Jodie Picoult - Songs of the Humpback Whale - A Novel in Five Voices

But I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for him, watching my mother coring Macs with Sam in the kitchen or rubbing his feet after dinner. I wasn’t going to watch that and pretend like nothing had happened. Obviously, she doesn’t care about me, or she wouldn’t have pushed Hadley away.

Once I said to Hadley, “You know you’re almost old enough to be my father.” I mean, ten years is some difference. And he told me I was no ordinary fifteen-year-old. Fifteen-year-olds in Stow read Tiger Beat and go to the Boston malls to see visiting soap opera stars. I told him that Stow was about three years behind, then-in San Diego that’s what twelve-year-olds do. And Hadley said, “Well, maybe these kids are twelve after all.”

I believe in love. I think it just hits you and pulls the rug out from underneath you and, like a baby, demands your attention every minute of the day. When I get close to Hadley I breathe faster. My knees shake. If I rub my eyes hard, I can see his image in the corners. We’ve been together one whole week.

We haven’t done it yet. We’ve come awfully close-like that time in the hay on the horse blankets. But he’s the one who keeps pushing me away, what do you make of that? I thought all guys wanted was sex-which is another reason I’m crazy about him. He said to me, “Don’t you want to be a kid for a couple of days longer?”

My mother told me about sex when I was four. She started by saying, “When a man and a woman love each other very much . . .” and then she stopped herself and said, “When a man and a woman are married and love each other very much . . .” I don’t think she knows I caught the slip. I’m not supposed to have sex until I’m married, which doesn’t make any sense to me. Number one, most girls in high school have done it by the time they graduate and very few get pregnant-we aren’t stupid. And number two, it’s not like marriage is the peak of your life. You can be married, I think, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you are in love.

Maybe I fall asleep for a while in this chicken igloo. When I wake up I am not sure if it is my eyes blinking or the door opening that lets in a slice of light. Whatever it is it goes away very quickly, and it is several seconds too late when I notice we aren’t moving.

The boy is there, tossing away the wall of ice with the force of a superhero. In the darkness his teeth are blue like lightning. I can see his ribs. “You been quiet,” he says, revealing me.

I am not as frightened as I should be. I consider playing dead but I am not sure that will stop him.

“Let’s play a game. I’ll go first.” He strips off his T-shirt, to show his skin, which glows.

“Where are we?” I hope it is a McDonald’s, where, if I scream, I have a chance of being heard.

“If you’re real good I’ll let you out to take a look.” He thinks about what he’s said and then he laughs, and takes a step forward. “Real good.” He pokes my shoulder. “It’s your turn, baby. The shirt. Take off the shirt.”

I collect all the saliva I can and spit at his chest. “You,” I say, “are a pig.”

Because his eyes are still adjusting to the light I have the advantage. While he is trying to figure out what I’ve done I push past him and lunge for the latch on the door. He grabs me by the hair and, pinning me by the throat, presses me up against the cold, cold wall. With his free hand he grabs mine and holds it against his crotch. Through his jeans, I can feel him twitch.

I bring my knee up with power that surprises me and crush it against him. He falls back on the broiler-fryers and the strip streaks, clutching his groin. “You little fuck!” he yells. I throw open the latch and tear into the fast-food restaurant.

I hide in the ladies room, figuring that is the safest place. Inside the stall I lock the door and crouch on the toilet seat. I count to five hundred and try to ignore the people who rattle the lock to see if there is someone inside. I will not ride with men, I vow. I can’t afford to.

When the coast is clear I come out of the stall and stand in front of the sink area. I wash the mud off my arms and legs with warm industrial soap and scrub my face; then I hold my head under the air blower to dry my hair. There are icicles in the scalp. As I poke my head out the bathroom door, an older woman wearing a green wool suit with a matching fedora and a strand of pearls goes inside.

They are gone. I survey the walls of the restaurant to see what town we are in but these places all look the same. Employee of the Month: Vera Cruces. We use eighty-five percent lean beef, flame-broiled not fried. The well-dressed woman comes out of the bathroom.

“Please,” I say, sidelining her. “Can you help me?”

She glances at my clothing, evaluating whether or not to speak to me. She reaches for her purse.

“Oh, no, no money,” I say. “You see, I’m trying to get to New Hampshire. My mother lives there and she’s very ill and my boyfriend was driving me from our boarding school, but we’ve had a fight, and he left me here.” I turn away, and catch my breath like I’ve been sobbing.

“Where do you go to school, dear?” the woman asks.

I am stumped. The only prep schools I know are in California. “Boston,” I tell her, smiling. To distract her, I sway a little, and lean against the wall. She reaches out to support me and I take her warm, bony hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling all that well.”

“I can imagine. I’ll take you as far as Laconia, and we’ll see if we can put you on a bus.”

The truth is, I’m not feeling all that well. I didn’t exactly fake it when I swooned. My eyes are burning something awful, and there is the taste of blood in my mouth. When this woman, who introduces herself as Mrs. Phipps, offers me her arm on the way to the car I am happy to take it. Inside, I stretch across the back seat with a Dior jacket as a blanket and fall asleep.

When I wake up Mrs. Phipps is peering at me in the rearview mirror. “Hello, dear. It’s just past ten o’clock.” She smiles; she reminds me of a wren. “Do you feel better?”

“Marvelous much,” I answer. It’s a phrase I heard once in an old movie and I have always wanted to use it.

“Looks as if you have a fever,” she observes, detached. “Your face is red as a beet.” I sit up and look into the mirror; she’s right. “Now, I’ve been thinking. You look like a Windsor girl. Am I right?”

I have no idea what a Windsor girl looks like. I smile. “You bet.”

“I went to Miss Porter’s. But that was years ago, of course.” She pulls the car into a shopping center with an odd kiosk in the middle. “This is Laconia,” she says. “You slept most of the way. Now where is your mother?”

I stare at her for a second until I remember what I’ve said. “Carroll, in the White Mountains.”

Mrs. Phipps nods and tells me to stay in the car. She comes back with a bus ticket and a crisp ten dollar bill. “You take this, dear. In case you need anything along the way.” When I get out of the car she pats me as you might pat a disinterested cat and gives me directions for the trip. Her face is a wrinkled plum. She wishes my mother the best, and then gets in her Toyota and drives away, waving. I feel bad, watching her go. I feel bad that I have lied; I feel bad that this kind old woman is driving alone at ten at night, on the same roadways as violent, perverted truckers.

Hadley’s house, 114 Sandcastle Lane according to the phone book, is a long and simple avocado-colored ranch that looks as if it was tossed by a tornado at the base of a huge mountain. This mountain is Hadley’s backyard, and if you stand a little too close you get the impression that the house is built against a natural wall of rock. There isn’t a doorbell, just a knocker in the shape of a frog. I know Hadley will answer, because I’ve come all this distance.