes."
"And then what? Jesus, Owen, did you see his leg? And his nose? This is exactly what you were supposed to watch for, and prevent from happening!"
"Hey, the last time I checked, we both had eyes. Don't blame this all on me."
"I'm not. I just...."
"Karen, wait— where are you going?"
"I have to speak with the Director. About the— never-mind. There's just a lot we need to talk about."
"Darling...."
Retreating footsteps. The sound of a door slamming. A frustrated groan.
I open my eyes. I'm in the Med Cabin, lying on a cot near the window. "Hey," I say. My throat feels like sandpaper, and my mouth tastes like dead things. I vividly recall throwing up over the side of a canoe. "Hello?"
More footsteps. A shadow falls across my legs— it's Owen, crouching by my bedside (or is it cotside?), watching me with wide, concerned eyes. "You're awake," he says. He sounds relieved, or at least not as worried as before. "How are you feeling?"
"Like shit." I push myself upwards into a sitting position, grimacing. "Sorry. You didn't hear that."
"It's okay. I understand you've been through a lot, so I won't give you any marks. Can I get you anything?"
"Water. Please."
Owen disappears. I close my eyes and rub at them with the palms of my hands, trying to force the haziness away. My brain still feels like it's running on slo-mo, and it hurts to think too hard— the insistent throbbing in my nose doesn't help, either. I wonder if it's broken. I hope it's not.
"Your water," Owen says, handing me a cup.
I take it and gulp it down— it's lukewarm and earthy, but it beats the taste of this morning's breakfast, so I don't really mind. "How long has it been?" I ask.
"About twenty minutes. The other campers should be coming back soon; we sent them all back after you...." Owen trails off, looking uncomfortable. "After your accident."
"Oh." I don't know how to respond to all this. "Okay. Thanks, I guess."
I drink some more water. In the corner of my eye, I see Owen watching me carefully. "Do you feel okay to talk about what happened?" he asks in a soft voice.
"Yeah," I say sluggishly. But what happened is so hazy in my brain, like a movie I watched years ago. Everything still feels so far away. And I must be hallucinating because there's no way Owen just called Karen his darling. "Actually, can you just give me a minute?"
"Of course," Owen says kindly. He's always kind. Too kind. "Take your time."
I take another sip of water, but my body is still being uncooperative, and somehow I manage to bump the rim of the cup against my nose. And, holy fuck, does it hurt. The pain explodes full-force again, so quick and intense that I feel like I'm about to pass out again. I glare at the wall, my eyes watering, trying to think about anything except the dizziness and nausea sweeping over me...
And that's when I see it. A telephone.
It's hanging on the wall opposite my bed, painted red and marked with the words "For Emergency Use Only". My heart rate speeds up, but not from pain, which now seems like more of a nuisance than a priority. The fog obscuring my thoughts quickly dissipates. And suddenly, getting Finn kicked out of camp doesn't seem so important anymore; at least, not when there's a telephone only feet away, and Jesse's number written across my brain. I can get Finn in trouble later— or anytime, really— but this might be my only chance to speak to Jesse all summer. I have to get to that telephone. I have to.
Becca said there would be consequences if I called Jesse. Fuck consequences. Jesse is my best friend, and I'm not letting some fake psychic predictions prevent me from talking to him. That's all psychics are, really— frauds that are either really good at making predictions, or really good at making observations. I can't believe that I got fooled into thinking otherwise.
"Ronan? Are you ready?"
"What? Oh, yeah. One second."
"I understand that you might be scared that the person who hit you will hurt you again if you tell on them," Owen continues, in a tone he must think is reassuring, "But I can tell you that once you give us their name, they'll—"
I drop the water cup away from my mouth. "I'm not scared."
"Of course not," says Owen, quickly backtracking. "But either way, it's very important for you to tell us who hit you—"
"I thought you already knew."
Now he looks thrown. "Excuse me?"
