“It doesn’t matter,” Jace signs. “We’re talking about you, not me.”
I shake my head. “No, we’re not.”
He laughs a little. Although, by the way his chest moves, I guess it’s more of a hesitant chuckle than that scathing laugh from before.
“You’re too stubborn for your own good.”
“I’ll be the judge of what’s good for me and what’s not.”
He gestures to my bruised face again. “That doesn’t seem to be working out too well for you.”
Tears press at my eyes, threatening to break free, to spill down my cheeks and wash away the makeup, to give everything away. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a shuddering breath, trying to keep them at bay. Think of something happy, I tell myself. Puppies, or kittens, or ponies.
But when I think of those things, all I can picture are those ASPCA commercials that make Avery tear up every time they come on. I rub my hand over my eyes and feel moisture. Great. Just great.
Suddenly, there’s a strange warmth on my swollen cheek, but it’s not rough or angry. I open my eyes to find Jace standing close, his lips pursed in concern. He brushes away another tear with his thumb.
That’s all it takes for me to start crying. Not the uncontrollable sobbing I was expecting, but something even worse. The tears are silent and hot as they stream down my face, and my chest doesn’t heave, even though I can feel my heart pounding away. It’s the type of crying that gives everything away: the kind that whispers I’m used to pain, to keeping it in, to never letting it out.
Jace pulls me into his arms, shocking me so much that I forget to resist. He wraps his arms around me awkwardly. For a moment, I’m ready to jerk away from him, but then I feel something drip onto my forehead. I look up and find him determinedly avoiding my gaze, his eyes strangely red and puffy as they stare at something in the distance.
We just stay there, me trapped in his arms, but not really trapped. It dawns on me that this is the first time in years that I’ve come in contact with a guy without feeling at all threatened. His arms are strong—but it’s the kind of strength that keeps things standing, instead of tearing them down.
After what feels like a long time, Jace gently pulls away. But he keeps his hands on my arms as I shift away.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“You’re already helping,” I mumble. Then I take a step back, breaking his grasp as I realize I still have no idea what’s triggering this sudden kindness. I swallow hard and revert back to sign language. I’m still half expecting him to not know ASL, like maybe what just happened was a dream or hallucination. “I’m going to use that check to get out of here. I’m going to buy a car and escape.”
He frowns and signs, “Who’s coming with you?”
So he really does know ASL. Weird. No, bizarre is more like it. “No one’s coming with me,” I reply slowly. “I don’t need anybody.”
“Well, where are you going? Do you have family to take you in?”
“No. But I’m going to New York City.”
His frown grows into a grimace. “What? Why the hell would you go there?”
I flinch at his words, and he seems to realize he’s being too harsh. He smiles thinly as he signs, “It’s not safe to be wandering around New York alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He scoffs. “Just like your face is fine?”
His mocking words are like another punch, and I stumble back, hitting the side of the trailer. Why did I ever think his concern was sincere? I almost laugh at my stupidity.
I turn on my heel and walk away. I’m getting out of here, with or without the money. I need to get away from Jace, from this bizarre conversation, from this city, from my dad.
Then a strong hand grips my elbow. Strong, but still not rough. In fact, Jace is surprisingly gentle as he stops me and turns me to face him. His hand is warm against my skin, maybe even a little comforting.
He lets go of me and signs, “Wait. I want to help.”
I swallow hard, trying to steel myself for the truth. “No, you don’t.”
He rubs his face and lets out a long breath. “Look, Alison—”
“A-l-i,” I correct, finger-spelling it for him.
He signs back, “Fine, A-l-i. You need to know that I’m really terrible with words. Actually, unless it’s lyrics, I’m just plain shitty at using language.”
I keep my expression stony and uncaring. I’m done listening to him. Done with him, period.
He holds up his hands, as if in surrender. He keeps them there for a long moment before dropping them to sign, “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry for what I said. For everything.”
The way he locks eyes with me as he signs this makes me suspect he’s being sincere. Is that even possible? I don’t think jerks like him are capable of saying anything outside of the bullshit spectrum.
But my bullshit-o-meter isn’t going off. And, for someone who gets by with constant lies, I’m great at detecting when people aren’t telling the truth.
“I’m sorry. For everything.” As if he’s not just apologizing for his actions, but for everyone’s.
I sniff back more tears and hesitantly sign, “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay. It’s never okay for someone to beat you up. You don’t deserve that. Do you hear me? It’s not okay.”
His signing grows more and more frantic. When he finally stops, his hands are shaking, and he’s breathing hard.
I stare at my feet.
Jace holds out his hand for me to take. “Let me help. Please. I want to do more than just give you money.”
I cross my arms and look away from the temptation of his outstretched hand. “What, are you afraid to part with eight grand?”
“I’ll give you any amount you need, if that’s really what you want from me.”
I scoff. “And what if I ask for your entire bank account?”
“You won’t.”
I hesitantly meet his eyes. They’re still sincere, surprising me almost as much as the look on his face: concern. And not the fleeting type of concern most people have shown when they ask about my bruises. This is real, genuine concern that feels like it could last forever.
