Tone Deaf

by Olivia Rivers

  “He hit you,” I murmur.

  She shakes her head. “Not at first. I think he always resented having to take care of me, but for a long time, the worst thing he did was ignore me.”

  Her expression hardens, and she brushes away a tear. “And he was even good to me in some ways. My school district put me in lessons to learn to read lips and sign, and he was supportive of that. He even learned some signing himself. But he pretty much just avoided me most of the time, and I was happy like that.”

  “But you’re not happy now,” I sign. She hesitates, and I add, “Don’t try to tell me that’s how it ended, Ali. People don’t run away just because their parents ignore them.”

  She sniffs a little and signs, “When I was about thirteen, he starting getting really angry and drinking a ton. I’d always hear him lecturing the younger cops in his department about getting counseling if they developed PTSD. But I guess he couldn’t take his own advice. He’s a mean drunk, and . . .”

  Ali takes a deep breath and looks away from me. I can tell she’s trying to be calm about this, but little tremors keep running through her hands, and her lips purse tightly. “That’s when he started hitting me.” She glances at me hesitantly, her cheeks flushing with shame as she blurts out loud, “He never . . . you know. He just struck me—a few punches and that sort of thing.”

  “Just punches?” I repeat. “Ali, there’s no such thing as ‘just punches,’” I sign. “They’re punches. Period. They’re abuse. They never, ever should have happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her eyes focusing on the floor again.

  I tap her chin, tilting it up so she looks at me. She breathes in sharply and jerks back from my touch, but her attention is on my hands.

  “Don’t apologize,” I sign. “Do you understand? You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing. I don’t care what you think you did, it’s not your fault. No one deserves to be treated like that, no matter what. Got it?”

  She gulps hard and nods. I sigh and lean back a little, giving her a bit more space as I desperately try to sort out everything she’s telling me. “I’m still confused though,” I insist. “What mental health issues were they talking about?”

  Her hands start signing again, but now they’re a little slower, a little more hesitant. “At first, I didn’t want to tell anyone. My dad helped a lot of people during his career, and everybody thought he was a hero. Then his PTSD started getting totally out of control. He’d have a flashback, and it’d leave him so angry, he’d just lash out at whoever was nearest. Which was usually me.

  “That was when I tried reporting him. But right before then, one of my teachers insisted I start seeing the school counselor. She meant well, she was just worried since I wasn’t talking much and my grades were slipping. But my dad used the mandated counseling to his advantage. He said it was obvious I had emotional issues and was just crying out for attention, and that all my claims about his abuse were lies.”

  I stare at her hard. “And Child Protective Services bought that?”

  She nods tightly. “My dad had worked with CPS probably hundreds of times during his career. They had no idea about his PTSD or his drinking, and they all thought he was a great guy. Plus, all my relatives backed him and told CPS he’d never hurt me. So of course they believed him.”

  I let out a small groan and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to hold back the headache creeping up on me. Either Ali is a pathological liar, and a damn good one, or she’s actually telling the truth.

  “I still don’t get how you got diagnosed as crazy,” I sign. “Crying out for attention and crazy aren’t the same thing.”

  Her hands freeze and she glares at the ground, like everything is the floor’s fault. Then she signs, “I kept trying to report him, but CPS was totally convinced I was just some needy kid. My relatives all said I was fine, and my teachers said they didn’t see any signs of abuse. I guess no one wanted to get in a fight with someone like my dad. So by the time he started hitting me hard enough to leave bruises, CPS thought I was doing it to myself. I got diagnosed with some self-harm disorder, and from then on, no one would listen to me.”

  Her eyes cast down in shame and her shoulders sag, and right then, I know she’s telling the truth. She doesn’t expect me to believe her, just like no one believed her before.

  Just like no one ever believed me.

  I stroke my thumb gently over her cheek, brushing away a tear. I hate seeing those tears there, knowing I caused them, knowing she’s in pain. Whatever happened to me being her rescuer?

