11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Matt
Music isn’t something I ever really thought about in captivity.
Not the kind of music that people would listen to on the radio, at least. I didn’t think about the pop songs the DJ played at our school dances.
The closest I got was when I thought about mamá singing canciones de cunas to me, her slightly off-key voice telling tales of little white doves or five little wolves.
I tried not to think about that often, though. It hurt.
It hurt so much.
There were songs that would play at the compound, or during parties I was brought to, but they were just background noise.
There was music the night I - the night Master Mica - he - the night he - he -
There was music that night, but I don’t remember it. I wasn’t listening.
Ace clearly likes music. All kinds, it seems. Well, nearly all kinds. He doesn’t like disco - except for ABBA, which I don’t have strong feelings about either way - or country - except for the bluesy stuff, whatever that means.
There are a lot of songs that I don’t recognize, some of them slow ones that wind around the air until softly coming to an end, others that pop and bloom and bounce, even ones that are growly and angry and just shy of harsh on the ears.
I like a lot of them. Some I could live without.
None of them are bad enough to throw anything at him, though.
I wonder if he made that offer because Dr. Singh made it to him once.
Does he have to see him like everyone else?
I know Nolan has been worried because Maison has been refusing to get help from either doctor here, and Casey once mentioned that Jake was in Dr. Singh’s office but grumpy about it.
I don’t know why Maison gets away with no therapy while Jake was forced to, or if maybe Nolan or Casey - or both of them - got it wrong.
Ace did mention when he showed me to the office that time with the apple that he didn’t want to have to talk to Dr. Singh, but that didn’t mean never.
Then again, maybe Dr. Singh didn’t teach Ace about the throwing thing. Maybe Ace is who taught Dr. Singh.
The thought makes me smile, which is weird. The idea of a grown man throwing things shouldn’t be amusing. It should be terrifying. It should feel angry and aggressive and dangerous.
Except, nothing about Ace is angry or aggressive or dangerous. Nothing about him is terrifying. How could there be when he’s currently singing along to a song by a 90’s boy band, the words muffled by the string of licorice hanging out of his mouth?
If there’s anything wrong with him, it’s that he’s tired.
He’s good at hiding it. He’s probably had a lot of practice.
Once you get a certain level of tired, though, there isn’t a way to hide it any longer.
It’s like the exhaustion gets inside of your bones and festers.
It shows in a person’s eyes. In their shoulders. In their breathing.
His big smiles and little wrinkles around his eyes and high energy all help mask it, but not enough.
If I hadn’t already thought so before, watching him as each song passes would have confirmed it.
The more he gets distracted, the more he sinks into his chair.
His blinks sometimes get slow and heavy, his head a little wobbly on his neck, before he’ll double click on a different song with higher energy and bob his head to the beat until he’s seemed to shake a little bit of energy into himself.
On top of all of that, his snack stash is nearly all sugar, his mini-fridge is filled with energy drinks, and his coffee thermos is big.
I find myself wondering a lot about him, especially during the quiet songs when everything in him calms and the mask slips a little more.
Have I ever seen someone else in here, covering the computer and watching the video feeds?
Do the other operatives come and relieve him so he can rest?
Or is the work not critical enough to have to be watched at all times?
But if that’s the case, why does he spend so much time in here, clearly exhausted but pushing through it?
Is it him hiding in his own way? Is it because he has a hard time sleeping?
Does he have bad dreams? Does he have things that play along his eyelids every time he closes his eyes, things he’d rather make himself sick with exhaustion to avoid having to see?
The thought comes that he might have the same weight on his shoulders as Travis or Jake.
Was Ace someone else’s undercover operative at some point? Did he have to do things? Did he stand by a slave while they suffocated at their feet?
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but my gut tells me he’s not like the others. Not in that way, at least.
As I watch him from my hiding spot, I take it all in - his little dances, the way his face pinches when he concentrates, the ridiculously high register his voice can reach if he gets into a song enough.
I soak up his joy, his sunshine brightness, the warmth that’s wrapped itself around me.
He feels too safe to be like Travis and Jake.
If I’m wrong, I don’t want to know. I never want to know.
Maybe even more than that, though?
I hope whatever he has going on, whatever is wrong or making him tired, that he ends up okay. He deserves that. Even if only because of how okay - how safe - he’s managed to make me feel, he deserves that.
That same deservingness is why I force my brain out of the happy fog the music and safety had coaxed it into, at least long enough to write a shaky, THANK YOU on a page in my notebook. I tear it out carefully, quietly, and fold it until it fits neatly in the palm of my hand.
I hold it for a while, careful not to wrinkle it or let it get sweaty. The good feelings of being here are making it harder to fight my exhaustion, but it’s so nice, too nice to leave. At least until my eyes can’t stay open any longer and I feel my head bobbing just like Ace’s.
When I jerk awake at the opening chords of a song I don’t recognize, I decide it’s time to head to my room for some sleep. It’s for the best, even if the urge to never leave this spot ever again is begging me to stay.
I wait until he’s leaning forward, his face doing that funny little pinched thing again as he concentrates hard on something on his screen.
Then I carefully slip out of my spot, move across the couch, and head toward the door.
I sneak the note onto the corner edge of his desk as I pass it.
He doesn’t look my way, either not noticing me or not wanting to draw attention to me.
Either way, it means I escape without the need for explanation or a goodbye.
Nolan is half-awake when I sneak into the bedroom. He lifts his head off the pillow like it weighs a ton and asks, “Where were you? Was worried.”
It’s too dark to really answer him, even if I wanted to.
I don’t think I want to.
It’s not that I don’t trust Nolan or anything, but the idea of sharing my hiding place with anyone but Ace feels wrong. It makes me feel a little panicky, actually. The more people that know about it, the less safe it is, right? It’s nothing against Nolan. It’s just logic.
To make up for how guilty I feel about the secret anyway I dump my notebook and pen on my bed before climbing in beside Nolan with my bunny tucked to my chest. He wraps his arms around me and sighs.
It sounds sleepy, but also maybe relieved.
I try not to feel too guilty about the idea of him having been worrying about me.
He had been asleep when I first left to go to Ace’s office, but maybe I should have left a note anyway?
Except leaving a note would mean I would need to explain where I was, which just brings me right back to the whole issue of wanting my hiding spot to be a secret.
I just mirror him, wrapping my arms around his back and holding him close, and give him a little squeeze. He relaxes at that. I relax too.
I fall asleep wondering if Ace is going to get any sleep of his own tonight.
I hope he does.