His first surprise: Nicole offered him a ride when he called them to find out the times of the play. He’d been researching buses, which took between eight and twelve hours depending on which schedule you looked at. Then there was the matter of navigating a strange city once he got off the bus. It was all a little harrowing, like the old challenges Amy gave him last year. This felt like one of those, only Amy didn’t even realize she’d given him a challenge.
“We’d be happy to have you ride with us,” Nicole said. “We could even keep it a secret and surprise Amy when we get there.”
Is she serious? his voice asked, and then it answered itself: Yes, she might not like you that much but she appreciates everything you did last winter. You shouldn’t say no just because it sounds awkward to sit in a car with her.
“Thank you so much,” he heard himself say. “That would be great.”
As it turned out, the car ride was pretty awkward. They were classical music fans, which he thought meant it was okay to talk as they listened to music, but apparently not. Finally Nicole said, “We’ve been looking forward to listening to this sonata, Matthew, if you don’t mind.”
As they got closer (and the music ended) they talked a little more. Nicole told him that Amy had really thrown herself into the drama program at Berkeley. “She’s already saying this is what she wants to major in. . . .”
Matthew couldn’t tell how Nicole felt about this. Probably not all that happy.
“We worry of course about whether she’ll ever find a career in this. Or even get paid.” She was trying to smile, he could see.
“I think she could,” Matthew said. “People are fascinated by Amy. Look at all the newspapers and TV stations that did a story on her getting into college. I bet the same thing will happen when she writes a play. People want to know what she thinks.”
He was surprised at how certain he sounded.
Nicole smiled from the front seat. “I hope you’re right, Matthew.”
The theater lobby was crowded but it wasn’t hard to find Amy, sitting in a scooter with small basket on the front that already had a bouquet of roses in it. Matthew felt nervous and a little stupid. He hadn’t even thought about bringing flowers.
Amy looked beautiful. Older, and draped in a theatrical, fringed scarf that looked great on her. They’d gotten there a little late, though. The show was starting so quickly, Amy could only wave in surprise before they went in to get their seats.
They were in the fifth row, across the aisle and behind the cutout space where Amy parked her scooter. Before her play started, he spent almost as much time watching her face as he did watching the actors. He had no idea what she was thinking or if she was happy that he came.
Amy’s play was the second to last one. It was called Alone Together, and was about a boy with agoraphobia, and his friend—a wildly dressed, bubbly, sort of hyperactive girl—trying to convince him to go out to dinner with her. For a while, it was funny. He kept saying, “No, thank you, I’d prefer not to,” and she kept calling him Bartleby the Scrivener, a story he read over the summer at Amy’s recommendation. Apparently the whole audience had read it as well, because everyone around him laughed at the joke.
Matthew felt self-conscious sitting there next to Nicole. He dreaded where the scene was headed—the boy hasn’t walked outside in six months; the girl keeps trying to talk him into doing it. There was even a doorway built into the set that the girl kept pointing to. “Let’s just try it,” she says. “Let’s walk into the hallway.”
Of course it made Matthew nervous. Everyone watching a jokey version of his own terrible struggles a year ago. That panic attack in yearbook. And later at prom. Then it was interesting—the actor didn’t play the panicky part. He didn’t sweat or shake. He simply sat on the sofa and refused to move. “I’m not ready,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I am.”
The more the girl pleaded, the more she seemed like the crazy one.
“This is my life, not yours,” he said. “I’m allowed to make the choices I want to make.”
She stood in the hallway and pleaded. She dangled money and food. She promised him all sorts of favors and rewards if he’d walk outside with her and eat dinner in a restaurant.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’d prefer to stay here.”
Finally she got mad and stormed out. She cried in the hallway and screamed at him for almost four solid minutes. By that point, Matthew had to admit it was an effective piece of theater: watching the actor register the drama taking place offstage. A slow smile spread over his face, as if he knew what was coming: finally the screaming stopped and the girl came back in, carrying a bag of food. “Move over,” she said, sitting down on the sofa beside him. Then—this was the part he liked best—they moved on to other topics. She had a story to tell him; he had one to tell her.
It was about acceptance, he thought. About realizing no one is perfect and no one can expect to change someone else. Which was a nice message, but also—he had to admit—sort of a confusing one. Did she really think he hadn’t changed at all? What about everything that happened in the hospital? This was a play about friends, and hadn’t they been more than that?
After it was over, Matthew waited in a small line in front of Amy’s scooter. “It was a great play, Aim,” he said when it was finally his turn to talk to her. He hugged her, though it meant bending over, which was awkward.
“NOT REALLY.”
“It was. It reminded me a little bit of that book I read you.”
“JUNIE MOON? REALLY?”
“You know. Oddballs finding each other.”
“IT’S A THEME I ENJOY.”
“You do it well.” He smiled and then looked away. There was more to say, but he didn’t want to do it here. Other people were lining up behind him. “I can’t believe you wrote this thing and took three classes. How did you sleep?”
She made a funny gesture with her hand, something he’d never seen before. He realized she was telling him to lean closer so she could say something softly. “I GOT TERRIBLE GRADES THIS TERM. DON’T TELL MY PARENTS.”
