Your Voice Is All I Hear

  Thank you for purchasing this eBook.

  At Sourcebooks we believe one thing:

  BOOKS CHANGE LIVES.

  We would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at our hottest titles!

  Happy reading!

  SIGN UP NOW!

  Copyright © 2015 by Leah Scheier

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Joanna Jankowska/Arcangel Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Scheier, Leah.

  Your voice is all I hear / Leah Scheier.

  pages cm

  Summary: “When her only friend transfers to a different high school, April braces for the worst year of her life, until she meets a charismatic boy named Jonah, who is diagnosed with schizophrenia. When his health declines, April must make an impossible choice: stick with the boy she loves or let him go so they can both heal”-- Provided by publisher.

  (13 : alk. paper) [1. Friendship--Fiction. 2. Love--Fiction. 3. Self-acceptance--Fiction. 4. Schizophrenia--Fiction. 5. High schools--Fiction. 6. Schools--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S34313Yo 2015

  [Fic]--dc23

  2015009886

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Back Cover

  To my parents

  Prologue

  I know my way around the mental hospital.

  I doubt most of the girls in my neighborhood could claim that, even though many of us lived just a few minutes from its leafy, sterile grounds, and some of us picnicked on the lawn outside its gate during summer break.

  By the end of tenth grade, I knew Shady Grove Hospital better than I knew my school. I knew that the security guard’s name was Carla and that she’d worked at her depressing post since the place was built. I knew the quiet path behind the topiary garden where I could wait until visiting hours began and she let me in. I’d memorized the shape and color of his shadow behind the dark-red curtains, and I knew where I had to stand so he could see me from his eleventh-story window. From that distant spot, I could even guess how well the medicine was working for him that day; I could tell what kind of visit it would be by counting the paces of his shadow.

  I had the place mapped out, his daily routine memorized, the doctors’ names and call schedule, every pointless detail carefully recorded in his special little book. He’d given me those notes as if they were classified secrets, the papers wrapped in strips of hospital linen sealed together with bubble gum, long wads of partially chewed Wrigley’s tied into a crisscrossed mesh. That tattered spiral notebook was crammed with data he’d gathered over months: patients’ names and histories, nurses’ phone numbers, the cleaning crew’s shift hours. I would never know how these bits of information came together for him or how he even found them out. But somewhere in these random nothings, he’d put together a story for me, a clue of how to get to him, a coded message that, for some reason, he believed only I could read. I was the one he trusted, the only one who had not betrayed him. I was the one he loved, the only one who believed him, even when his own mother had locked him up and thrown away the key.

  And now, nearly three months after they’d taken him away, I was finally ready. I was going to march up to the security window, look into the tired guard’s blurry eyes, state my name and the name of the patient I was visiting, and hear the buzz and click of the locked gate sliding open. I was going to walk down the white-tiled hallway, knock on his doctor’s office door, slam his secret notebook on her desk, and make her read it, make her understand what he was hiding, make her see what only I had seen.

  I was finally going to do it.

  I was going to betray him.

  Chapter 1

  Six months earlier

  I’d lost the homeschooling argument again. Also the school transfer argument, the study abroad argument, and finally (in a pathetic, last-ditch effort that stank of desperation), the chronic fatigue syndrome argument.

  The truth was that I hadn’t really expected to win. I knew what my mother was going to say before she said it. Simplified, her points were: single parent, can’t afford it; can’t afford that; can’t afford that either; you don’t have that illness or any other, April, so stop being ridiculous and get your books ready for school and don’t forget to set your alarm, please, good night.

  “But I can’t, I just can’t go without Kristin,” I wailed, unleashing my last and final weapon—honesty. That has to get through to her, I thought. She couldn’t ignore her only daughter baring her soul. My mom was all about “sharing your emotions,” “listening to your primal voice,” and “nursing your inner baby”—or whatever. (She reads a lot of self-help books.) So maybe if I dumped a buttload of truth and suffering on her, she’d celebrate my personal growth, shed a couple of cleansing tears, and let me stay home. “Mom, please, you know how hard it’s been for me to make friends at Fallstaff High,” I pleaded. “I just can’t go back there tomorrow; I need a little bit more time—”

  I should have expected the next part, I guess. She’d just gotten through her latest favorite: Face Your Fear by some celebrity healer. What did I think was going to happen? Fast-forward half an hour, and we were still in the same position on the living room rug. I was tired. She was just getting started. Somewhere between “fighting back
against the darkness” (you’ve never been to Fallstaff High, have you, Mom?) and “knotting the spiritual umbilical cord” (knotting my spiritual what?), I humbly admitted defeat. Or exhaustion. Same result.

