between me and this fire. Something to prove I’m not just imagining things. For now, it’ll be my secret. Every girl needs her secrets. This is something I’m learning late.
My heart thuds a little harder as I realize I’m probably behind schedule, that Sam might be awake and waiting for me — or worse, looking for me, worried. I gather up all the papers in a stack, except this one. I take a quick look around and, when I’m convinced there’s no one up here, I quietly tear out the article and shove it in my back pocket. I hide the mangled paper in the middle of the stack. If the librarian somehow were to find out, that would be the end of my research. I must come back. I must find a way to have more time to myself. But how, during the day? Sam is nearly always around lately. He never even goes to Sid’s anymore. Poor Sammy, always sick and listless. But how can I capture more than two hours for myself?
I promise myself to figure it out later. For now, getting back there before he wakes up is the only important thing. I run down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator and as I’m darting past the front desk, the librarian calls out to me,
Do you need anything else, honey?
And the way she says it shoots warning signs into my brain, but I shake my head and wave and keep going anyway, hoping she’ll pass this off as one other weird thing that happened in her day, just one more crazy teenager.
Then I’m off, faster than before. I dart through town and into the woods behind the high school like a gazelle. I run around trees, over stones, until the paths bordering the property thin out and give way to dense foliage. I know these rocks and trees so well by now; it couldn’t be easier if they wore labels.
Then I am back, bending over my knees, my chest heaving, and as I catch my breath and walk into our home, I see him stirring a little at the sound of my footsteps.
Abby?
he says groggily,
What are you doing?
Nothing, honey,
I say.
Did you have a nap?
Yeah,
he says. He struggles to sit up but clutches his head.
I have the worst headache.
Is there anything I can do, Sam-Sam?
I am struggling to keep my voice even, since I’m still catching my breath.
I don’t think so, babe. I don’t know.
He pauses, as if considering something. Then,
No there’s nothing.
So I bring him some water from the brook, wet on a T-shirt, and use it to blot his forehead, which is sopping and coal-hot. My poor Sam. I usually tell him everything, but this time, this one time, I can’t. I am guilty over it all night.
Tell me how beautiful I am,
I say. It is our old game, and I want to resuscitate it. It is a rare day today; Sam is well and in a good place. We’re outside and there’s a slight chill in the air and we’re lying on dirt and leaves that crinkle under our bodies but somehow feel soft at the same time. And when the chill’s too much and my skin begins to pimple up, Sam hugs me close. It’s perfect out here, lovely and serene. Sam is more handsome than I ever remember seeing him. I take a deep breath and hold it for as long as I can. As long as I can hold it in, none of this goodness can escape. Things feel so normal, so good, that I give in to my urge to forget everything that’s been happening to us. Sam’s poor health and the dangerous hunger for knowledge that propelled me into Circle Nine three days ago. I need this peaceful time with him. I dunk my body in his words and swim around in them, drinking them close to my heart.
How can you not know how beautiful you are?
You are more beautiful than life,
he says. I can tell he means it, but I push him further.
That’s nothing,
I scoff.
Life is hideous.
OK,
he says, starting over.
You’re lovelier than the rocks that jut out into the sea on the coast of France. You’re lovelier than the way the water crashes against them and sprays its mist on my toes.
You don’t know that,
I challenge.
You’ve never even been to the coast of France.
Haven’t I?
he
My heart thuds a little harder as I realize I’m probably behind schedule, that Sam might be awake and waiting for me — or worse, looking for me, worried. I gather up all the papers in a stack, except this one. I take a quick look around and, when I’m convinced there’s no one up here, I quietly tear out the article and shove it in my back pocket. I hide the mangled paper in the middle of the stack. If the librarian somehow were to find out, that would be the end of my research. I must come back. I must find a way to have more time to myself. But how, during the day? Sam is nearly always around lately. He never even goes to Sid’s anymore. Poor Sammy, always sick and listless. But how can I capture more than two hours for myself?
I promise myself to figure it out later. For now, getting back there before he wakes up is the only important thing. I run down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator and as I’m darting past the front desk, the librarian calls out to me,
Do you need anything else, honey?
And the way she says it shoots warning signs into my brain, but I shake my head and wave and keep going anyway, hoping she’ll pass this off as one other weird thing that happened in her day, just one more crazy teenager.
Then I’m off, faster than before. I dart through town and into the woods behind the high school like a gazelle. I run around trees, over stones, until the paths bordering the property thin out and give way to dense foliage. I know these rocks and trees so well by now; it couldn’t be easier if they wore labels.
Then I am back, bending over my knees, my chest heaving, and as I catch my breath and walk into our home, I see him stirring a little at the sound of my footsteps.
Abby?
he says groggily,
What are you doing?
Nothing, honey,
I say.
Did you have a nap?
Yeah,
he says. He struggles to sit up but clutches his head.
I have the worst headache.
Is there anything I can do, Sam-Sam?
I am struggling to keep my voice even, since I’m still catching my breath.
I don’t think so, babe. I don’t know.
He pauses, as if considering something. Then,
No there’s nothing.
So I bring him some water from the brook, wet on a T-shirt, and use it to blot his forehead, which is sopping and coal-hot. My poor Sam. I usually tell him everything, but this time, this one time, I can’t. I am guilty over it all night.
Tell me how beautiful I am,
I say. It is our old game, and I want to resuscitate it. It is a rare day today; Sam is well and in a good place. We’re outside and there’s a slight chill in the air and we’re lying on dirt and leaves that crinkle under our bodies but somehow feel soft at the same time. And when the chill’s too much and my skin begins to pimple up, Sam hugs me close. It’s perfect out here, lovely and serene. Sam is more handsome than I ever remember seeing him. I take a deep breath and hold it for as long as I can. As long as I can hold it in, none of this goodness can escape. Things feel so normal, so good, that I give in to my urge to forget everything that’s been happening to us. Sam’s poor health and the dangerous hunger for knowledge that propelled me into Circle Nine three days ago. I need this peaceful time with him. I dunk my body in his words and swim around in them, drinking them close to my heart.
How can you not know how beautiful you are?
You are more beautiful than life,
he says. I can tell he means it, but I push him further.
That’s nothing,
I scoff.
Life is hideous.
OK,
he says, starting over.
You’re lovelier than the rocks that jut out into the sea on the coast of France. You’re lovelier than the way the water crashes against them and sprays its mist on my toes.
You don’t know that,
I challenge.
You’ve never even been to the coast of France.
Haven’t I?
he
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