Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

I hate Lausanne and Lake Geneva and stone benches.

I hate Scott.

I especially hate AP econ.

I fall asleep before I finish the list—before I come to the only person I really hate. This morning I stare at her in the mirror and see the truth.

It messes you up . Derek’s famous advice about sex. We didn’t even manage to do it, and we’re utterly messed up. I’m massively messed up.

And Derek? What about Derek? Crap, he’s messed up, too. Why would he curse me out over his T-shirt? Does he really never want to do it with me? Am I that gross after all? I think back through it all, over and over and over.

Was it that Band-Aid on his stomach exactly where it was in Lausanne that made him angry? It’s so not a mosquito bite. Could it be a scar? Why the Band-Aid then? Is it a needle mark he doesn’t want me to see? What kind of scary drugs do you inject into your stomach? Over and over, exactly in the same place?

The whole thing is so, so disturbing. I don’t even know how to feel anymore. What I wouldn’t give to peek under that little flesh-colored vinyl strip.

When I see Scott at school, I break my date to study with him.

“He won’t let you?”

“I’m not being fair to you. I’m with Derek. Nothing is going to change that.”

Scott closes his locker with a clang, steps so close I can smell his citrus cologne, and whispers, “We’ll see.”

The rest of the day, he’s funny, cute, friendly Scott again. He brings his econ notes to lunch and goes over the stuff in Chapter Six with me. In choir he can’t get his tenor part. He scoots his chair up against mine and leans over so we’re almost cheek to cheek—so he can hear me sing his part better.

“Why don’t you hate me?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Masochist.”

I laugh. “Thank you, Prince Charming.”

“Any time, Beauty.”

Here he is saving me again. I should love him. I really should. I wouldn’t have made it through the day if not for him.

As I drive down to choir, all I can think about is that Band-Aid on Derek’s stomach. Guys don’t use Band-Aids. If it was a cut or a mosquito bite, why would he care if I saw it? Why is it still there?

It all seems . . . medical.

The Band-Aid.

The cough.

The weight loss.

The pale, pale skin.

The mysterious disappearances.

Even his advice about doctors. Those pills he’s always popping. Dumb Blake and his idiot drug habit.

It all adds up. Not to an addiction, but to an affliction.

I couldn’t live if you left me. And what did he say? Don’t put that on me.

Is he planning on leaving me because he’s . . .

No, that can’t be right. Oh, gosh. He could be sick. Really sick. Not just allergies or a cold that goes away.

For an ugly second, I worry if I could catch it. What is it? Could he have HIV? That’s why he won’t—no, no. Not that. Diabetes. They stick themselves all the time. It’s probably just that. Are diabetics pale? Do they cough? Maybe it’s leukemia. He can go to a hospital and get treatments. He’s going to be fine. People recover from leukemia. Bone marrow. He just needs new bone marrow.

It will get worse before it gets better.

That fits.

He can’t be that sick, though. Most of the time, he’s fine. He just coughs. It’s bronchitis or something. Maybe mono. But mono’s catching. He’d tell me if he had mono.

What disease makes you cough?

Just dumb stuff like colds, flu, pneumonia. I had that once. I coughed forever. Old smokers cough. But that doesn’t work for Derek.

Why won’t he just tell me?

I can’t bring it up—confront him. Not for a while. Not after last night. We need to get back to where we were before I threw him out. Oh, crap. I threw him out.

Late in the night after choir, I check for Derek online, but he’s not signed on. I write him a text about wanting his body. I’m still kind of crazed. Delete it. Simply send, I miss you, and go to sleep.

In the morning, I check my cell. Nothing gushy and sweet in reply. No voice-mail messages. No posts. No email. I’m scared. After everything that happened Monday night, I need to know that he’s all right with me—that we’re all right—before he slips off into that awful nothingness. I promise not to ask about the phantom Band-Aid on his stomach. Crap. It could have been there all along. He’s always got a sweatshirt on. Or a thick leather jacket. We’ve been dating for a few months now, and I’ve never been close enough to him to see his bare chest. Isn’t there something wrong with that? I feel dread in the pit of my stomach. His anger. His violence, even. There’s just so much about Derek I don’t know.

But I won’t ask. I promise to be the perfect, pure thing he asked me to be back in Switzerland.

What else can I do? I love him.

Days go by.

Weeks.

How can he expect me to bear this? I’m helpless, delusional, don’t know where he is, what’s happened to him, what’s happened to us. Are we messed up forever? This silence shakes me up. It’s so much longer and louder than before. I can’t break into it.

Stuff starts showing up on his profile. He hasn’t posted since before that night with me, but his friends start adding messages. There’s one from his AYS ex: You’re going to make it. I love you. That one makes me scream.

Blake posts, Hang in there, bud. It’s going to work this time.

There’s a bunch of Come back soon! and We miss you! kind of stuff.

At least I know he’s alive somewhere. I don’t post. No way. Too public. Too humiliating that I don’t know what’s happening. That he doesn’t want me to know. Won’t let me know. I stuff his inbox with private messages that get more and more pathetic as each day passes.

It’s sounding more medical—scary medical. I’m so stupid. If I would have joined the AYS like Derek wanted, I’d be chummy enough with those girls to have a link independent of Derek to find out what’s going on—no matter what he’s told them I can’t hear.

I think about phoning Blake. Try it once. He doesn’t answer. Derek’s orders? I don’t know.

How can he do this to me? Just cut me off. I’m his girlfriend, aren’t I?

Maybe not.

His ex posted “I love you” on his wall for all the world to see.

Maybe he’s back with her. Maybe he thinks I’m with Scott. Maybe he’s paying me back.

No. He believed me that night. I’m sure. I have to keep believing. He’ll appear in my driveway on his bike like he always has before. Be patient, keep loving him—keep resisting Scott.

Scott’s not making it easy. He’s there at school, every day, warm and friendly and real. His muscular shoulder is right next to me all the time, bumping into me. He’s always joking around. No way can I let him suspect what’s going on with Derek. If he offered to comfort me, I’d let him and then what would I tell Derek?

I delude myself, pretend everything is cool and that I know where he is and what’s up. I send Derek a dozen texts every day, email him what’s up with me. No questions. No complaints. He’ll be back. Any day. Any second. I almost convince myself.

I download the sheet music he sent me for “Beth’s Song,” study it, hum the melody with a pen poised ready for inspiration, but I can’t fool myself that much. I throw down the pen and stare at the wall.

I search my room—gather up all my pathetic efforts at song writing that I meant to burn. Maybe I can pull something from one of these. I read through my scrawls. I’m bones, blood, and flesh

Not clay to be pounded. . . .

I bleed when you wound me. . . .

Can this be me?

Taking the stage for gold dreams. . . .