  Bottom line: I was going to start tenth grade tomorrow (Mom’s words).

  I was going to “connect with others” and “strengthen my inner immunity” (Mom again).

  I was going to end up sitting alone at lunch, everyone was going to treat me like I had leprosy, and I was going to be miserable (me—obviously).

  Chapter 2

  It’s not that the other sophomores at Fallstaff High wanted me dead or anything. There were no “I hate April Wesley” clubs that I knew of. I hadn’t made any great embarrassing fails (boob-baring wardrobe malfunction, accidental pants-wetting, etc.) or offended the popular kids in any way. But if you mentioned my name, most of that crowd would have to think for a minute, and then they’d probably say, “Oh, yeah. She’s in math class with me. Brown hair, right?”

  But my relative invisibility hadn’t bothered me before. I’d always relied on my best friend, Kristin, so I hadn’t really needed them to notice me. Kris and I had been inseparable since the second grade. When I entered high school, Mom started worrying about my dependence on my only friend and kept encouraging me to “branch out” and meet new people. “What about Briana, your lab partner?” she asked. “Maybe she could come by for a movie sometime?”

  So I tried, I really did. It’s just that casual small talk somehow got harder and harder for me as I got older. It’s not that I had nothing to say. It’s that somewhere inside me lived a tiny nagging fear that no one really wanted to hear anything I had to say. And new people never gave me a chance to relax and be myself. So, in an effort to appear more natural, I began to jot conversation topics on my hand and rehearse clever jokes in front of the mirror.

  Problem was, my reflection was always attentive and happy to see me. Briana, on the other hand, started to fidget before I opened my mouth. She didn’t want to talk about English class. Or music. Or The Big Bang Theory. I finally gave up when I realized she was searching the hallway for an escape.

  “Sorry, I’m really late,” she said, glancing at her wrist. (She wasn’t wearing a watch. And we were on our way to lunch.)

  As she hurried away, I unclenched my fist and looked at the black smear across my palm. The words “Watch a movie together?” had washed away completely, and only the question mark was left.

  It was pretty much the same story any time I tried to get to know somebody new. So to keep from torturing my classmates with my blurry banter, I chose not to bother them too much. And they didn’t bother me.

  But with Kristin by my side, I didn’t really care. She was safe; she never gave me a bored or baffled look, and I never felt out of place when she was next to me. I had someone to eat lunch with, to watch movies with, to share secrets with. To be honest, they were mostly her secrets, because Kris always had drama in her life. But I loved listening to her stories, and she loved being listened to. She had accepted my plain, girl-next-door self the day we’d met, and I’d never stopped to wonder why she preferred to hang out with me when she could have easily slipped into the popular crowd with a single flip of her shiny hair. But that was my best friend—easygoing, charming, pretty-as-a-model Kristin, whose loyalty I never questioned until the morning after ninth grade finals when she dropped the bomb.

  She was leaving Fallstaff High to attend a fancy private school.

  To be fair, the school switch had not been her choice. But her father had recently been promoted at work, so he decided that public school was no longer good enough for his only girl, and their semidetached house on our street was no longer big enough for his family. Kristin was going to be a bus ride away from me instead of my next-door neighbor, and lunch was going to be the longest hour of the day.

  I spent the summer banging out whiny chords on my keyboard, composing pages of depressing lyrics, and staring at the incoming tenth grade roster. There were three new students on the list: two girls and a boy. I scribbled down their names and did a little harmless Facebook stalking. Tessa Gilberts was going to be a “popular,” I could see that right away. She was from LA, and there were about five hundred pictures of her in a bikini with her arms around blond dudes. She was pursing her lips and pushing out her boobs in all of the shots. I would have to roast my pale skin and torture my brown hair with bleach and lemons to get her look, and I still wouldn’t make the cut.

  Tori Nadle was an honor student at her old school, president of the debate and drama clubs, and an amateur dog trainer. It was possible that she was friend material, but I would have to find an amazing hidden talent in the next few weeks, or else take on the role of Supergirl’s mediocre sidekick. That wasn’t going to happen.

  I was less interested in the boy, because the guys at Fallstaff High tended to hang out with each other, except when one of them hooked up with one of the popular girls (never me). The new boy’s name was Jonah, and he had privacy-protected everything on his wall except his hometown (Boston) and his profile picture, which was a close-up of a cocker spaniel’s snout. Nothing to be learned there.

