Probably pretty selfish not to think of it the way Jules did, but I was practically a professional victim, and I didn’t need everyone in the world to know that it had happened again.
I can’t. It was the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me. I was half-naked and totally helpless. If I tell, I’ll have to keep thinking about it. I just want to forget about it. Promise me you won’t say a word to anyone, no matter what.
I promise. I think you’re crazy, but I promise.
Thanks, Jules. I’ll be fine. I just need to be more careful about wandering around in the dark.
Don’t you dare blame yourself for what happened, Sasha. If you do, then I’ll definitely tell. You’re fragile enough as it is—more guilt isn’t what you need.
Fine. No guilt.
So, is he nice?
Beyond sweet. Told me I’m beautiful. I blushed thinking about the naked part.
:) You are. So did he ask you out? Now Jules was sounding like Charlotte.
No. You think he might? It would have been weird if he had, after what happened.
Boys don’t talk about looks unless they mean it. He must like you, or at least your boobs.
Funny. Cross your fingers for me.
My whole body’s crossed.
Thank goodness you gave me that book. I might actually need it!
Trust me, Sash, you will.
Ben’s appearance in my life was like a sudden onset of turbulence, and all my baggage was spilling out of my overhead compartments, no matter how hard I tried to slam them shut. The more I tried to shove my private thoughts to the back of my mind, where I hoped they might be hidden from his telepathic brain, the more intrusive those thoughts became, probably reaching Ben’s supernatural ears as if I were shouting at him. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on other things, every time I closed my eyes I saw Ben standing in my kitchen without his shirt, smiling that dangerous smile. My hormones, which had apparently been hibernating, had suddenly woken up. And like a bear after a long winter, I was hungry.
I fell asleep wondering who else knew about Ben’s special powers. Was I the only person outside his family who knew, or was the inner circle much larger? Why did he tell me? He could have rescued me without disclosing his unusual talent. Maybe he thought I was special in some way, or maybe he thought a mute, social outcast would be the perfect person to keep his secret.
Instead of the usual nightly rerun of my personal catastrophe playing out behind my eyelids, I was bombarded with a spate of new images. Someone kept changing the channels. First I was wandering through an enormous hotel, ankle deep in water, barefoot, looking for a way out. Strange and vaguely disturbing, but a walk in the park compared to my usual nighttime viewing. Then I was in a dark, primeval forest, tree limbs reaching down to grab me, and I was dressed like a Disney princess, a cross between Snow White and Cinderella, meandering in circles, searching for a path to lead me out of the woods. It switched to a school, not mine, but larger, like a college campus, and I was wandering, desperately late for an exam in a class I’d never attended on a subject I knew nothing about.
When I woke up in the morning I wrote down everything I could remember—Dr. O’Rourke said that was key to analyzing one’s dreams. She was right. When I looked at my notes, I realized that the common thread was the fact that I was lost. I didn’t need Sigmund Freud to help me figure that out. I was lost—now if only I could start dreaming about how to find myself.
Chapter 6
Jules ran up to me as I stood at my locker. “Did you hear what happened?”
As I’d just arrived at school, and any number of things could have happened, I simply shook my head and widened my eyes. Jules leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Those creeps who jumped you in the park, all four of them, are in the hospital.”
I tilted my head to the side and made a beckoning motion with my hand. A great opening, but not enough information.
“Apparently someone put something toxic in their jock straps, and their junk swelled up to, like, four times normal size. At the hospital, the doctors thought they might have to amputate, but they’re better today, although I heard they won’t be able to have sex for a year.” By now Jules was laughing so hard I could barely understand what she was saying.
Head-tilting and blinking proving to be insufficient linguistic substitutes, I pulled out my robot ventriloquist machine. “DO THEY KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?”
“Nobody knows. They think it was some kind of prank, but because the locker room guy had already put their stuff through the laundry, the police have nothing to go on. Any evidence there may have been got washed away. It’s a total mystery.”
