A Girl Like Me

by Ginger Scott

  “He’s alive,” I say, my fists tighter in my pockets, my eyes unflinching on the drawing in front of me.

  Shawn is quiet for several seconds, and eventually I have to turn around. My craving to see him, to see his expression, is too strong. The smile is waiting for me, and his eyes lock onto mine the moment our gazes connect. His head tilts to one side and his lips raise the tiniest bit more.

  “Of course he is.” Shawn waits patiently for my next question, and I file through my options. I want to win this game. I need to come out of this with Wes. It’s not enough to just know that he’s safe. I need him—to be able to feel him, talk to him. I need the safety that comes with his arms around me. No matter how strong I am, I’m not strong enough.

  I begin to open my mouth to speak when Shawn starts in before me.

  “You were looking at that story. The one on the wall,” he says.

  I shake my head and pull my brow in tight in frustration.

  “Yeah, umm, I was, but…”

  “That one’s mine,” he says.

  I turn to look at it again, only glancing, then face him, folding my arms over my chest.

  “It’s nice. Where’s Wes?” I’m done solving riddles.

  “Look at it again,” he says, nodding to the wall behind me.

  I sigh heavily, stomping my feet to turn and face the framed book again.

  “The girl,” he says. My lips part and my pulse starts to race. “That’s you.”

  My breathing picks up, and I’m not able to speak quickly enough to keep Kyle in his seat. He’s next to me in a fraction of a second, not looking at the image I’m staring at, but looking at me.

  “Let’s go,” he whispers. I shake my head no, tiny movements, just for him.

  I reach up and put my hand on the button to open the case, glancing over my shoulder.

  “May I?” I ask, my fingers trembling along the glass covering.

  “You may,” Shawn says.

  I pull the book from the small clips holding it, but I keep my back to him, my reaction private as I look at the details of the drawing. The girl is maybe my age, perhaps a little older. She’s wearing a white dress with short sleeves, nothing I would normally wear, but her right leg is shaded differently, a curve rounded just below the knee. She has a prosthetic.

  “When did you draw this?” I ask.

  Shawn doesn’t answer, and the more time that passes, the harder the waves of nausea hit. My heart starts to flutter irregularly, and my hearing begins to fade in and out.

  “Joss, you’re pale,” Kyle says, sliding an arm around me, holding me up on my weakening legs. He steadies me and guides me back to the couch, brushing the loose hairs from my face and tucking them behind my ears. My eyes struggle to focus on him.

  “I’m going to get you more water,” he says, waiting until I offer a nod.

  Kyle takes the glass from the sofa arm and walks into the kitchen, filling it quickly and rushing back to my side. I take it in two shaking hands and gulp nearly two-thirds of it down. I’ve never been one to panic. I’m not panicked now. But I think I am a little bit scared.

  “I hadn’t seen you in years,” Shawn begins. I bring my eyes to his, forcing myself to look—to read him for signs, for any doubts or holes. “I’d gotten a call from Wes’s foster parents at the time that he was in the hospital, and things with him seemed strange.”

  “The Woodmansees,” I hum.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “How…strange?” My words are slow, careful. I’m not sure if any of this is a trick, where truth ends and fiction begins.

  “The doctors wanted to do some studies on him, because his brain was injured but not in the way it should have been. He had some short-term memory problems, but the place where he took the impact—from the accident…?”

  I nod slowly to him.

  “Wes should have had major loss of motor function. Instead, he barely had a bruise on his head.”

  I nod again. I knew this. Even without Wes telling me these details, I always knew. He wasn’t hurt when he should have been. He’s never been hurt from the traumatic things he’s been through physically. He isn’t strange, he’s…

  “That’s when I knew I had been right,” he says.

  “Right…” I echo, my mouth growing sour. I swallow, hoping to ease the tightness in my throat, but it doesn’t help.

  “I filed to take him back into my custody, to find him other arrangements, which is what the Woodmansees really wanted when they called. They didn’t want the responsibility. Wes lived with me for another short period—weeks, maybe a month. And that’s when I made that.” Shawn points to the book in my lap, and my eyes follow, looking back down at it.