  So when the first day of school arrived, I wasn’t exactly racing for the door. Naturally, I took more time than usual with my clothes, just in case this Jonah guy turned out to be super hot, but I didn’t have very high hopes. Hot guys usually posted their selfies proudly on their profile page for everyone to see; he had put up a picture of a dog, which meant that he probably looked like one. I finally settled on the dark-green tee, which Kristin said brought out the hazel in my eyes, and medium hoop earrings, which made me look like I was trying but not too hard. It didn’t matter what I wore or how much mousse weighed down my forest of hair though. Somehow I always wound up looking like the pale, fluffy-haired “before” picture in a makeover ad. Jonah would end up staring at Bikini Tessa, like everybody else.

  Five minutes before my bus arrived, my cell phone rang.

  “April-I-have-so-much-to-tell-you-I-don’t-know-where-to-start!” Kristin’s sentences were usually breathless run-on phrases.

  “Seriously, have you even gotten to school yet?” I slung my bag over my shoulder and shouted a good-bye to my mom.

  “Yeah, my father dropped me off. But, April, you won’t believe how awesome this place is. I have to tell you—”

  I sighed and balanced the phone against my ear, pulled the door shut behind me, and headed for the bus stop. As I trudged along, Kris chattered on about the clubs and programs at her new school—junior modeling, fashion design, filmmaking. I listened to her bubble happily for the entire bus ride and into homeroom period, when the teacher finally forced me to hang up.

  I wasn’t all that sorry when I told her I had to go. Her enthusiasm was beginning to grate on me. It was selfish, I know, but it would have been easier if she hadn’t been so obviously thrilled by everyone and everything she saw. Three months ago when she first told me about the transfer, we’d shared some days of mutual crying, but her tears dried up when the packet from Fancy Private High arrived. I couldn’t blame her, really. It’s always easier to be the one who’s leaving.

  Homeroom period was a confused half hour, during which I (unofficially) met the two new girls. Tessa was everything I’d expected her to be. Cora, Fallstaff High’s Miss Popular, took the new recruit under her wing immediately, and Tessa slid into her assistant princess role easily, as if she’d been trained for it. She had a list of phone numbers before the bell rang. Miles, the hottest guy in school, took one look at her and planted himself in a nearby seat, as if staking out his territory.

  I stared at my books and tried to ignore the rabid flirting going on across the room. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t think about Miles anymore, despite my lengthy and completely hopeless crush on him. It was totally over between us. I’d ended it (in my head) the day after finals when I stumbled in on him making out wi
th Cora in the girls’ bathroom. That had been a really bad day for me. I’d found out that my best friend was switching schools and witnessed my imaginary boyfriend sucking face with Princess Cora on the same morning.

  Okay, I’d known that they were going out. But you know how they say that a picture is worth a thousand words? Well, a sound is worth a million, and that sound will echo in my ears forever. I heard him slurp.

  The second girl, Tori, didn’t stay long enough for me to form an opinion of her. It was long enough for her though, because she hovered by the door for fifteen minutes with a condescending scowl on her face, like a bored visitor in a zoo, before finally stalking out. No one was sorry to see her go.

  Homeroom ended, and the new boy didn’t show. As we gathered our stuff, Michael, a tiny nerdy guy who I suspected was the only one in Fallstaff to have ever had a crush on me, sidled up and poked my elbow.

  “April, have you heard the news?” he asked, grinning eagerly at me.

  I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to be busy with my bag. Michael was always raking up bits of gossip for me. He liked to use his knowledge as an excuse to poke me.

  “Ms. Lowry is coming back,” he said. “I’ve heard she’s teaching history again.”

  Okay, this was interesting. “Are you sure?” I asked him. “I thought she was still in the ICU.”

  Ms. Lowry scared us to death last year. Suddenly, without warning, she stopped mid sentence, hand still pointing to the board, and dropped like lead to the ground. It took us a few seconds to realize what was happening. Ms. Lowry was the kookiest teacher in the school, and her unusual lesson plans had sometimes gotten her into trouble. So for a moment, we all thought that she was acting out the fall of the Roman Empire. I’d never seen a seizure before, so I didn’t understand what I was witnessing, but later, after the sirens died down and everyone stopped hyperventilating, we learned that Ms. Lowry had some rare heart problem that caused the seizure and that she’d almost died right there in front of us.