Chapter Six
Six
PETER ROLLS HIS JETTA to a seamless stop in front of my house and reaches for his seatbelt.
“Oh no. No way,” I say. “You’re not coming in.”
“You think I’m about to drop you off, bleeding from the head, and peel out of here?” he says.
“No one said anything about ‘peeling out,’ Vin Diesel. Just, you know, nicely drive. Away.”
Peter unclips his seatbelt. “Not happening.”
We get out and walk up the steps to my porch and stand awkwardly at the front door, as if this is the end to the most fucked-up date in human history. “Okay. Well. Thanks for not letting me bleed out. See ya.”
“I’m not leaving until I see there’s someone inside who can take care of you,” Peter says. I open my mouth to argue but he cuts me off. “Head wound, Sydney. Head wound.”
“Fine,” I grumble. I’ll just let him see that Jules exists so he can relieve his conscience or whatever, and then I’ll go take care of this myself. Maybe I’ll take that nap after all. “Jules!” I yell upstairs.
She doesn’t answer.
“She’s probably just using her AirPods.” I take a step inside. “Anyway, bye.”
Peter doesn’t move. This guy’s either got a hero complex or a flesh wound fetish.
“I’m fine. Really. I’ll just—” But against my will, little stars prick at the edges of my vision and I start to sway like Uncle Ira at Passover after four glasses of Manischewitz. Damn it.
“Let me just get you into bed,” Peter says.
I try to scoff and make some crude joke, but my head is so messed up—my thoughts fizzing and sloshing around like a shaken can of LaCroix—that I find myself somehow agreeing to let Peter Beckett escort me upstairs.
His eyes sweep over my room, taking in my overflowing bookshelves and the poorly made origami birds littering my dresser. He tilts his head just slightly, and for a second I panic, thinking he’s going to reach out and touch one of my birds’ crooked beaks. But he keeps his hands to himself.
I sit down on the edge of my unmade bed, the walls still spinning around me.
He leans down, close enough that I can smell his mint citrus skin.
Of course he smells clean and fresh after a full day at school and a curbside rescue.
“I don’t think you’ll need stitches. We can probably just fix you up here. ”
“Do you even know what you’re doing, or are you just White Man-ing this?”
“I know what I’m doing,” he says. “Mostly. Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Probably next to our fire extinguisher and getaway car.”
“Great,” he says. “I can use the getaway car to drive you to the hospital.”
I try to roll my eyes but it hurts my head too much. “There are some Band-Aids and Neosporin in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom,” I say, resigning myself to my fate.
He nods like he’s about to embark on some great and noble quest and heads to the bathroom.
“Don’t try to pocket my opioids!” I yell after him.
I hear him rustling in the medicine cabinet and wonder if he’s the kind of guy who gets squeamish around tampons.
I bet he’s the guy who walks into a CVS head held high, priding himself on knowing the exact brand his girlfriend uses.
Nope, just this box of Playtex Sports Glide Medium Flow for me, thanks!
“I didn’t find any narcotics,” he says, returning to my room. “But I did find these.” He holds up a box of My Little Pony Band-Aids. A tiny smile creeps up on his face. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a horse girl.”
“Horses are cool,” I say. I don’t give a shit about horses. They’re basically just tall dogs. The Band-Aids are Jules’s, obviously. But I don’t want him thinking he can take me for anything. He doesn’t know me.
“Sydney Hoffman, horse girl. Got it,” he says. “I found some hydrogen peroxide too. So, I’m just gonna …” He holds up a washcloth and the bottle.
“If you say ‘This might sting a little,’ I swear to god I’ll throw you out the window.”
“It won’t sting a little. It’ll sting a lot.” He dabs the liquid with the washcloth and hesitates for just a fraction of a second before touching it to my forehead. I squeeze my fists together but I don’t flinch. I never flinch.
He unpeels the sparkly Band-Aid and squirts some Neosporin on it.
“Let me just …” He takes his index finger and brushes some of my hair off my forehead.
This whole thing is giving daytime soap opera doctor/patient.
I look hard outside the window and not in his eyes as he too-gently puts the Band-Aid on my forehead, smoothing it down over my cut.
He crumples up the Band-Aid trash and slides it into his pocket. “Leave it covered for the next couple of days,” he says. As if he actually knows what he’s talking about.
“What’re you, a WebMD junkie?” I ask. “Or are you just one of those guys who thinks he knows how to do something after watching a YouTube tutorial?”
“No, I’m an Eagle Scout,” he says, holding up three fingers in what I can only assume is some fucked-up salute.
