Lauren Oliver - Delirium (31 page)

"Where do you think you're going?" she says sharply. I can tell she's still angry that I was arguing with her earlier--angry, and probably offended. She no doubt thinks I should be turning cartwheels because I've finally been paired. She has a right to think it--a few months ago, I would have been turning cartwheels.

I turn my eyes to the ground, attempting to sound as sweet and meek as possible. "I just thought I'd take a walk before Brian comes." I try to conjure up a blush. "I'm kind of nervous."

"You've been spending enough time out of the house as it is," Carol snaps back. "And you'll only get sweaty and dirty again. If you want something to do, you can help me organize the linen closet."

There's no way I can disobey my aunt, so I follow her back upstairs and sit on the floor as she passes ratty towel after ratty towel down to me, and I inspect them for holes and stains and damage, fold and refold, count napkins. I'm so angry and frustrated I'm shaking. Alex won't know what has happened to me. He'll worry. Or even worse, he'll think I'm deliberately avoiding him. Maybe he'll think going to the Wilds freaked me out.

It frightens me, how violent I'm feeling--crazy, almost, and capable of anything. I want to climb up the walls, burn down the house, something. Several times I have the fantasy of taking one of Carol's stupid dish towels and strangling her with it. This is what all the textbooks and The Book of Shhh and parents and teachers have always warned me about. I don't know whether they're right or whether Alex is. I don't know whether these feelings--this thing growing inside of me--is something horrible and sick or the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Either way, I can't stop it. I've lost control. And the truly sick thing is that despite everything, I'm glad.

At twelve thirty Carol moves me downstairs to the living room, which I can tell has been straightened and cleaned. My uncle's shipping orders, which are usually scattered everywhere, have been stacked in a neat pile, and none of the old schoolbooks and broken toys that usually litter the floor are visible. She plops me down on a sofa and begins messing with my hair. I feel like a prize pig, but I know better than to say anything about it. If I do everything she tells me--if everything goes smoothly--maybe I'll still have time to go to 37 Brooks once Brian leaves.

"There," Carol says, stepping away and squinting at me critically. "That's as good as it's going to get."

I bite my lip and turn away. I don't want her to notice, but her words have sent a sharp pain through me. Amazingly, I'd actually forgotten that I'm supposed to be plain. I'm so used to Alex telling me I'm beautiful. I'm so used to feeling beautiful around him. A hollow opens up in my chest. This is what life will be like without him: Everything will become ordinary again. I'll become ordinary again.

At a few minutes after one I hear the front gate squeak open and footsteps on the path. I've been so focused on Alex I haven't had time to get nervous about Brian Scharff's arrival. But now I have the wild urge to make a run for the back door, or hurtle through the open window. Thinking about what Carol would do if I went belly flopping through the screen brings on an uncontrollable fit of giggling.

"Lena," she hisses at me, just as Brian and his mother start knocking on the front door. "Control yourself."

Why? I'm tempted to fire back. It's not like he can do anything about it, even if he hates me. He's stuck with me and I'm stuck with him. We're stuck.

That's what growing up is all about, I guess.

In my imagination Brian Scharff was tall and fat, a hulking figure. In reality he's only a few inches taller than I am--which is impressively short, for a guy--and so thin I'm worried about breaking his wrist bone when we shake. His palms are damp with sweat, and he barely squeezes my hand. It feels like holding on to a damp tissue. Afterward, when we all take our seats, I surreptitiously wipe my hands against my pants.

"Thank you for coming," Carol says, and there's a long, awkward pause. In the silence I can hear Brian wheezing through his nose. It sounds like there's a dying animal trapped in his nasal canal.

I must be staring, because Mrs. Scharff explains, "Brian has asthma."

"Oh," I say.

"The allergies make it worse."

"Um . . . what is he allergic to?" I ask, because she seems to be expecting it.

"Dust," she says emphatically, like she's been waiting to break out that word since she sailed through the door. She looks witheringly around the room--which is not dusty--and Carol blushes. "And pollen. Cats and dogs, of course, and peanuts, seafood, wheat, dairy, and garlic."