"I heard you and Karen talking before I woke up. She said she was going to go talk to the Director."
A funny look passes over Owen's face, and it's obvious that he didn't know I overheard his conversation with Karen until now. "You're right, Karen has her suspicions. But I prefer to hear the truth from the victim."
"Victim?" I repeat. The telephone glints in the corner of my vision, promising, tempting. I just need to get Owen to leave. Finally, an opportunity to be difficult! Now all I have to do is bother the counselor until he gives up and leaves. "Is that what I am now?"
"I would expect so," Owen says, his voice bordering on exasperation, "unless you punched yourself in the face."
"Maybe it was an accident."
"What are you trying to say, Ronan?"
I stare at Owen for a few seconds. I realize that if I'm going to convince him to leave I'll have to kick things up a notch.
"Well?" Owen prompts.
"My nose hurts," I say.
Owen just stares at me. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking completely lost. I switch my expression to an agonized grimace.
"Oh no," I say. "Oh, this is really bad. I think I'm going to faint again."
His milky-blue eyes widen in alarm. "Should I go get the nurse?"
"Ouch— yes, go get the nurse! But take your time though, too, I think I might need some quiet time to just rest and close my eyes."
"Okay," he says, rising hastily to his feet. "Alright, I'll go get the nurse. I shouldn't be gone for more than ten minutes."
"Really, don't rush," I say. "Take all the time you want...."
Owen gives me one last bewildered look before leaving the room. "Don't get out of bed!" he calls over his shoulder. "Just— stay put!"
"Won't be a problem!"
The door slams shut, and I throw the covers off my legs. Maneuvering over towards the telephone is frustratingly difficult thanks to my screwed-up ankle, but I manage to figure out a hop-walk that's effective enough to get me to the wall without falling. Then the phone is in my hand and I'm dialing Jesse's number...
And all I can do is wait and pray that he picks up.
Thank the Lord he does. Jesse picks up, as usual, on the third ring; I'm already grinning when he answers. "Who is it?" he asks, and I know he's a thousand miles away, but right now, at this very moment, it feels like he's standing right next to me. I don't even care that my nose is probably broken and my ankle is fucked up beyond belief; because somehow, I'm talking to Jesse Brooks.
"Look, I already told you, I'm not interested in donating to your stupid charity—"
"You sound like my mother."
"Ronan?" demands Jesse. His voice is a mixture of shock, incredulity, and glee. "Shit! I thought you were— well, forget that. How the hell are you even calling me right now?"
"It's a long story," I say, and I tell him all of it.
Or at least as much as I can fit into five minutes. I don't know when Owen and the nurse are coming back, so I give Jesse the condensed version of my experience at camp. The words sound strange coming out of my mouth, as if I'm making them up, or they belong to someone else, and some of the things I tell him aren't even believable— knowing a psychic, for instance, or getting punched off a boat. But even though I sound far-fetched, Jesse trusts me.
"That's wild. So fucking wild. I mean, some guy broke your nose! Do you think it's going to be crooked? That would be wicked— crooked noses are so bad-ass! And then you got attacked by a swarm of bees?" Jesse sounds ecstatic. "And got in trouble for wearing a Metallica shirt? Wild! Your summer is turning out to be more exciting than mine!"
"Trust me, the camp's not that exciting. It's mostly just... exhausting. And occasionally painful."
"Oh sure— I get it. That was a stupid thing to say anyway; I know this camp isn't meant to be fun, and it definitely can't be easy for you. It's just... whoa. The stuff you've been through! But you're doing okay, right? Nobody's currently trying to kill you?"
His words take the shape of a grin, and I can't help but smile, too. "Yeah, I'm doing alright. Like you said— it's not easy. But I haven't gotten pushed off a cliff yet, so I consider that a success."
Jesse laughs. "Good. Because I would kill you if you died."
"I thought your promise was to judo flip me?"