“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.”
“No worries about those assholes bothering you any time in the near future. That’s good news.”
I nodded. “KARMA’S A BITCH.”
“Definitely.” The first bell of the day rang. “I’ll see you at lunch. I wonder if your statue boy has heard about this. Pretty funny stuff.”
For someone who was so smart—Jules was taking AP calculus and AP French—she wasn’t too swift. It hadn’t even occurred to her that my savior was apparently also a vigilante. I needed to find him to see if it was really true or just some perfect, heaven-sent coincidence. The latter was unlikely, as no one but Ben and Jules knew about my run-in with the offensive line, and lucky coincidences were not my strong suit.
All day long, the engorgement of the four varsity athletes was the major topic of discussion in the hallways, the cafeteria, and, of course, the locker room. Everyone was grateful that the football season had already ended, so that the misfortune that had befallen these poor boys at least had no impact on Shoreland High’s winning season. But lacrosse season was looming, and a prospective repeat state championship was at stake. It was a potentially disastrous situation.
Before the last bell, Principal Carson made an announcement over the intercom. “As I’m sure all of you have heard by now, several of our students were gravely injured as the result of a cruel and shocking practical joke. While I do not believe that any of our fine Shoreland students could be responsible for such a dangerous and devastating assault, I do hope that if anyone has any information that might lead to the apprehension of those responsible, that person would come forward. Someone has committed a heinous act against four innocent young men, and it is my earnest desire that such person or persons be brought to justice. Thank you, and good afternoon.”
If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I wouldn’t have believed it. Four innocent young men, my ass. What was it that made some people think that athletic ability was synonymous with an elevated moral character? Even the principal seemed to believe that because these animals helped win football games they were automatically decent, honorable people, in spite of their regular appearances in detention. It made me want to tell everyone what they had tried to do to me the week before, but that could only get Ben and me into trouble. I had to hand it to Nunchuck Boy, he had it all covered—policeman, judge, jury, and executioner—all in one dreamy package … assuming that he was the one who had done the deed.
Ben was waiting for me on the front steps of the library after school. “Well? How’d I do?”
I can’t believe you did that. What if you got caught?
I was starting to crush on him, and it wouldn’t be good if he got arrested less than a week after we met. My make-believe love life would end before it had even begun. Could he have conjugal visits in prison even if we weren’t married? Could I really fall in love with a possible lunatic who was into street justice?
He shook his head and laughed. “I know what everybody’s thinking, remember? I had to do something. You’re the one who refused to go to the police—you left me no choice.” He took my backpack, opened the door to the library, and motioned me in ahead of him.
So it’s my fault you went all Rambo on those morons? I didn’t ask you to retaliate on my behalf.
“Don’t feel guilty. It’s not
your fault.”
It sure felt like it was my fault. I didn’t want or expect you to do anything, least of all take the law into your own hands. They almost had to have their things cut off.
No matter how much I despised them and what they had done to me, I couldn’t imagine hurting them back. I didn’t have the stomach for revenge, I guess.
“So what if they did. Then they wouldn’t be able to put them where they don’t belong. Logical consequences. You shouldn’t take your hammer out of your toolbox unless someone asks you to nail something. It’s simple.” For him, the matter had been resolved, justice had been done, and my honor had been salvaged.
Eww. Hanging a picture will never be quite the same for me. Thank you for that. What did you use, anyway? Are they really going to be okay?
What if Ben had caused permanent damage? What if they were sterile? Although they were prime physical specimens, they weren’t too bright, so it was unlikely that any great advances in the world of science would be jeopardized if those goons couldn’t father children, but still …
Ben stroked his chin. “It’s an old family recipe—also makes a kickass chili. I think they should make a full recovery, although I’ve never used the stuff on people before, only ground beef.”
You sound completely insane.
“If it makes you feel any better, it’s totally organic, with no preservatives.”