Or at least until the problem is solved.
Jace’s smile slowly wilts into a frown, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’ve just been staring at him for like a minute. I shake my head, trying to get a handle on my confusing thoughts, and sign, “I don’t have a single reason to trust you.”
He reaches his hand toward mine, until our fingertips almost touch. “Then let me give you one.” He swallows hard, and then starts speaking so fast, I can barely read his lips. “Our tour ends in New York City. Come with me. The band, I mean. It’ll make traveling a lot safer, if you’re with us. And I can help find you someplace safe to stay, once we get there.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it. My dad’s a retired police chief, and I’m a minor. As soon as I start running, he’s going to hunt me down, and he’ll have an entire police force to help.”
Jace frowns. “You’re what, seventeen?”
“Yeah.”
“They won’t chase too hard after a seventeen-year-old. You’re too close to being an adult.”
I look up at the sky, wondering how much to tell him. “My dad . . . he’s relentless.”
Jace simply shrugs. “So am I.”
“You don’t get it. He’ll—”
“He’ll have my best lawyers after his ass if he even tries to come after you,” Jace interrupts. His expression turns fierce, the harsh angles of his face reminding me of a hawk. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
“I thought you said promises didn’t mean anything to you,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
He frowns, as if he isn’t used to being challenged like this. Tough luck; I’m not going along with anything until I know his motives. “Well, this is different,” he says.
“How?”
“Because I’m
the one making the promise. And I always tell the truth.”
I scoff. “The truth? You’re a celebrity. People like you live off of lies.”
His expression darkens. “I’m a musician, not a celebrity, and anyone who says differently can go to hell.”
I stumble back a step. I don’t like these mood swings the dude keeps having. It’s like he has two people stuck in him— angry Jace and nice Jace. And I’m not sure which one I’m scared of more—the side trying to shove me away, or the one begging me to do something utterly stupid.
“Come with me,” Jace says again, interrupting my thoughts. “Please. I can help.”
“But . . . my dad is going to try to find me. The police will be after me. And you’re nineteen. You could be accused of kidnapping.”
“Are you hearing me, Ali? I don’t give a shit. We’ll hide you, keep you out of sight. No one will ever know you’re with the band.” He signs, “When’s your birthday?”
“In four months.”
“Perfect. Our tour lasts four months. By the time we make it to New York, you’ll be eighteen, and you won’t have to worry about anything.”
His words strike me one by one. I won’t have to worry about anything. I’ll be free, away from my dad, out of his hold.
Jace offers me a small smile. It’s the sincere sort of expression he showed me when he was up onstage, and it makes me want to believe that he’ll really help, that everything will be okay.
“You’ll really do this for me?” I ask.
“Anything to get you safe, A-l-i,” he signs, and then reaches out his hand again for me to take.
A thousand doubts run through my head as I stare at his outstretched hand. My heart pounds frantically, and I swear I can hear it begging me to accept his offer.
“No,” I say, signing it and saying it out loud. Then I shake my head to make sure he gets the point. “I can’t go.”
I don’t know him and don’t trust him. I’d be an idiot to run away with him. And I may be helpless, but I sure as hell am not an idiot.
Jace’s expression falls faster than I thought possible. He blinks a couple times, and his mouth opens and closes. He’s clearly not used to hearing “no” from anyone.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He shakes his head and takes a step away from me. “Here,” he says, pulling a check out of his pocket. “Your money. At least take this.” He shoves it into my hand, and then he’s gone, striding back toward his RV before I have a chance to say anything more.
10
ALI
I FLOP DOWN on my bed with a groan, and even though my room is too warm, I can’t stop shivering. What the hell did I just do? Running away with Jace might have been my only chance at escape. For years, I’ve been telling myself that as soon as I turn eighteen, I’ll be free. But I know it likely won’t work out that easily. Getting away is going to take more than a few hundred dollars and determination. I need resources—the sort of resources Jace has to offer. The sort I just turned down.
I press my palm against my forehead, trying to push away the confused thoughts rattling around in my skull. I swear I can feel the check for eight grand burning against my skin, even though it’s tucked safely in my jean pocket.
I did the right thing. Period. I have to believe that. Even if Jace made me the exact same offer again, I still wouldn’t accept.
Although I have a feeling it will be awhile before another rock star asks me to run away with him.
Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe I just avoided disaster. But, then again, maybe . . . maybe I was right about what I saw in Jace’s eyes. Real, genuine concern. I’ve never had anyone look at me like that, not even Avery. I know my best friend cares, but whenever she sees my bruises, there’s always a bit of confusion mixed with her horror. It’s like the violence is so terrible, she can’t even comprehend it.
There was no confusion in Jace’s expression. Just a gut-wrenching seriousness that makes me suspect his concern for me was real.
I jump off my bed and head for the small desk in the corner of my room. My ancient computer sits there, patiently waiting to be used, and I switch it on. Pressing my palm against the console, I focus on the small shudders that run through the computer, letting the familiar vibrations soothe my anxiety.