"No, that was just in case you didn't call. But you did, so you're off the hook for judo flipping now." Jesse goes silent for a moment, thinking. "Wow. It's just... been so long. I never thought— I didn't think we'd be able to talk all summer. And the last time I tried to see you, Sabrina kicked me out. She made it clear that she didn't want me to talking to you, like, ever again."
"Yeah. I know." There's a pause. Talking about Sabrina is an activity that neither of us particularly enjoys. (Unless we're talking shit about her. Then it's fun.) I use the silence as an opportunity to listen for Owen and the nurse, but they still haven't come back. Good. "So, now that we've established that I'm still alive, why'd you want me to call you? You made it sound pretty urgent in your letter."
"Oh. That." I can almost see Jesse grinning at the end of the line. Sabrina has effectively been forgotten, and his happiness is so infectious that I feel a weight lift off my shoulder, a weight that has been pressing down for nearly a month. "I thought it would be best to tell you over the phone."
"What is it?"
"Ronan, you're not going to believe this, but... I'm going out with Margot."
Bam! The weight comes crashing down again. Except now the weight is covered in spikes and snake venom and the impact feels more painful than my fucked-up nose or foot combined.
"You are?" My words sound slightly strangled. I clear my throat, and say, more composed, "Wow, that's... great. Really great."
"It's so awesome," Jesse says, and his voice is so excited, so full of life, that it hurts. I can't even remember the last time he sounded so happy about something. Or someone. "At first I'd never thought she'd like me back because we've been friends for so long, but then we just started talking and everything changed...."
"That's just great," I say again. For the first time, I'm glad that there's a telephone between us, just so Jesse can't see the look on my face. "And when did this happen?"
"Only a few days after school ended. It was crazy!" Jesse laughs. He prattles on, animated, ecstatic; blurting out phrases like: "I already went to dinner with her parents" and "We went to see Coming To America together" and "I even got tickets for us to go see Def Leppard live, isn't that great?" until all of his words start to blend together and sound the same, and his voice fades into the background. It's easier to listen that way, when it's all just white noise.
I don't even realize that I've stopped paying attention until Jesse calls my name for the third time. "Ronan? Are you still there? Is the signal okay?"
God. He's in love with her.
I don't answer. I don't know how to answer. A series of facts roll over in my brain: Jesse is in love with Margot Hilton. Jesse's been in love with Margot for months. Jesse and Margot are dating. Jesse still doesn't remember that he kissed me on New Year's Eve.
"Ronan?"
"I should go," I say. My voice isn't composed anymore. Not even remotely. I'm tired of reliving old memories, of ripping open old wounds. This should all be scar tissue by now. "I can't be talking on the phone anyways—"
"Ronan, what's wrong? You sound really upset."
"I'm— fine. I just can't use the phone right now."
"What? I thought you said the counselor was gone! Why are you being so weird?"
"Just let it fucking go, Jesse!" I don't realize that I've raised my voice to a shout until Jesse goes silent on the other side of the phone.
After a strangled pause, Jesse speaks again. "Woah. Okay." He isn't angry. His voice is so genuinely concerned that I want to take the phone and chuck it at a wall. "Wow. Um, I realize that was all a bit sudden. But I didn't mean to make you upset or jealous or anything— I'm really sorry if I did. Are you okay?"
I know that I should hang up. I know that this conversation is leading to dangerous territory. But for some reason, I find myself repeating, "Jealous?" in a voice that's mean and snarky and not at all me. It's terrible, but I can't make myself stop.
"What?"
"Why would you think that I'm jealous of you and Margot?"
"Oh— I don't know." Jesse sounds bewildered, lost. I need to stop talking. This isn't going to end well if I keep talking. "I guess us being together could make you feel like a third wheel. Jealous. Like that."
I let out a hoarse laugh. "Well, that's fucking stupid."
"Excuse me?"
"Is our reception cutting out? I said that it's stupid for me to be jealous of you and Margot. And if you don't know why, then you're more oblivious than I thought."