"I didn't know you could be allergic to garlic," I say. I can't help it: It just pops out.

"His face puffs up like an accordion." Mrs. Scharff turns a disdainful eye toward me, as though I'm somehow responsible for this fact.

"Oh," I say again, and then another uncomfortable silence descends on us. Brian doesn't say anything, but he wheezes louder than ever.

This time Carol comes to the rescue. "Lena," she says, "perhaps Brian and Mrs. Scharff would like some water."

I've never been so grateful for an excuse to leave a room in my life. I jump out of my seat, nearly taking down a lamp with my knee by accident. "Of course. I'll get it."

"Make sure it's filtered," Mrs. Scharff calls after me, as I tear out of the room. "And not too much ice."

In the kitchen I take my time filling up the glasses--from the tap, obviously--and letting the cold air from the freezer blast my face. From the living room I can hear the low murmur of conversation, but I can't make out who is speaking or what is being said. Maybe Mrs. Scharff decided to reprise her list of Brian's allergies.

I know I have to go back into the living room eventually, but my feet just won't move toward the hallway. When I finally force them into action, they feel like they've been transformed into lead; still, they carry me far too quickly toward the living room. I keep seeing an endless series of bland days, days the color of pale yellow and white pills, days that have the same bitter aftertaste as medicine. Mornings and evenings filled with a quietly whirring humidifier, with Brian's steady wheezing breath, with the drip, drip, drip from a leaking faucet.

There's no stopping it. The hallway doesn't last forever, and I step into the living room just in time to hear Brian say, "She's not as pretty as in the pictures."

Brian and his mom have their backs to me, but Carol's mouth falls open when she sees me standing there, and both of the Scharffs whip around to face me. At least they have the grace to look embarrassed. He drops his eyes quickly, and she flushes.

I've never felt so ashamed or exposed. This is worse, even, than standing in the translucent hospital gown at the evaluations, under the glare of the fluorescent lights. My hands are trembling so badly the water jumps over the lip of the glasses.

"Here's your water." I don't know where I find the strength to come around the sofa and place the glasses down on the coffee table. "Not too much ice."

"Lena--" My aunt starts to say something, but I inter-rupt her.

"I'm sorry." Miraculously, I even manage a smile. I can only hold it for a fraction of a second, though. My jaw is trembling too, and I know that at any moment I might cry. "I'm not feeling very well. I think I might step outside for a bit."

I don't wait to be given permission. I turn around and rush the front door. As I push out into the sun I hear Carol apologizing for me.

"The procedure is still several weeks away," she's saying. "So you'll have to forgive her for being so sensitive. I'm sure it will all work out. . . ."

The tears come hot and fast as soon as I'm outside. The world begins to melt, colors and shapes bleeding together. The day is perfectly still. The sun has just inched past the middle of the sky, a flat white disk, like a circle of heated metal. A red balloon is caught in a tree. It must have been there for a while. It is going limp, bobbing listlessly, half-deflated, at the end of its string.

I don't know how I'll face Brian when I have to go back inside. I don't know how I'll face him ever. A thousand awful things race through my mind, insults I'd like to hurl at him. At least I don't look like a tapeworm, or, Has it ever occurred to you that you're allergic to life?

But I know I won't--can't--say any of those things. Besides, the problem isn't really that he wheezes, or is allergic to everything. The problem isn't even that he doesn't think I'm pretty.

The problem is that he isn't Alex.

Behind me the door squeaks open. Brian says, "Lena?"

I mash my palms against my cheeks quickly, wiping away the tears. The absolute last thing in the world I want is for Brian to know that his stupid comment has upset me. "I'm fine," I call back, without turning, since I'm sure I look like a mess. "I'll come inside in a second."

He must be stupid or stubborn, because he doesn't leave me alone. Instead he closes the door behind him and comes down off the front stoop. I hear him wheezing a few feet behind me.

"Your mom said it was okay if I came out with you," he says.

"She's not my mom," I correct him quickly. I don't know why it seems so important to say. I used to like it when people confused Carol for my mom. It meant they didn't know the real story. Then again, I used to like a lot of things that seem ridiculous now.