  She looks up at me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. Ali shakes her head, jerking away from me, and stands on unsteady legs. She grabs her duffle bag, which still sits in the corner of the bathroom, and then edges past me, careful not to make contact.

  A sharp pang hits my chest, and it just gets worse as she starts toward the door. I reach out and take her hand, careful to make my grasp gentle. It still makes Ali flinch, but at least she doesn’t bolt. Instead, she freezes in the doorway and glances over her shoulder at me.

  I release her hand and sign, “Where are you going?”

  “Away. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “No.”

  She ignores me and walks out of the bathroom. I curse and jump up from my crouched position, ignoring the pain that flares up as I move too quickly. Right as Ali grabs the knob of the main RV door, I slide in front of her, blocking her way out.

  Her suspicion nosedives back into fear, and she retreats a few steps. My instincts scream at me to back off, to give her some room and calm her down. But I can’t make myself move. She’s obviously planning on marching right out of here, and it’s going to get her caught. And if she’s taken back to her dad . . .

  No. That won’t happen, because I won’t let it.

  “Don’t go,” I sign.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” She makes an angry gesture toward me. “I’m not going to stay with anyone who doesn’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” I quickly sign. “And I want to help you.”

  Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “I’m getting really tired of you saying that and not explaining why.”

  I rake a hand through my hair as I struggle to come up with an answer. Why should I care about Ali? Logically, it doesn’t make sense. She’s just one of thousands of girls who want something from me.

  But I guess it’s the way she asks for what she wants. So tentatively, so hesitantly, like she’s betraying herself by asking someone else for help. She’s determined to get by with only herself, and that makes her so strong, it’s both beautiful and sad.

  “It’s late,” I sign slowly. “And we’re in the middle of the desert. It’s not safe for you to go.”

  Damn it. Why can’t I just speak my mind around her? I usually say whatever the hell I want, not worrying about consequences before I blurt out what’s on my mind. But with Ali . . . I don’t want to hurt her. And I don’t want to give her any fuel to hurt me.

  She takes a step forward, her hands trembling as she balls them at her sides. “I want to know why, Jace,” she signs, her fists unclenching just long enough to form the words. “Why do you want to help me? And don’t you dare give me some Good Samaritan bullshit. You don’t just do people favors, and we both know it. So why are you doing one for me?”

  “Because I want to,” I reply, my voice much closer to a growl than I’d like.

  Ali shakes her head disgustedly. “You won’t even talk about how you learned ASL. How do you expect me to trust you when you keep hiding stuff from me?”

  I don’t offer a response to that—as much as her suspicion hurts, it’s still not enough to make me want to talk about my Deaf parents. Ali grits her teeth in frustration when I don’t reply and reaches for the door handle again.

  “I want to help because I understand you.”

  “You don’t know me, Jace,” she says, and her spoken words are sharp and filled with scorn.

  “Maybe not, but I know the p
ain. I’ve been there before.”

  She actually laughs at that, but it’s a ruined sort of laugh that screams of brokenness and loneliness. “You know pain? What’s that supposed to mean? Did your parents forget to buy you a Lamborghini for your sweet sixteen?”

  I flinch and look over my shoulder, pretending to study the wall behind me. It’s a weak cover for the truth: I don’t want her to see my expression. Because right now, I’m hurting, and I’m not the type to hurt. I don’t care enough about anyone to let simple words cause me pain.

  And now I’m angry, too. It’s infuriating that people think I was born into this life, that I didn’t work for it, that I’m not capable of controlling my own future.

  I take a shuddering breath, trying to calm my bewildered and shaky nerves, but my skin feels like it’s on fire, and I think I might put a hole through the wall. I clench my fist, letting my fingernails dig into my skin, and resist the urge to destroy something. That would terrify Ali, not to mention break all my promises to her.

  I can’t lose it, or I’ll lose her.

  I slowly unclench my fist, one finger at a time, and turn back to her. She’s still glaring at me.

