Dreamland by Sarah Dessen Page B

and never find one fleck of dust, with everything having a place and an order, from the CDs stacked alphabetically on the shelves over his bed to the way the towels were folded in the bathroom. It was the kind of place where you were conscious not to disrupt the neat vacuum lines on the carpet or the perfectly plumped pillows—sitting at exactly forty-five-degree angles—on the couch.
    I would have assumed it was a maid’s doing, but the first thing Rogerson did when we walked in was bend down to fix the base of a coatrack by the door so that its stand fit squarely in the middle of a tile there. This was all his.
    I went to use the bathroom—marveling at the shiny chrome sink and fixtures, the sharp cleanliness of the mirror—and when I came out someone was knocking at the door.
    â€œHold on,” Rogerson said, starting back across the room, but the door was already opening and Rogerson’s father—the older man I’d seen at the center of the party, telling jokes—came in. He was wearing a golf sweater with a little gold insignia on it and dress pants and loafers. He couldn’t see me.
    â€œI told you to be here at seven o’clock,” he said to Rogerson, crossing the room with smooth strides. His face was pinkly red, flushed.
    Rogerson glanced at me, quickly, and the look on his face—strange and unsteady—made me step back instinctively into the darkness of the bathroom, my hand resting on the cool countertop there. “Dad,” he said. “I—”
    â€œLook at me when I’m talking to you!” Mr. Biscoe said, and right as he crossed my line of vision, his face now beet-red, he suddenly reached out and hit Rogerson, hard, across the temple. Rogerson’s neck snapped back reflexively, and he lifted a hand to shield himself. “When I say you are to be somewhere, you are there. Understood?”
    Rogerson, hand over his face, nodded. I felt my stomach turning. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing.
    â€œAre we clear?” Mr. Biscoe bellowed. I could see one vein, taut, sticking up in his neck. “Look at me.”
    â€œYes,” Rogerson said, and his father reached over, irritated, and snatched his hand away from his face, gripping his wrist. “Yes. I understand.”
    â€œGood,” his father said. “Then we’re clear.” He dropped Rogerson’s wrist, then reached up to hook a finger around his own collar, adjusting it, before turning back toward the door. I kept my eyes on the tiled bathroom floor, studying the colors: black and white, over and over, like a chessboard.
    I stayed still until I heard the door slam, and Rogerson stumbled backward to the bed, sitting down and spreading his fingers over the side of his face. I walked out of the bathroom and went to sit beside him, but he wouldn’t look at me.
    â€œRogerson,” I said, turning to face him. “Let me see.”
    â€œDon’t touch me,” he said in a low voice. “I’m fine.”
    His eyes were so dark, the place where he’d been hit flushed and red. “Please,” I said. “Come on.”
    â€œDon’t,” he said, but when I reached over and put my hand over his he didn’t shake me off. “Don’t touch me.”
    â€œRogerson,” I said, slowly pulling his hand away. I could feel his pulse beating at his temple under my forefinger, the skin red and hot there.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” he said, so softly this time, and I took my finger and traced his eyebrow where he’d taken the brunt of the hit, the same way Cass had done to me so many times, her face changing as she saw again what she’d done. “Don’t.”
    â€œShh,” I said.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” he whispered. “Don’t.”
    But he was already leaning in, as my own hand worked to cover the hurt, his eyes closing as his forehead hit my chest and my finger traced the spot