I adore this computer. Sure, it’s old and finicky, but it has all my website coding programs on it. Coding is just like music—math and art twining together to make something new and beautiful. It’s been my hobby ever since I took a computer science course my freshman year, and I’ve actually gotten good at it. Or at least good enough to share my designs with others. A lot of up-and-coming bands need websites to showcase their music, but most can’t afford the expensive fees for a professional site design. That’s where I step in. Whenever I see an especially promising band mentioned on the DeafClan forum, I’ll reach out and offer to design a website for them.
It’s not like I have any professional training, so my designs are far from top quality, but they’re good enough to help beginning artists get more exposure for their work. And, someday, I’ll learn how to make those sleek, gorgeous designs that professional bands use for their sites. Someday soon, hopefully. If I can just get into a good college, I might be able to learn enough to make coding into a career.
As soon as my desktop screen pops up, I click open Google Chrome and search Tone Deaf band criminal activity. It’s a bit on the nose, but I want proof that I was right to distrust Jace. He’s bound to have some sort of criminal record, right? It seems like all famous musicians do.
A bunch of search results pop up—everything from parents saying Jace should be sued for his provocative lyrics, to someone claiming Killer is an illegal immigrant. But there’s no reliable source that proves Jace—or anyone in the band—is actually a criminal.
One link reads “Criminal Lyrics,” and I recall Avery mentioning a debate in the Tone Deaf fandom about what the lyrics of this song mean. “Criminal” was one of Tone Deaf’s first hits, but even after the song topped charts for weeks on end, Jace never bothered to give his fans an explanation for it. I click on the link, cringing as it brings up a Tone Deaf fandom website that’s a mash of bright green graphics, blue fonts, and a misspelled header. The entire thing is an insult to web designers everywhere, but I ignore my urge to exit straight out of the site.
The blog post contains the lyrics for “Criminal,” but they’re written in neon-green font that’s nearly impossible to read. I squint and tilt my screen a little, and the lyrics become legible:
Am I better off living through death,
Or dying an invisible ghost?
Am I better off speaking in silence,
Or screaming so loud no one will hear?
I fake a smile,
But it’s killed by you,
I fake a soul,
But that dies, too.
So I fake my life,
What else can I do?
Take me in, spit me out,
And I scream and scream and scream and shout,
But you can’t hear my pain,
My blood’s nothing but a worthless stain.
I fake a smile,
But it’s killed by you,
I fake a soul,
But that dies, too.
So I fake my life,
What else can I do?
And if one day I wake up gone,
Maybe people will see through,
But until then the lies will rule.
And sometimes I think I’m better off dead,
But then I realize I already am.
I’m trembling again by the time I finish reading, my eyes lingering on the last lines. I swallow hard. This shouldn’t be getting to me, right? Lyricists are just fiction writers.
Or maybe they’re not. I think back to the pain in Jace’s expression as he frantically pleaded for me to come with him. He knows. He knows more than the facts, more than the situation. He knows me.
A vibration runs through the wood
of my desk, making me jump. I glance down and find my cell phone sitting next to the keyboard. The cracked screen reads: 7 New Messages.
I groan, knowing they’re from Avery. I probably should have checked my messages sooner, but I was in such a daze when I left the stadium, I didn’t even notice my phone go off.
I take a steadying breath and scroll through her messages.
hey, you wanna see a movie 2nite?
???
don’t see ur light on. u home?
where r u?
ali???
r u ok???
I groan and hide my face in my hands. Why didn’t I tell her where I was going this evening? I never should have lied and made her worry. In the morning, I’ll apologize and tell her everything, and she can reassure me that I was right to reject Jace’s offer.
I realize there’s still one new message that’s unopened. I click back to my inbox, and my breath catches as I recognize Jace’s number.
Come with me. Please. You can still change your mind.
I feel the vibration of footsteps run through the floor, and I quickly shut down my phone. If my dad found out I’d been texting Jace, if he knew I’d even considered running away . . . that would be bad. Really, really freaking bad.
I want to hide the phone somewhere, but it would look too suspicious, so I calmly place it on my desk and turn toward my doorway. My dad stands there with his eyes narrowed and his lips lifted in a sneer. He takes one, two, three footsteps, and he’s right in front of me.
I swallow hard, watching his fists uncertainly. One is clenched, like he’s ready to hit me, and the other holds a thick white envelope. My dad slams the envelope down on my keyboard. I stay quiet, knowing better than to protest.
“What the hell is this?” He’s talking fast, his sneer making it hard to read his lips. But he’s using a type of universal sign language that makes him easy enough to understand: his gritted jaw says he’s pissed; his narrowed eyes scream his anger; and his clumsy stance tells me he’s far too drunk to rein in his emotions.
I hesitantly glance away from him and look to the envelope. My heart leaps into my throat as I recognize the emblem in the corner: the word “GALLAUDET” under a slim, double arch. I’ve stared at that emblem so many thousands of times as I surfed the Internet and daydreamed about college.
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