Aprilynne Pike: Earthbound

And I’m not … exactly. It’s just weird to be in the house with Reese all day long every single day. I’m eighteen; I should be out doing high school stuff. Football games, school plays, hanging out at McDonald’s eating my weight in french fries. The kind of stuff I used to occasionally let my friends drag me out for, back in Michigan. The kind of stuff I’d decided to do more of my senior year at my new art school. Maybe even with a guy—a nice, artsy guy.

And then my plans crashed along with the plane.

Things like that don’t interest me anymore. I’d accepted that I would have a secluded senior year when an English assignment sent me to the library for the first time a couple months ago and Benson Ryder was the one who introduced himself to me.

Then taught me how to use microfiche. Friendship at first sight.

Literally.

I slip into a chair at our usual table and knead the muscles on my right leg—they’re always a little tender after the half-mile walk here—before glancing around the sparsely populated library. It generally isn’t too busy between nine and four, unless one of the local elementary schools is having a field trip. It gets busier in the afternoon, when school’s out, but one of the advantages of online school is that I can go to the library anytime I want.

Plus Benson is more likely to be free to “study” with me when fewer people are there to ask for his help—or overhear the conversation we’re about to have.

As I reach into my backpack to pull out my textbooks, I’m dismayed to see my hands are shaking. Am I nervous to tell Benson? That doesn’t seem quite right. Maybe I’m just still so messed up from everything that’s happened.

And I’m not sure exactly how to tell Benson about the blond guy from yesterday.

And last night.

This morning, technically.

I don’t even know his name, but he feels special somehow. My secret. Not the kind of secret that makes you feel guilty and empty inside; he’s a cappuccino secret—something sweet and frothy that warms me from the middle out.

Still, I need to tell Benson. I should tell someone in case … in case this guy really is dangerous. Though even the thought makes me prickle in defense.

As though I know him.

Benson will understand, won’t he? Benson knows everything about me. Everything. It’s been a slow process—you don’t just walk up to someone and say, “Hi! I’m the orphaned sole survivor of one of the biggest plane crashes in history and I’ve been hiding from the media for six months and oh, by the way, did I mention I’m recovering from a traumatic brain injury?”

But slowly—and without me consciously intending it to—it all sort of spilled out. About a month ago, when I finally confided that the “car crash” was actually a plane crash, I expected Benson to be mad. That fact I’d outright lied about. More than once.

He just laughed and stretched his arms out to the side and asked, “Seriously, is there anything else I should know about you? Long-lost twin? Secret baby? Toenail fetish?”

I love how he makes me laugh at myself.

But his smile was a little strained until I assured him that, no, there was nothing more and he now knew all my deep, dark secrets. And it was an incredible relief to tell him. To stop lying.

To one person, anyway.

I think that’s the day I realized I was falling for him.

Not that it’ll ever happen. Probably. He’s so focused on school and I … I’m kinda broken. Not just my injuries. I’ve changed . In ways I can hardly put my finger on, but I can’t deny it. Concentration is harder than it used to be. Everything is harder, really. My brain injury was considered moderate and my recovery pronounced by the doctors to be “miraculous,” but simply living is a tiny bit less natural, a shade less instinctive. A little less … everything. I’ve mostly come to terms with it. But I don’t know that I’m ready for a real relationship with anyone yet. Or even soon. My life is a tangle of uncertainty.

Besides, he has this girl. Dana. I haven’t met her—I don’t want to meet her—but apparently she’s gorgeous and funny and smart and amazing and … well, an angel come to earth, according to Benson. They aren’t dating. Yet , as Benson says. But he talks about her all the time.

When I can’t get him to change the subject.

He won’t even see me; not compared to that. And I’m not willing to lose his friendship just because I can’t have it both ways.

Pushing away my self-pity, I look down and realize I’ve been subconsciously doodling. Just scribbles. Rubbing my pencil back and forth, essentially. But …

But …

I turn the paper sideways and swallow hard as a jolt of adrenaline tingles down my arms. The dark smudges definitely look like someone’s shadow.

A guy’s shadow. A guy who’s tall and slim and has a hint of a ponytail.

I let the pencil slip from my fingers and clench my fists, trying to get control of my breathing, my panic coming from a completely different source now.

I haven’t drawn a thing since the day my plane went down. Not that I haven’t tried. But art is the symbol of my ruined dreams.

And the reason my parents are dead.

I know technically it’s irrational, but if I hadn’t insisted on going to tour the fancy art school that offered me a scholarship, we never would have boarded that plane. Elizabeth tells me I’m mis-assigning blame. But knowing that and feeling it are two very different things. Every day I fight the guilt.

Sometimes I win.

Most days I lose.

Someone at the school—Huntington Academy of the Arts—saw my work when it was displayed at the Michigan state capitol. They contacted me and requested a portfolio of every piece of art I’d ever done, tempting me with full-color brochures of a beautiful campus where students could apparently take out their easels and paint sunsets at their leisure.

Mom and Dad were skeptical at first, but when the school sent me a full-ride scholarship for my senior year to the tune of about $50K, they had to at least agree to let me go see it.

After the crash I was surprised to realize that I still wanted to go. It felt wrong, yet something inside me still wanted to reclaim what I’d lost.

But the first time I tried to pick up a pencil, it fell out of my fingers. I couldn’t even hold the stupid thing. The doctors told me it was because my brain was still healing; that they expected me to regain all my motor function with physical therapy.

And time.

I insisted Reese call Huntington. After she explained everything, I was surprised how willing they were to defer my scholarship—to let me start up in January when my injuries were healed.

But the fall months passed and I could still barely write my name. Every time I tried, I’d turn into a crying mess all over again. Reese encouraged me through November, December. She told me art was an inherent part of me, part of who I am. To this day I’m not sure why she cared so much. But New Year’s came and even though my hands were better, my artist’s block was all too firmly in place. I called the school myself, on my last day in the neuro-rehabilitation center, and withdrew.

Reese and Jay didn’t try to talk me out of it.

I sigh, loudly. With Benson still AWOL and the weight of anxiety pressing down on me, I cast about for something to keep me busy—to distract me—while I wait. I grab a newspaper from the table next to me and start mechanically reading the words, hardly taking them in. I’m on the second page before I feel an arm drape around the back of my chair.

“Sorry I took so long,” Benson says. I have only a moment to take in a blur of khakis and a pastel green and blue plaid shirt before he’s there on the chair beside me. His breath feels warm on my neck as he glances at the paper, and I feel my fingers tingle. I grip the page tighter and force myself not to lean in—not to press my forehead against his cheek and see if it’s as soft as it looks or gritty with stubble. “Marie had a crapload of filing saved up for me.”