Sing Me To Sleep Part 39

Scott closes his locker with a clang, steps so close I can smell his citrus cologne, and whispers, "We'll see."

The rest of the day, he's funny, cute, friendly Scott again. He brings his econ notes to lunch and goes over the stuff in Chapter Six with me. In choir he can't get his tenor part. He scoots his chair up against mine and leans over so we're almost cheek to cheek-so he can hear me sing his part better.

"Why don't you hate me?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t."

I laugh. "Thank you, Prince Charming."

"Any time, Beauty."

Here he is saving me again. I should love him. I really should. I wouldn't have made it through the day if not for him.

As I drive down to choir, all I can think about is that Band-Aid on Derek's stomach. Guys don't use Band-Aids. If it was a cut or a mosquito bite, why would he care if I saw it? Why is it still there?

It all seems . . . medical.

The Band-Aid.

The cough.

The weight loss.

The pale, pale skin.

The mysterious disappearances.

Even his advice about doctors. Those pills he's always popping. Dumb Blake and his idiot drug habit.

It all adds up. Not to an addiction, but to an affliction.

I couldn't live if you left me. And what did he say? Don't put that on me.

Is he planning on leaving me because he's . . .

No, that can't be right. Oh, gosh. He could be sick. Really sick. Not just allergies or a cold that goes away.

For an ugly second, I worry if I could catch it. What is it? Could he have HIV? That's why he won't-no, no. Not that. Diabetes. They stick themselves all the time. It's probably just that. Are diabetics pale? Do they cough? Maybe it's leukemia. He can go to a hospital and get treatments. He's going to be fine. People recover from leukemia. Bone marrow. He just needs new bone marrow.

It will get worse before it gets better.

That fits.

He can't be that sick, though. Most of the time, he's fine. He just coughs. It's bronchitis or something. Maybe mono. But mono's catching. He'd tell me if he had mono.

What disease makes you cough?

Just dumb stuff like colds, flu, pneumonia. I had that once. I coughed forever. Old smokers cough. But that doesn't work for Derek.

Why won't he just tell me?

I can't bring it up-confront him. Not for a while. Not after last night. We need to get back to where we were before I threw him out. Oh, c.r.a.p. I threw him out.

Late in the night after choir, I check for Derek online, but he's not signed on. I write him a text about wanting his body. I'm still kind of crazed. Delete it. Simply send, I miss you, and go to sleep.

In the morning, I check my cell. Nothing gushy and sweet in reply. No voice-mail messages. No posts. No email. I'm scared. After everything that happened Monday night, I need to know that he's all right with me-that we're all right-before he slips off into that awful nothingness. I promise not to ask about the phantom Band-Aid on his stomach. c.r.a.p. It could have been there all along. He's always got a sweatshirt on. Or a thick leather jacket. We've been dating for a few months now, and I've never been close enough to him to see his bare chest. Isn't there something wrong with that? I feel dread in the pit of my stomach. His anger. His violence, even. There's just so much about Derek I don't know.

But I won't ask. I promise to be the perfect, pure thing he asked me to be back in Switzerland.

What else can I do? I love him.

Days go by.

Weeks.

How can he expect me to bear this? I'm helpless, delusional, don't know where he is, what's happened to him, what's happened to us. Are we messed up forever? This silence shakes me up. It's so much longer and louder than before. I can't break into it.

Stuff starts showing up on his profile. He hasn't posted since before that night with me, but his friends start adding messages. There's one from his AYS ex: You're going to make it. I love you. That one makes me scream.

Blake posts, Hang in there, bud. It's going to work this time.

There's a bunch of Come back soon! and We miss you! kind of stuff.

At least I know he's alive somewhere. I don't post. No way. Too public. Too humiliating that I don't know what's happening. That he doesn't want me to know. Won't let me know. I stuff his inbox with private messages that get more and more pathetic as each day pa.s.ses.

It's sounding more medical-scary medical. I'm so stupid. If I would have joined the AYS like Derek wanted, I'd be chummy enough with those girls to have a link independent of Derek to find out what's going on-no matter what he's told them I can't hear.