"Oblivious? Why?"
My brain is short-circuiting. I can't control what I'm saying, can't even regulate what I'm thinking. My nose hurts like hell and my whole head is aching and I still can't get over the fucking idea that Jesse is dating Margot, that Jesse is dating someone, that Jesse never knew—
"Because I had a crush on you for three fucking years and you never realized!"
Everything goes white. For a while, the only thing my brain can process is the sound of Jesse breathing quietly on the other side of the phone.
Jesse stays like that for a while. Just breathing, in and out. Silent. I wish I could hear his thoughts. Actually, I take it back— I don't. I have no desire to hear what he's thinking about what I just said. Jesus. What have I done?
"Ronan, I remember what happened on New Year's Eve."
For a moment I think that I've truly gone crazy and that I'm imagining his words in my head. Then I realize that Jesse is still speaking, and that his words aren't imaginary at all...
Shit.
"I wasn't... that drunk. I remember kissing you."
"But—" My mouth has stopped working. I think it's forgotten how to form proper words. "Then why did you act like you didn't remember?"
"I don't know," Jesse says bitterly. "I guess I was afraid, or ashamed— I don't know. But I didn't mean to lead you on. I'm sorry if I did."
"So what— you only kissed me out of pity?"
"No! It wasn't like that!" Jesse sounds upset now. Like, really upset. Maybe near tears. Oh, fuck this. Why did I have to tell him? What's wrong with me? Everything is ruined now— us, him, me. Three years of friendship down the fucking drain. "I don't know, Ronan. I was so confused. It was wrong of me to do— that to you."
"Wrong," I repeat, slowly. The word turns and curls up like something dead inside my mouth. I have to hang up. I have to get away from this conversation.... (I can't believe this. That he pretended not to remember. When he was the one who kissed me!)
"God, I didn't mean it like that."
"So what did you mean? That kissing me was an accident? A mistake?"
"It wasn't," says Jesse miserably. "It wasn't either of those things."
"Then why did you fucking do it?"
"I don't know, Ronan! I don't know why I kissed you." His voice is shaking. He sounds afraid, even though Jesse is never afraid. "But now I'm dating Margot, so it doesn't really matter, right?"
My hand is clenched so tightly around the telephone that I think I might break it. I almost want to. I wish that I could squeeze my fist hard enough that the plastic would crumple in tiny, broken shards—
At least I know that Becca wasn't lying when she said she was a psychic. Of course, I had to learn that the hard way. These are the consequences she warned me about. This is the spilled blood.
"I have to go," I hear myself say. My voice sounds cold and detached— I barely recognize it as my own. "See you later, Jesse."
"Ronan, wait! You can't just hang up, we need to talk about this—"
"Sorry, I don't have the time. And besides, it sounds like you've got everything figured out already."
"Ronan," says Jesse sharply. "Stop it. You're sounding like your mother."
"Don't ever compare me to Sabrina."
"Then stop acting like her son!"
I'm going to hang up. I really am. Except— I think my hand is paralyzed. I can't move the phone away from my ear. Can't move it back into the receiver. I'm frozen.
"Fuck. I'm—" Jesse exhales loudly, his breath cracking through the phone line like static. "I always say the wrong thing, don't I? Fuck. I just wanted to tell you— I just wanted to say that—"
"I don't have all day," I say coldly. "Lightlake is a busy place, you know. I'm getting matching prison tattoos with my fellow cellmates this afternoon."
"Ronan," Jesse says, and his voice is sad, so terribly sad, that I forget about being angry and making sarcastic comments, I forget about what he said about Sabrina, I forget about everything except his current words— "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't figure out what your kryptonite was until now."
Those are the last words I hear before I regain control of my hand and slam the phone back down into the receiver— a pointless gesture, I realize, because Jesse hung up first.
I feel terrible and then I feel nothing. And then I feel a wave of actual dizziness— not feigned— crash over me, and I have to hop-walk back to the cot and sit down.