This was one big joke to him, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if he was just trying to protect me, or if I was on the verge of getting involved with a sociopath. No, it couldn’t be—he was too kind, and too handsome for that—and my four bullies were only being temporarily sidelined, just long enough to hopefully learn their lesson.
Remind me not to get on your bad side … or eat your chili.
We had been sitting on my sofa in the library sunroom for several minutes already when Ben jumped up. “Is it okay that I sit here with you? I don’t want to invade your space or anything.” He smirked at me.
Anyone who attempts chemical castration on my behalf is welcome to sit wherever he wants.
This couldn’t be happening. I was joking around with the guy of my dreams, and I wasn’t the least bit nervous. My only concern was that Ben was hearing everything I thought about him, not just what I wanted him to know, but there was no way around that. It was like the bathroom door of my mind was always open.
Chapter 7
A month had passed since Dr. O’Rourke had told me that I was a do-it-yourself project. Now I was checking in. I think she wanted to make sure that I hadn’t come unglued, or more unglued, after stopping years of regular therapy. Ironically, for the first time in forever I was feeling slightly more connected, and all because of some stranger who should be wearing a turban and massaging a crystal ball at a carnival sideshow.
“So tell me more about this young man you met. What have you told him about your situation?”
Our hour, or more precisely, our fifty minutes, had only just begun, and Dr. O. was diving right into the deep end of the pool. My smorgasbord of recent issues would more than fill our session. But I had already decided that she didn’t need to know everything about Ben. If I told her he was a mind reader, she would never believe me anyway—she would just call my aunt, prescribe some heavy-duty antipsychotics, or maybe even shock therapy, and increase the frequency of my appointments. If I told her that I had met him when he rescued me from a scrimmage with the Shoreland High School offensive line, she would insist on telling the police—assuming she didn’t think I was simply delusional, which she might—especially if I paired that story with the mind reader information. And finally, she didn’t need to know that Ben had moved into my old house. She and Charlotte had decided early on that my psyche was too fragile to deal with memories of the old homestead, and I didn’t want her to stop me from exploring my past by playing with my old toys or digging through the junk in my old basement, if at some point I decided to do so.
“I MET BEN AT THE LIBRARY. HE JUST MOVED TO TOWN AND SEEMS REALLY NICE. I TOLD HIM ABOUT THE ACCIDENT AND THAT I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH. IT DOESN’T SEEM TO BOTHER HIM THAT I CAN’T COMMUNICATE LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE. IN FACT, HE HANDLES IT SO WELL THAT WE DON’T EVEN NOTICE THAT I CAN’T TALK MOST OF THE TIME.” Well, that was absolutely true.
Dr. O. was scribbling furiously in her notebook. Perhaps the good doctor could provide some advice on guys, since thus far she hadn’t been useful for much else. Mute and motherless, I was ill equipped to navigate the murky waters of boy-girl relationships, but it had never mattered before Ben plopped down on my sofa. A product of parochial schools and repressive parents, my mom had never gotten around to demystifying the male gender before she died. And while I loved Charlotte to pieces, she was kind of a geek, and I couldn’t imagine her instructing me on the finer points of getting to know a boy. Her courtship with Stuart had involved lots of chess matches and museum lectures, and what I needed to know was how to flirt without looking like an idiot and what to do with a guy in the back seat of a car, assuming I was ever lucky enough to land there. Jules’s Monday-morning reports of her Saturday night adventures were always interesting, but her suggestions all involved me actually talking to a boy—not helpful. My birthday book was good, but it didn’t explain the part that came before actual penetration, the getting-to-know-one-another messing around and the emotional stuff that went with all the groping. Thanks to Dr. Reuben, I was an expert on dozens of exotic sexual positions, but I wanted to know how to have a relationship, how the falling in love thing happened.