"Oh, right." Brian must know something about my real mom. It's on the record he would have seen. "Sorry. I forgot."

Of course you did, I think, but don't say anything. At least the fact that he's hovering over me has made me too angry to be sad anymore. The tears have stopped. I cross my arms and wait for him to take the hint--or get tired of staring at my back--and go inside. But the steady wheezing continues.

I've known him less than half an hour, and already I could kill him. Finally I get tired of standing there in silence, so I turn around and brush past him quickly.

"Feeling much better now," I say. I don't look at him as I start toward the house. "We should go in."

"Wait, Lena." He reaches out and grabs my wrist. I guess grabs isn't really the right word. More like wipes sweat on. But I stop anyway, though I still can't bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead I keep my eyes locked on the front door, noticing for the first time that the screen has three large holes in it, near the upper right corner. No wonder the house has been full of insects this summer. Grace found a ladybug in our bedroom the other day. She brought it to me, cupped in her tiny palm. I helped her carry it downstairs and release it outside.

I feel an overwhelming rush of sadness, unrelated to Alex or Brian or any of that. I'm just struck with a sense of time passing so quickly, rushing forward. One day I'll wake up and my whole life will be behind me, and it will seem to have gone as quickly as a dream.

"I didn't mean for you to hear what I said before," he says. I wonder if his mom made him say this. The words seem to require a tremendous effort on his part. "It was rude."

As if I haven't already been completely humiliated--now he has to apologize for calling me ugly. My cheeks feel like they're going to melt off, they're so hot.

"Don't worry about it," I say, trying to extricate my wrist from his hand. Surprisingly, he won't let me go --even though technically he shouldn't be touching me at all.

"What I meant was--" His mouth works up and down for a second. He won't meet my eyes. He keeps scanning the street behind me, his eyes darting back and forth, like a cat watching a bird. "What I meant was, you looked happier in the pictures."

This is a surprise, and for a second I can't think of a response. "I don't seem happy now?" I splutter out, and then feel even more embarrassed. It's so weird to be having this conversation with a stranger, knowing he won't be a stranger for very much longer.

But he doesn't seem freaked out by the question. He just shakes his head. "I know you aren't," he says. He drops my wrist, but I don't feel as desperate to go inside anymore. He's still staring off at the street behind me, and I sneak a closer look at his face. I guess he could be kind of good-looking. Not nearly so gorgeous as Alex, obviously--he's super pale and slightly feminine-looking, with a full, round mouth and a small, tapered nose--but his eyes are a clear, pale blue, like a morning sky, and he has a nice strong jawline. And now I start to feel guilty. He must know I'm unhappy because I've been paired with him. It's not his fault I've changed--seen the light or contracted the deliria, depending on who you ask. Maybe both.

"I'm sorry," I say. "It's not you. I'm just--I'm just scared about the procedure, that's all." I think of how many nights I used to fantasize about stretching out on the operating table, waiting for the anesthesia to turn the world to fog, waiting to wake up renewed. Now I'll be waking up to a world without Alex: I'll be waking up into the fog, everything gray and blurry and unrecognizable.

Brian is looking at me, finally, with an expression I can't identify at first. Then I realize: pity. He feels sorry for me. He starts speaking all in a rush. "Listen, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but before my procedure I was like you." His eyes click back to the street. The wheezing has stopped. He speaks clearly, but low, so Carol and his mom can't hear through the open window. "I didn't--I wasn't ready." He licks his lips, drops his voice to a whisper. "There was a girl I used to see sometimes at the park. She babysat for her cousins, used to bring them to the playground there. I was captain of the fencing team in high school--that's where we practiced."

You would be captain of the frigging fencing team, I think. But I don't say this out loud; I can tell he's trying to be nice.

"Anyway, we used to talk sometimes. Nothing happened," he qualifies quickly. "Just a few conversations, here and there. She had a pretty smile. And I felt . . ." He trails off.

Wonder and fear sweep through me. He's trying to tell me that we're alike. He somehow knows about Alex--not about Alex specifically, but about someone. "Wait a second." My mind is churning. "Are you trying to say that before the procedure you were . . . you got sick?"