  Before I can think better, I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and quickly shrug it off. “Look,” I say, pointing to my chest. I tap the long, jagged scar that runs from my right shoulder down to my left ribs. “You see this? This was my dad’s parting gift when he kicked me out for forming a band.”

  A shudder quakes my skin as the memory comes hurtling back. My yelling, my dad’s furious signing, and then me trying to storm out the door.

  Sometimes, I try to tell myself he didn’t mean to injure me so badly. I have no idea if that’s true, but believing that makes it easier to deal with. My dad was high out of his mind, and he grabbed the first thing he could find to hit me with—an empty beer bottle. The first blow I dodged, and half the bottle shattered on the door. I didn’t get so lucky with the second blow. It hit me right in the chest, and the broken glass sliced through my skin like butter.

  My dad got five years in prison, and I finally got my freedom. Supposedly. When the memories come rushing back at me like this, it makes me wonder if I’ll ever actually be free of his hold over me.

  I wait for Ali to give one of the usual reactions to my scar: wincing, or gasping, or even turning away. But all she does is slowly shake her head, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Like she doesn’t want to believe it.

  She takes a hesitant step forward, and another. I’ve had girls show worry when they see my scar, but it’s always been fleeting. Ali is the first to stare at me with this sort of concern—the kind that not only cares, but knows. It’s a haunting expression, and I want to look away.

  Ali brushes her fingertips along the very top of the scar, where it marks my shoulder. Her fingers are smooth and gentle, and as she touches me, heat spreads out across my skin. It reminds me that I can still feel, and that as much as I regret it sometimes, I’m still alive.

  Her touch is feather-light and slow, but she never breaks contact from my skin. It’s like she knows that if she does, this weird trance we’re both in will end.

  My muscles tense and itch with the urge to pull away, but I make myself stay still. When she reaches the base of my ribs, where the scar ends, she hesitantly retracts her hand and stares down at her fingers. She rubs the tips of them together, the movement slow and thoughtful, and then looks back at me.

  She shakes her head again, and I cringe, knowing I’ve made a mistake. She probably thinks I’m trying to one-up her, like my abuse is somehow worse than hers. But, before I can apologize, Ali leaps forward and throws her slim arms around my neck.

  I’m too shocked to react. I just stand there as she squeezes me into a hug, her cheek resting against my chest, right where the scar slashes over my heart.

  She’s short. The thought drifts through my mind as I struggle to find an appropriate reaction to her hug, other than jerking away. I’d almost forgotten how tiny she is. She’s so strong, so brave, it’s easy to forget she’s hardly five feet tall.

  I finally get my arms to work and wrap them around her shoulders. For once, she doesn’t flinch, and just lets me press her closer.

  “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles into my chest.

  I rest my cheek on top of her head and breathe in. Her hair smells like a sweet blend of plums and honeysuckle, and I gently smooth the locks that fall over her shoulder.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I finally whisper back. I know she can’t see my lips, but I’m not ready to let go of her.

  We stand there for a long moment, just holding each other, until Ali slowly pulls away and offers me a shy smile. For the first time since I’ve met her, her smile seems completely sincere, without any wariness or suspicion weighing it down. As soon as I see that, I know I did the right thing showing her my scar. As painful as it is to bring up my past, it’s worth it to see the trust in Ali’s expression.

  “Thank you,” she signs.

  I smile back a little and sign, “Don’t thank me yet. We still haven’t gotten to New York.”

  I hold my breath, half expecting her to resist my words and say she’s not coming with me anymore. She shakes her head, and my stomach drops.

  Then she signs, “No, I mean thank you for believing me.”

  She hesitantly looks down at her arms and rubs them, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing I am: did we really just hold each other like that? I’ve done more than holding girls—a hell of a lot more. But, somehow, that felt almost more intimate.

  Before either of us can freak out, I gently take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers and pressing our palms together. Her hand feels so tiny and delicate in mine, but it’s warm, and her grasp is surprisingly strong. I gently tug her toward the bedroom at the back of the RV.