He laughed because he knew: terrible for her probably meant Bs.
“MOSTLY I JUST WROTE THIS THING. THAT’S ALL I’VE DONE THIS YEAR.”
He looked at her. “Not all.” He wanted to ask if she kept Taylor’s picture next to her bed the way he did. The latest one had a big, toothless smile. She looked so happy it was hard not to smile when he saw it.
“NO. YOU’RE RIGHT. NOT ALL.”
He couldn’t say Taylor’s name here. It might make one or both of them cry, and he didn’t want that. “Are you thinking about coming home this summer?” He tried to make it sound like a casual question, even if it wasn’t. “You know, just for a visit.”
“YES. I’LL BE HOME FOR THE WHOLE SUMMER. I HAVE ANOTHER PLAY I WANT TO WORK ON.”
“That’s great, Aim.” He was happy to hear this, but he was also aware of the line forming behind him. “I should probably go. I’ll talk to you maybe, when you get home.” He held up a hand in one of his horribly awkward windshield-wiper waves. He felt like a cartoon character miming, See ya!
Then she did something else he’d never seen before: her bad hand shot out and caught his shirt. “WAIT,” she typed. She kept holding his shirt. “JUST WAIT.”
She couldn’t let him just leave. Not after four months of waiting.
She nodded to the people standing around him. With one hand still clinging to his shirt, she typed, “WILL YOU EXCUSE ME? I NEED TO TALK TO MY FRIEND.”
He blushed, but it worked. The other people walked away.
She steered her scooter over to a corner of the greenroom with an empty chair that Matthew could sit in. “I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE COMING. I HAVE THINGS I WANT TO SAY BUT THEY’RE NOT TYPED IN—”
“I know. I’m sorry. Your mom wanted to make it a surprise. Which sort of surprised me, obviously.” While she typed, he kept talking. “We drove up together and I have to say, it wasn’t as bad as
I thought it would be. Only about a six on a scale of ten for uncomfortable. Maybe a seven in the middle there . . .”
Amy stopped typing for a moment and pressed Play. “BEFORE I LEFT THE HOSPITAL, YOU WERE RIGHT WHEN YOU SAID I HAD TAYLOR AS A WAY TO PROVE SOMETHING TO MY MOM. BUT I ALSO WANTED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING. I WAS TRYING TO SAY IT ALL YEAR.”
“What?”
“THAT I LOVE YOU.”
He smiled. And then he looked away and laughed. “You got pregnant with someone else’s child as a way to tell me you loved me?”
“IT WAS BYZANTINE, I’LL ADMIT. NOT THE CLEAREST WAY TO DELIVER MY MESSAGE.”
“Maybe not.”
“BEING FRIENDS WITH YOU MADE ME FEEL LIKE I COULD DO MORE THAN I EVER REALIZED.” Did he understand what she was saying? She was typing as fast as possible, but the room was crowded and this was hard. “I NEED TO BE HERE FOR SCHOOL, BUT I KNOW I’LL NEVER LOVE ANYONE ELSE THE WAY I LOVE YOU.”
For a long time he didn’t say anything. He still smiled a little, like he didn’t mind hearing this, so she kept going:
“I DON’T THINK I’LL EVER TRY TO DATE. I DON’T SEE THE POINT.”
“Well, I’m trying it,” he said, and then laughed a little. But this obviously wasn’t funny.
She hadn’t expected this. “YOU’RE DATING SOMEONE?”
“A little,” he said, and drew a deep breath. “And there isn’t really much of a point. What I’ve learned is that I have certain qualities that are annoying to other people.”
She typed without looking away from him. “SO DO I.”
“Like, really annoying. I had a soda thrown at me.”
“OH, MATTHEW.”
“I know, right? One time she told me I wasn’t over you or something like that.”
“WHAT DO YOU THINK SHE MEANT BY THAT?”
“That I wasn’t over you, I guess. Or that maybe I loved you, I don’t know.”
He was really smiling now. They both looked away. It was too much to look at each other, with everything they were saying.
He took her good hand and squeezed it, then bent down so his mouth was close to her ear. “You’re going to be a great playwright someday,” he whispered. “You’re going to think of all the right things to say.” He had her hand so she couldn’t say anything back. She turned so her cheek touched his lips. They stayed like that. Him breathing next to her cheek, pressing his nose to her hair. She felt his touch all through her body.
“Let’s have a nice summer,” he whispered. “Let’s start with that.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAMMIE MCGOVERN is the author of the adult novels Neighborhood Watch, Eye Contact, and The Art of Seeing. This is her first book for young adults. Cammie is also one of the founders of Whole Children, a resource center that runs after-school classes and programs for children with special needs. She lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, with her husband and three children.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
SAY WHAT YOU WILL. Copyright © 2014 by Cammie McGovern
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
[tk]
Library of Congress catalog card number:
ISBN 978-0-06-227110-5 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © October 2013 ISBN 9780062271105
14 15 16 17 18 XXXXXX 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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