I think about phoning Blake. Try it once. He doesn't answer. Derek's orders? I don't know.

How can he do this to me? Just cut me off. I'm his girlfriend, aren't I?

Maybe not.

His ex posted "I love you" on his wall for all the world to see.

Maybe he's back with her. Maybe he thinks I'm with Scott. Maybe he's paying me back.

No. He believed me that night. I'm sure. I have to keep believing. He'll appear in my driveway on his bike like he always has before. Be patient, keep loving him-keep resisting Scott.

Scott's not making it easy. He's there at school, every day, warm and friendly and real. His muscular shoulder is right next to me all the time, b.u.mping into me. He's always joking around. No way can I let him suspect what's going on with Derek. If he offered to comfort me, I'd let him and then what would I tell Derek?

I delude myself, pretend everything is cool and that I know where he is and what's up. I send Derek a dozen texts every day, email him what's up with me. No questions. No complaints. He'll be back. Any day. Any second. I almost convince myself.

I download the sheet music he sent me for "Beth's Song," study it, hum the melody with a pen poised ready for inspiration, but I can't fool myself that much. I throw down the pen and stare at the wall.

I search my room-gather up all my pathetic efforts at song writing that I meant to burn. Maybe I can pull something from one of these. I read through my scrawls.

I'm bones, blood, and flesh

Not clay to be pounded. . . .

I bleed when you wound me. . . .

Can this be me?

Taking the stage for gold dreams. . . .

Touch the sky?

Who am I kidding? . . . The dream turns to dust

As I bow to do your bidding. . . .

Can she be beautiful?

Will all the people love me ? . . .

Beautiful prince who says

He' ll keep me warm-

I come to the verse I wrote after the prom about Scott: The scent of you on my fingers / Makes me crazy while it lingers.

Scott loves me. Scott wants all of me. He doesn't expect me to do this stuff I just can't do. It's way too hard to go on with this masquerade. I grab "Beth's Song" and tear the pages in half again and again and again.

It's too late, anyway. Derek's broadcast is this weekend.

I go on the Amabile guys' Web site and print off the details. I told him I'd be up on the train. If he's anywhere, he'll be there. I don't know if I have the guts to confront him, maybe lose him, but I have to see him again soon or I'll lose my mind. I Google it and manage to buy myself a one-way ticket online. I'll get a taxi to take me where they're singing and make Derek take me home.

What will he do when he sees me there in the audience invading his turf? That's how it feels. I know it's stupid. Why am I going? Why don't I just leave him alone? Call Scott. No. Derek wanted me there. Correction, he wants me there.

Sat.u.r.day evening our early Christmas concert to celebrate our debut CD's release is packed. Halfway through our first number, Scott slips into the back and stands by the usher. He smiles at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I smile back at him and feel like I'm totally betraying Derek.

We get through the first half and swish off the risers, a ma.s.s of shimmery crimson in our gowns that still feel new and special. We file out of the room. I hope the people in the audience don't want their money back. I'm singing fine, but I can't find the magic that transforms me and the power to bring them along. Our CD is for sale in the foyer. Maybe I've just killed its success.

We crowd into the big room in the back of the building with faded Bible pictures taped to the wall that we use for a dressing room. It's better than the bas.e.m.e.nt, but not by much.

I pick up a water bottle and go over to a window, stare into the dusk while I gulp it down. I set the bottle on the sill and put my forehead against the cool gla.s.s.

"Hey, Beth-look what I found." Sarah waves me over to an old TV in the corner. "It's them. Oh, gosh, there's Blake."

I turn and stare at her.

"Did Derek tell you they were going to be on TV?"

I feel like I'm moving underwater, but it's thick, like honey, won't let me through. Somehow I'm across the room peering through the blurry TV at Derek in his tux standing in the middle of his choir, singing at the movie premiere in Toronto. He's incredibly pale. Almost blue. Maybe it's the lighting. He looks ultrathin, too.

c.r.a.p. He looks so sick. How could I have been so blind all this time? Blinded. That's what it was. Totally blinded. I saw what he wanted me to see.

Sarah turns to me. "Derek looks awful. What's wrong with him?"