Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

“That’s kind of impossible now.”

He looks away from me. “Because of Derek.”

“No. It has nothing to do with him.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?” The pain of seeing me all over Derek leaks out with his words and splashes around us in tiny bitter drops.

I look away from his face. “I should have told you sooner. I’ve been busy running away from you. Resisting you isn’t easy.”

“Then stop.”

“That’s what he said.” I make myself face Scott. “Derek told me to dump him and go out with you.”

“He’s not as dumb as he looks.” Scott recrosses his arms.

I take a deep breath. “This summer—”

“Doesn’t he want to play house?”

I shrug. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who plays house.”

“But you are—Beth—you’re a house-playing girl.”

I nod. “But I can’t play house.”

“Sure you can.” He relaxes his arms. One drifts toward me. “We’ll get married and play house as much as we want.” He cradles my elbow, gently strokes my arm.

“It won’t work with me.”

“Of course, it will.” He takes hold of my other arm, too. “When Derek self-destructs, you’ll come to your senses and come back to me.” He leans in and whispers, “Just don’t sleep with him, okay? I was ready to run him down with my pickup when I saw him dropping you off this morning.”

I swallow hard. “Like I’d tell you.”

“You don’t think I’d figure it out? You’re a crap liar. You told me just now that you didn’t.”

I push away from him. “Our relationship isn’t about sex.”

“Good—because ours will be.”

I put my hand on his chest. “Shut up and stop sidetracking me. This is important.”

“I’m sorry.” He takes both my hands in his and squeezes them.

I let him. I even squeeze back. “I probably can’t have babies.” My head drops.

He touches his forehead to my drooping head. “Who told you this?”

“A doctor and a genetic test.”

“When?”

“I got my cheek swabbed right before the tour.”

He starts, pulls back. “That was the bad news?” His voice sharpens. “You never said a word to me about this and you told a perfect stranger?”

“Post-prom things were all weird with you.” I flush. That was all my fault. “And he wasn’t a stranger. We have a connection you wouldn’t understand.”

“Right.” Scott lets go of my hands. “Him all over you. Making a play when you’re falling apart.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“You are so naive.” He turns back to his locker and starts slapping his books around.

“This isn’t about him.” I grab his arm and jerk him back. “It’s about you. I can’t be that girl in your daydreams rocking the baby while you play catch with our son. That’s what you want. Find someone who can give you that.”

He takes me by the shoulders, squeezes really hard. “Is that what you think of me? That I care about some stupid fantasy more than I care about you? The dream can change, Bethie. As long as you’re in it—that’s all that matters.”

“I’m sorry, Scottie.” My eyes sting. “I really am. I’m not in it.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Find somebody cute and sweet who adores you.”

“Don’t make me retch.”

I sniff. “Please, Scottie, stop torturing yourself. Stop torturing me.”

“No way.” His face gets hard. “I’m here, Bethie. Every day. Loving you. Wanting you. I’m not going to run off into a hole and lick my wounds. I’m going to bleed in front of you. I’m not going to fake it with somebody else. I’m going to be right here in your face—until the day I die.”

“You following me to college?”

“Yep.”

“What if Derek and I decide to get married? Will you walk me down the aisle?”

“You won’t marry him. He won’t last. I will. You’re going to marry me.”

I pry his hands off me. “Your crystal ball needs a tune-up.”

He stands in the hall, his face full of pain. “I love you, too.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me, Bethie. You do.”

“I’m sorry, Scottie. If I make you bleed, I’m so sorry. I can’t help it. I love him. I’ll love him forever.”

Scott won’t talk to me the rest of the day. Every time I see him, I want to hold his hand and tell him it will be okay, but it won’t. I can’t.

Thursday he’s the same, but at least I’ve got choir to look forward to. I play Derek’s CD all the way down to Ann Arbor. Terri plans to tell us her ideas for this season. I used to always love the first practice when she introduces new music. The challenge of sight-reading the parts and making sure all my altos get it right. But Bliss can’t hack the really challenging stuff.

The Amabile girls sing some hyper-hard, atonal modern pieces. I would so love to do that. I’ve only ever seen one other choir do those—and it was crap compared to the AYS. I wish we could sing pieces like that. Maybe in college I can.

I haven’t decided on a major, but it’s going to be music something. I don’t have the bucks for an elite school. I’ll have to stay in state, go public. If Derek stays in London, maybe I better stick with Ann Arbor and go to the University of Michigan. But that would be so far from him. There’s a big university in London. Maybe I could go there. We could start together next year. Major in music together. It seems weird he wanted to be a doctor, but he’s composing now. That’s a gift he can’t waste. Somebody else can cure me.

Friday is twice as long as Wednesday and Thursday combined. Scott is twice as grumpy. I need to move my locker. When the final bell buzzes, I race out of school and speed home.

Derek’s there.

Waiting in my driveway.

Just like he said he would be.

I can’t get out of the car fast enough. He opens my door, gives me a hand. I can’t kiss him here—too like Scott and prom night.

I step all the way out of the car and push the door closed with my butt, lean up against it. Derek comes at me hard, pins me there with his body, greets me with his lips. We make out for about ten minutes, then he pulls away. “Hi.” He drills me with his chocolate-brown eyes and plays with a piece of my frizzed-out hair that he said was hot.

“I missed you.” He’s turned me into a puddle again. I’m sloshing in the driveway.

“We need to talk.”

“Plan B?”

“Ready to execute.”

“Should I pack a bag? I’ve got my bankbook in my purse.”

“That’s Plan A.”

“Right.” I lead him into the house. We both eye the stairs going up to my room. “We can talk in my room if you want.” I cleaned it up—just in case. I want to be ready when it’s right.

He shakes his head and tugs me in the direction of the family room. He sits on the loveseat and makes me take the couch. “If you’re any closer, we won’t talk much.”

I lift my eyebrows.

He looks at his watch, then me, alone in the middle of the couch.

I run my hands over the leather cushions. “We’ve never made out lying down.” I want him to lie beside me, feel his weight on me, even if it’s just kissing.

“First, you must agree to Plan B.”

“Right. I’m sorry. You are distracting.”

He leans forward, rests his arms on his knees, and clasps his hands together. “I spoke with my director, and she talked to the AYS conductors. They want you. You’re in.”

“The AYS?” I shake my head, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“The Amabile girls’ directors listened to your rendition of ‘Take Me Home.’ Auditions were last spring, but they’ll make an exception for you.”

“How does this get us together?”