  “You drew me with one leg,” I say.

  “I did,” he says. I look at him, the smile now gone. His eyes slanted, his fat cheeks drooping with the corners of his mouth. I hold his stare.

  “I knew your story the moment I held you in my arms, your tiny fingers wrapping around one of mine and your blue eyes open on the sky. I swore to your mom that day that I would always protect you. One look and I knew you would need to be saved. But I was weak—my body would not hold up to time. You would need a hero.”

  “Wesley,” I croak, looking back down at the art on the cover.

  “Yes,” Shawn says.

  I exhale heavily before looking Shawn in the eyes again. “Who is Wesley Stokes…really?”

  The smirk begins to snake its way back along his lips and a breathy chuckle falls from his mouth. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to come from his mouth in response.

  “You know exactly who he is, Josselyn,” he says, his brown, sunken eyes unrelenting with their hold on mine. I dare him back, holding the stare until I realize exactly what he’s saying without him finishing the word completely.

  “Super…”

  My head falls to the side and my mouth twists, one eye closing more than the other. I’m pretty sure Shawn is crazy. Not just wild with ideas, but legitimately and certifiable. Wes cannot stay here. I’m not sure how this book was made, or if he even drew it. Maybe it’s something he found that reminded him of me, or of Wes, but I’m done buying into this fantasy. I toss the book on the table and stand with Kyle by my side.

  At first Shawn’s eyes look pained, and his mouth opens, gasping that I’d actually doubt him, but within seconds, he starts to laugh.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that literally. He’s not really some caped savior,” Shawn says.

  I roll my eyes and laugh once, hard, as I walk across the room, getting myself closer to the door. Shawn turns, his gaze following me while I walk.

  “Those guys are all fictional, genius fantasies dreamed up by artists better than me long ago. There’s a difference. Wes…he’s real,” Shawn says, and I pause because as much as I had just convinced myself that this was all a delusion, there’s truth in what Shawn just said. Wes is real.

  “I want to see him,” I say, looking to the door, half expecting Wes to open it any moment.

  “I’m not so sure he’ll come home knowing that you’re here,” Shawn says.

  “Why?” I ask. “He misses me. He wants me to find him. He…he left me this.”

  I pull the photo I took of the peonies from my back pocket and hold it out flat in my palm. Shawn’s eyes narrow on it, and his mouth curves on one side, which makes my chest beat with hope.

  “Look, here,” I stammer, turning the photo in my palm to show him the words Wes wrote—a small note that promised he would be watching. Pushing the photo back in one pocket, I pull my phone from the other. I slide to my messages, to Wes’s number and the image he sent me of my photo and where to find it in the field. And then I unclick the case on my phone and pull out the delicate ticket I keep hidden behind my phone. That ticket, the same one I’d given Wes as a child, is what gave me faith in the first place and led me to meet Shawn at the Stokes house. It was the beginning of everything, the start of real hope.

  He takes my phone in his h
and, the same smirk on his face, only his lip twitches a little higher. I wonder if he’s proud Wes reached out to me, proud that his protégé doesn’t want to abandon the girl he’s supposed to save.

  “Why would he send me these messages? Why would he lead me here if he didn’t want to see me? Why wouldn’t he just come home?” My palm trembles as I take my phone back from Shawn. His eyes crinkle at the sides as he looks at me, his head cocked to one side.

  “Because he doesn’t want the story to end,” he says. I turn my head toward him, my chin falling to my chest. “My book. I wrote everything in there, and I haven’t been wrong yet.”

  My eyes narrow, and after a few seconds I look back to the book on the table, the image suddenly more vivid and familiar. It’s me—someone is hurting me. It’s a moment that I have not yet lived. The very idea that Shawn knows exactly what’s going to happen to me, though, is too impossible.

  I turn my focus back to Shawn.

  “I write my own story,” I bite. “And tell Wes that I’m not leaving until he talks to me. I’ll wait outside.”