“That’s excellent news, Sasha. He sounds like a very special young man.” She didn’t know the half of it. “By turning outward and developing new connections, you can begin to engage in life. Maybe your level of comfort with this boy is indicative of your readiness to make a recovery. What do you think?”
Dr. O. looked at me encouragingly, as if she could will me into mental health with her bright-eyed enthusiasm. Sometimes I wondered about the doctor’s qualifications, in spite of her incredible reputation. Really, if it were that simple, I wouldn’t still be sitting here, the impression of my ass permanently imprinted in her camelback leather sofa.
“MAYBE. I HOPE SO. CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING ELSE?” She nodded again, her pen poised. I rarely asked her any questions, and she was clearly pleased with my newfound interest in therapy. It must have been a nice change from my usual pouting passivity. “WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM MY LIFE BEFORE? I HAVE VAGUE FLASHES, BUT IT’S ALMOST LIKE I’M REMEMBERING SCENES FROM A MOVIE. AND WHEN I TRY TO FORCE MYSELF TO GO BACK, I GET A HEADACHE. WILL I HAVE TO GET MY MEMORIES BACK IF I WANT TO GET MY VOICE BACK?”
Since meeting Ben, I had become much more interested in getting to know myself, with the hope that I might become better girlfriend material, if by some remote chance he wanted to be more than my comic book superhero. And although I was still reluctant to rifle through my emotional closet for fear of what I might find there, I was at least a little bit curious about who I’d been before my world came crashing down. It was hard to imagine that Ben would stick around for very long unless I got my act together. He wasn’t the kind of guy who had to settle for a fixer-upper.
“With you, Sasha, I’m afraid that speaking in terms of what has worked for other patients doesn’t apply. For many people, remembering the events that led up to the traumatic episode triggers a flood of memories, and once the patient remembers, she can address the issues that have caused the particular psychic trauma, and the symptoms of the trauma—in your case, muteness—disappear. It’s hard to say, as hysterical mutism is a very rare condition, and when it does occur, it doesn’t usually last very long. Many people experience tragedies, but very few people lose their ability to speak as a result. Four years of silence is practically unheard of.”
“SO I’M CRAZY AND WEIRD. IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE SAYING?”
“Not at all, Sasha. It’s just that your reaction to the accident reflects the unique characteristics of your brain. While memory recove
ry may be the most common way to bring everything to the surface, I can’t say that it’s the only way. If you’re unable to remember, perhaps you should try looking at this as an opportunity to start over. I firmly believe that you can speak again, even if your amnesia is never cured. You will simply travel a different road, but what difference does it make, as long as it gets you where you want to go?”
“SO TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE?”
“I know that sounds like something out of a drug rehab brochure, but at this point, I honestly feel you are, in a way, addicted to your silence. You use it to hide out from the world, to avoid dealing with problems and people. That’s exactly what substance abusers do.” Dr. O. put down her pen and paper and leaned forward, seemingly intrigued by her new theory. “Even though terrible things sometimes happen, the world is not such a terrible place. You’re strong enough to handle anything that life throws at you, Sasha. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I had actually been feeling pretty good when I arrived, but now I was a junkie. Silence was my heroin.
“THAT SOUNDS BAD.”
“Don’t be upset. It’s actually good news. Once you’re willing to acknowledge that you’re an addict, you’re well on your way to recovery.”
I didn’t know quite how to take this revelation. Was Dr. O. going to send me to a twelve-step program to trade sad stories with fellow addicts in a church basement? I’d do it. Thoughts of Ben’s arms wrapped around me for reasons other than protecting me from bad guys made me eager to try just about anything.
She glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid our time is up. Check back in a month, but feel free to call if you need me sooner. I think you’re doing very well on your own, Sasha. And be good to this boy—he sounds like a keeper.”
“I’LL DO MY BEST. BUT WE’RE JUST FRIENDS.”
“That’s how the best relationships begin, as friendships.”
Louder Than Words Page 6