  “Come on,” I say. “You should get to sleep.”

  She freezes for a single moment and then yanks away from me, her expression suspicious. I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “I’m not going in there with you,” I sign. “I’ll sleep out on the couch. You take the bed tonight.”

  She purses her lips. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive.” I nod toward the bedroom. “I’m going to go get Cuddles out, and then you can crash in there. Okay?”

  I reluctantly let my hand slip away from hers, glad that she wasn’t the one to pull away first, and retreat to my bedroom. Cuddles is waiting just inside the door. My dog cocks her head to the side and stares up with a highly perplexed look, like she can’t imagine what could possibly be important enough to keep me distracted from her. I kneel beside Cuddles and wrap an arm around her thick shoulders. She wiggles her stump of a tail, happily accepting the hug as she tries to lick my face.

  By the time I have Cuddles fed and put away in the bathroom, Ali is already fast asleep on the couch. I consider waking her up, so she can move to my bedroom, but decide it’s not worth disturbing her. As she sleeps, Ali’s expression is troubled, but it’s not at all fearful. I think this is the first time I’ve seen her like that, and I’m not going to mess it up.

  I grab a few blankets and lay them over her, careful not to wake her.

  “Sleep tight,” I murmur as I retreat to my room.

  18

  ALI

  WHEN I WAKE up, my muscles are so tense they hurt, and my throat is strained from screaming. Something slams repeatedly against my chest, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s my frantic heartbeat. It’s not a fist, like it was in my nightmare.

  Arms wrap around my shoulders, and I open my mouth to scream again. But before I can make any sound, a hand gently cups my face and tilts my chin up. I find myself staring into blue eyes, their color clear and sharp like gemstones. Despite their boldness, there’s something soft about them, gentle.

  “You’re okay,” Jace says, his other hand stroking my cheek. His fingers are calloused from all the years he’s spent playing the guitar. “You’re okay
,” he repeats, and then he says it again and again and again. I watch his lips closely, not wanting to tear my eyes away from the words.

  I can tell from his nervous expression that he doesn’t know what else to say, but I don’t want him to say anything else. I just want him to be here.

  Jace swallows hard and finally stops repeating the words. His gaze drifts away from my eyes, focusing instead on the place where his hand touches my cheek. He pulls away and stands from where he was crouched beside me. Then he runs both hands through his hair, making it stick out at all sorts of angles.

  He stares at me. Hard.

  My face heats up as I realize how pathetic I must look. I’m seventeen, way too old to be screaming from a nightmare, and definitely too old to need any kind of comfort. I’ve dealt with these bad dreams on my own for years, and I’ve never run to anyone for reassurance. So why should that change now?

  Because he ran to me. The answer is so simple, but it still makes the air whoosh out of my lungs. I didn’t go to him; Jace came to me.

  He stands there, still unsure what to do, and then edges toward me without meeting my eyes. He sits on the couch next to me and takes my trembling hand in his own. My entire body shakes, like it’s trying to dislodge the last remnants of the nightmare. I remember my dad coming closer, his fist clenched, his expression stormy, his footsteps—

  Jace nudges my shoulder, jarring me from the memory and making me gasp. He pulls me close to his chest, and the moment his arms wrap around me, panic sears through my veins. I shove at him, yanking out of his embrace.

  Jace frowns, his eyebrows furrowing into an expression that’s both confused and rejected. He leans away and signs, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I can’t breathe, and my lungs burn with a mix of relief and gratefulness and painful uncertainty. Before I can stop myself, I throw my arms around him and press my face against his chest.

  He doesn’t react, and I tense, but just as I’m about to pull away, he slowly wraps his arms around my waist and starts rubbing the small of my back. I smile shakily as I realize this is the second time in just a few hours that we’ve ended up like this. But it’s not like I’m going to complain. His touch is light and soothing, like he’s trying to brush away the fear leftover from my nightmare.