  Kyle takes my hand as we leave, and I purposely slam the door closed behind us. I march to the truck, not letting go of my friend until I reach the handle of my door, and before I can push it down to open it, I fall apart.

  “I got you,” Kyle says, his arms quick to hold me, turning me to face him so I can bury my face in his chest.

  “I won’t leave until I see him, Kyle,” I say, my words a blubbering mess against my friend’s T-shirt. “That man…”

  I start to shake my head, and Kyle holds me tighter.

  “I know, Joss. This is fucked up. And I know. He’s just some crazy guy, who is messing with you…with Wes,” he says, his hand cupping my head to soothe me. I nod against him, agreeing.

  “Wes has to come home with us,” I say.

  “I know,” Kyle repeats. “He will. We’ll wait for him.”

  I suck in air hard and fast, holding my breath and forcing the tears to stop. I push my palms into my eyes and let the air fall from my lungs, a fast rush through my mouth and nose. Nodding to my friend, I pull the truck handle and open the door, climbing in while Kyle waits at my side, his eyes studying me for any sign that I might lose it again.

  “I’m good. I just needed to get that out. I’m…I’m good. Come sit with me,” I say.

  He stares into my eyes for a few seconds to read me, to make sure I’m being honest.

  “I swear,” I say, reaching up to press my hand flat on his chest.

  Kyle grabs it and squeezes it tight, nodding and backing away to close my door. I watch him walk around his truck, and I count in my head just as I would when I had to survive one of my father’s drunken rants. I wait for the calm to wash over me as Kyle climbs inside and turns the key enough to kick on the radio. I roll my window down and look out at the stars, drawing in a deep breath in search of a familiar scent—wishing we were in the flower fields instead of here.

  I wait to feel like I’m right, and Shawn is wrong.

  But I never do. Not completely.

  And that terrifies me, because…maybe I’m crazy, too.

  Four

  Kyle’s eyes aren’t closed, but they’re not fully open either. They haven’t been for the last hour. My eyelids are heavy, but I force them to stay open just enough that I can catch any sign of movement before or behind us.

  It will be morning soon. The sky is still dark, but the horizon has a glow that draws a fine line along it. The sun is coming, but Wes still isn’t here.

  “I’m sorry I made you do this,” I say, my throat sore from saying words and fighting fatigue.

  “You don’t make me do anything. You never have,” he says, forcing his eyes wide and wrapping his fingers around the steering wheel to stretch his arms. His mouth contorts with a heavy yawn, and he twists to face me, grinning through the end of it.

  “I make you do all kinds of stupid things,” I say, smiling as my head falls sideways into the fabric of the headrest.

  “Yeah…you do,” he says through crooked lips. I reach forward to punch him, but my tired arm only results in my fingertips slapping against his arm.

  “That was pathetic,” he teases.

  I laugh for a few seconds, but the giddiness quickly fades, and I end up staring at my friend in silence for nearly a minute. He lets me, looking back into my eyes. Somehow, we’re talking without words.

  “I love him…Wes…I…” I stop speaking, pulling my lips together tight. I know Kyle knows, but with these last few days, this trip and how close we’ve become—closer than we’ve ever been—I just need him to know my heart is still lost.

  “That’s not why I keep driving this truck, Joss,” Kyle says.

  A heavy breath falls from me, and Kyle reaches for my hand. I give it to him, watching as he turns it over and kisses my knuckles.

  “I didn’t do this in hopes that I could somehow win you over and take Wes’s place. I did this because you and me…we do these things for each other. No matter what.”

  Kyle’s eyes stay on mine, and I know by looking at him that what he said was true. He isn’t trying to make me feel better. Kyle is maybe the greatest friend to ever walk the earth. Somehow, I got lucky enough for him to be mine.

  “You think Wes can fly?” I ask.

  Kyle’s expression breaks, his mouth tugging high on one side as his chest jerks with a hard laugh.

  “Yeah, and he probably wears tights under everything. And I bet he came to this planet in a pod,” Kyle jokes.