“Jesus fucking Christ I should’ve known.”
“I’m just kidding.” He laughs, that easy carefree laugh of his. “My mom was a doctor.” He shrugs. “You pick stuff up.”
“Was? Is she dead?”
“No,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s just …” The shadow of some unnamed thing crosses his face, but it’s gone so quickly that I think I might’ve imagined it. “She’s just not a doctor anymore. Why? Is your mom dead?”
“Yeah, actually she is,” I say.
“Oh. Oh shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean— Sorry.”
I consider letting him squirm a little longer but he’s rubbing the back of his neck extra hard and giving me that shoebox-squirrel look again.
“It was years ago.” I shrug. “Everyone dies.” He’s going to give himself neck rug burn.
“Yeah, but a mom is different. A mom is—”
“Everyone dies,” I say. “Even moms.” I look him in the eyes, waiting for him to shove his hands in his pockets, to look away and mumble something inane like Ashes to ashes, or for him to allude to a grand plan or some shit. But he doesn’t. He just looks right back at me. Steady.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right about that.” I guess he doesn’t flinch either.
“Well,” I say, a little impressed and a little disappointed. “Good.”
The bathroom door swings all the way open, slamming against my wall.
“My my my, what do we have here? A boy? In Sydney’s room?” Jules looks Peter up and down. “A cute one too.”
“Jules,” I say. “You remember Peter. The new kid.”
“How could I forget?” She sashays over and grabs him by the arm, squeezing the muscle under his white T-shirt a little too hard. “Did Liam seem happy before he died?” Goddamn it, why is she like this? Why is literally everyone like this?
“Yeah, I think he seemed happy,” Peter says, without hesitating. Of course Liam seemed happy. For all he knew, he was about to get road head and french fries. He had no idea the guillotine was hanging over his neck. Only I was lucky like that.
“Is that my sister’s blood on your shirt?” Jules asks, her fingers still curled around his bicep. She turns back to me. “Did he do something bad? Do I need to do a murder? What happened?”
“She had a little”—his eyes flick to mine—“accident.”
Like an idiot, it just now dawns on me that Peter finding me splayed out (and who am I kidding, totally concussed) on the curb means he also probably saw the thing leading up to it. AKA me doing my closed-eyed psychotic death run.
“Yeah, sure. Syd has had lots of accidents,” Jules says, keeping her eyes locked on Peter’s. “She pissed the bed until she was eight.”
I barely—just fucking barely—resist the urge to leap out of bed, tackle her to the ground, and shove her face into the carpet. “Jules, kindly get the fuck out of my room.”
She sighs and turns back to me. “I guess I’ll let you two get back to … whatever this is.” She raises an eyebrow at me, moving her fist back and forth and poking her tongue in and out of her cheek. Ever the gentleman, Peter pretends he doesn’t see her aggressive BJ sign language.
“Wait,” he says. Damn it. I was this close. “Sydney hit her head pretty hard. I think she’s concussed. She really needs someone to—”
Jules turns to me, a shadow of genuine concern flashing across her face. “You have a concussion?”
“No,” I say at the same time Peter says, “Yes.”
God, this fucking day.
“She needs to be checked on,” Peter continues. “Probably every twenty minutes.”
“Got it. Got it,” Jules says. “First you take care of her—wink, wink. And then I will. I assume you don’t take longer than twenty minutes?” She looks him up and down again and smiles. “Let me guess, seven and a half? Be gentle with the headboard, though, if she’s already got a concussion.”
Peter chokes a little bit and I briefly consider setting fire to my house. “Seriously, Jules, if you do not leave my room immediately, I swear to god I’ll—”
“Okay, okay.” She waves me off. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
“Can you, though?”
“Sometimes!” she says brightly, turning and finally heading back through the Jack and Jules bathroom.
“Remember, every twenty minutes,” Peter calls after her.
“I’ll keep my AirPods in if you need to make some noise!” Jules yells from her room.
“Go fuck yourself!” I shout, matching the cadence of her singsong voice.
“I love you too!”
“I think maybe that’s my cue,” Peter says, heading toward my door.
“I’m pretty sure your cue was downstairs when I said, ‘You’re not coming in.’ Yet here we are.”
“Don’t go to sleep,” he says, ignoring me.
I ignore him right back and crawl under the covers. “Please, tall white boy with no discernible trauma, tell me more about how I should live my life.” I pull my teal comforter over my head. “You can go now.”
I hear him gently shut the door behind himself, followed by the muffled sound of him saying something to Jules about setting a timer, and then finally, mercifully, I’m alone again.
Until the nightmares.