I close my eyes and try not to think of Jesse. It's not very hard— all I have to do is focus on the pain in my nose and my leg. That's overwhelming enough.
Three years. He never figured it out, even after three years. And now he's dating Margot-fucking-Hilton and acting like the poster child for straight boys everywhere. What a shitty joke. Or maybe I'm the joke, for not figuring all of this out earlier.
None of this is very funny, but I snort through my nose anyways— more incredulous than amused— and another wave of pain hits, sending a trickle of blood running down towards my mouth. It tastes like metal and salt.
That's when the door creaks open, and Owen returns with the nurse by his side. He says something to me and I probably respond but I'm too lost in my head to think about anything. The world turns blurry. Time passes in a harsh staccato, leaping forwards and backward without any rhythm or sense.
All I want is for this shitty summer to be over with.
It comes to my attention that Owen is staring at me, probably because he's been saying things and I haven't been responding to them. I blink back up at him and do my best to answer his monotonous questions about how I'm feeling, if I still think I'm going to faint, how my foot is, etc. Then the nurse tells me that my nose is definitely broken, but that it's not a bad break and should heal quickly, as long as I keep the tape she gave me on and I don't bump it again. She wraps up my ankle, too, then hands me a small bag containing exactly five painkiller pills. I swallow one dry. It tastes like blood all the way down.
Time passes. The nurse leaves. Owen graciously waits for nearly a full minute before asking who hit me, again. I sort of want to scream at him. Can't he see that I don't want to talk right now?
I glare at the floor. I can't remember why I cared about getting Finn in trouble in the first place; it all seems so stupid, so pointless. A meaningless distraction. Jesse's words echo in my head— It doesn't really matter, right? Maybe Jesse was right. Maybe I really am my mother's perfect son. After all, tormenting someone out of sheer boredom is something she would do. Becoming Sabrina is what I've always dreaded, and apparently, I just achieved my worst nightmares.
I just want to leave. Go. Somewhere. Not here— anywhere. Or nowhere at all.
"Ronan?" prods Owen expectantly. "Are you—"
"Nobody hit me," I say. "I stood up to see where the other campers were and slipped and hit my head on the edge of the canoe. Finn and Emily were helping pull me out of the water when my foot got stuck on a fishing net. It was all an accident."
Owen's expression is pure incredulity. "Are you being serious right now? Ronan, I don't understand—"
"It was all an accident," I repeat firmly. "Nothing else."
His mouth falls open. I just stare at him, giving away nothing.
"You didn't feel anything in the lake? You didn't feel anything— grab you? You didn't get stuck on anything?"
"It was an accident," I repeat. "What more do you want from me? A written and signed confession? I only have five words for you: it was an accident. And yes, I cut the fourth one out because I didn't want you to give me a mark. Now, will you quit interrogating me and leave me alone?"
Owen gives me a long, hard stare. When he finally resumes speaking, his words are short, clipped, and frustrated. I've never seen Owen mad before but now that he is, it's not as satisfying as I thought it would be. "I have one last question for you, and I hope you're not in too much of a bad mood to answer it. Are you feeling okay enough to go back to your cabin? Because if you aren't, I'm sure the nurse will let you rest here for another hour or two—"
"I'm fine," I say, pushing myself out of bed; Owen can hate me if he wants, I don't care anymore. I need to get out of this room, away from the telephone, away from Jesse. "Don't worry about it."
"Ronan—"
I ignore him and limp towards the door. But as I leave, I can't help but glance towards the phone— and of course, because that's what my luck is today, Owen notices.
A look of deep understanding passes across his face. I freeze, waiting for him to call me out on my obvious rule-breaking.
But for some reason, Owen... doesn't. All he says is, "Ronan, you do know there's a reason we don't let campers use the phone."
Something twists in my chest. I wish for the millionth time that I was anywhere but here.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, and I push the door open with the flat of my hand, banishing Owen and the phone behind me.