  “Oh my god, I’m in love with a pod person!” My laughter grows to hysterics, and my side starts to ache with a cramp from laughing so hard.

  Kyle and I don’t stop for several minutes, throwing out ideas like laser vision, magnetic hands, stretchable skin, and invisibility. As much as each concept is making me laugh at the absurdity of it all, it also makes my stomach twist, because whatever this really is, it’s more fucked up than some superhero tale. I’m the key player in some man’s mind game. So is Wes.

  My mouth aches from laughing, and the curve starts to settle back into a frown. The world outside of Kyle’s truck is starting to glow, not golden, but blue—it’s that brief color that happens just before the sun crests. I watch as Kyle’s face illuminates with it. His smile is gone, too.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  “You sure?” my friend asks.

  I stare out at the open road that stretches and winds for miles in both directions. Nobody is coming. And I’m not going back into that trailer.

  I nod, and Kyle waits for a few seconds, giving me a chance to change my mind. He twists the key, and I sink into the seat, turning the air blower away from my face so I can fall asleep for the hour-long drive home. We make it a mile before I yell for him to stop.

  “Jesus Christ, Joss…one of these days you’re going to get us killed while I’m behind the wheel! What?”

  Kyle’s truck has barely finished skidding to a stop by the time I have my door open and I begin to run. I hardly hear him call after me as he climbs out from the driver’s seat. If I were looking, I never would have seen him. I’d given up. The universe didn’t want me to.

  Parked a mile away from us, probably waiting there for hours, Shawn’s van is shrouded by overgrown brush and a busted-up sign used to mark peak boating hours on the lake. To anyone else, it would look like an abandoned, beat-up vehicle left hidden to spare the world of how unsightly it is. But I know that van. And I know it still runs just fine.

  He doesn’t bother to turn the lights on, but I wish he did. If the lights of the van were blinding me, I wouldn’t see his face looking back at me through the glass, everything around us growing more golden by the second with the sun’s rise.

  I’ve been obsessed with the thought of finding him, with the idea that he’s alive and fine and surviving…somewhere. It is literally the only thing that made me fight so hard when I started rehab with Rebecca. Maybe it was seeing Shawn’s collection, hearing his theories�
�experiencing his delusion. Whatever it was, something snapped as the stars began to disappear, and now I’m angry. I’m angry because I need Wes—and he isn’t where he’s supposed to be. He led me here, gave me all of this…hope…and yet he’s hiding. Why would he hide?

  “You fucking coward!” I scream, picking up a heavy rock from the side of the road and throwing it at the van. I manage to dent the bumper, but I won’t be satisfied until I break glass, so I pick up another.

  “Stop it, Joss!” Kyle growls, grasping my elbow before I can send another stone at my so-called superhero.

  “He’s fucking right here, Kyle! He’s been here…right here!”

  My face is hot, and I’m panting. My knees feel shaky, and I grab my friend’s bicep, gripping it hard. My eyes are set on Wes, but my weight is held by Kyle.

  “He’s right here,” I quiver.

  Kyle doesn’t speak, but I can feel his arm muscles tense around me. If he were face to face with Wes right now, he’d hit him. I’d let him.

  “Why won’t you move?” I yell. Kyle’s hold on me loosens, and eventually his hand falls away as the blood rushing through my veins strengthens my body once again.

  I take a few careful steps forward, the ground uneven from large gouges left in the dirt road from trucks driving through when the earth was wet. The closer I get, the more defined he is. His eyes, blue as ever, don’t even blink. His chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm.

  He wanted me to find him.

  I move closer to the van, and I notice how hard he works not to look at my leg, so I stop near enough to see him—for him to hear every word—but far enough that he has to look at all of me.

  “Is it this?” I shout, my finger pointing down at my prosthetic that’s visible below my knee. I’ve gotten so used to it that I don’t even get self-conscious wearing shorts anymore. My legs have never been in better shape thanks to the workouts with Becca. I still fight through doubts, but I’m getting better at not setting limitations. I’m learning to prove people wrong.