Your Voice Is All I Hear Page 7

  She was talking about her own history now, not mine. Mom was raised in the ultra-Orthodox Jewish section of New Square, and her parents were the strictest of the strict, religious role models for their community. All their children followed their example—all except my mom, whose unexpected teenage rebellion shook her family to the core. At eighteen, she declared that she was going to stop “arranged” dating for a while and travel out of state to study psychology.

  Near the end of her junior year, her parents’ worst fears came true. My mother met Mark Wesley: fellow psych major, handsome flirt, and lapsed Catholic. When they married the following summer, my grandparents mourned their daughter as if she’d died. My mom sent baby pictures after I was born and continued mailing photos of me and letters about my progress for several years. She never heard another word from her parents, and eventually she stopped trying.

  “Loyalty isn’t a bad thing, Mom.”

  “It is when you’re fifteen and you have no experience. The truth is I wouldn’t be worried about Kristin if I were her mother. Kris will drop a guy because he didn’t like a movie she liked.” She paused a moment to let her words sink in. Well, she got that right, I thought. Kris would drop a guy over a movie. Or a sports team. Or a flavor of ice cream.

  “So what? Do you want me to be like Kris?”

  “No. But I don’t want you to marry yourself to this boy after a week of dating either.”

  “We’re not—we’re not even dating!” I was sure of that, at least. Well, pretty sure. Hold on a minute. Were we dating?

  My mom shot me a doubtful look. “You’re not?”

  I was supposed to know the answer to that. “I’m not sure,” I admitted in a low voice. “I was going to call Kris later and ask her what she thought.”

  She laughed and leaned back against the wall. “Okay. Kris will tell you if you’re dating a guy that she’s never met?”

  “Fine, you can meet him if you want, if you think you know so much about it,” I shot back irritably and then immediately regretted it. Don’t take me up on it, don’t take me up on it, please don’t take me up on it.

  “Great!” she responded, brightening. “Bring him by tomorrow after school.”

  Damn.

  “Oh—but—but you have work…”

  “It’s okay! I’ll take off early and fix dinner for us.”

  “Oh, no. No, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She looked offended. “Why not? What’s going on with you? Are you doing that ‘my mom is so embarrassing’ thing? Because I’ve never actually given you a reason—”

  “I know you haven’t.” Because I’ve never given you the chance to, I thought grimly. Kris is used to the fruitiness, and how often do I bring over new people?

  “So what is it then? Just ask him if he’s free.”

  He would be free, and just my luck, my mother would serve stewed tofu niblets and quinoa cakes. I could already picture it.

  “Okay, fine,” I mumbled.

  “Good, that’s settled,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I can’t wait to meet him. I’ll make my watercress omelet.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back against my pillow. “Could we just order pizza tomorrow? Please?”

  There was a short silence; I could hear her fighting the urge to argue. “Okay,” she agreed after a moment. “I suppose that’ll be all right.”

  She hung around for a while longer, as if she expected me to speak again, but when I didn’t open my eyes, she slid off the bed and slipped out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. It was a relief that she was gone. I didn’t want to answer any more questions about Jonah.

  Normally I don’t mind my mother’s company. She’s a patient listener, and she’s so anxious to be a good parent that she rarely actually parents me. She usually alternates between the role of supportive older sister and timid roommate. I wished now that she had stayed that way. Her newfound maternal confidence and sage advice were getting on my nerves.

  I needed time alone to think. If Jonah really was my boyfriend, then I had some serious texting and obsessing to do. Then, after I finished messaging Kris, I planned to devote the rest of the night to hard core daydreaming. I couldn’t wait. It would be the best fantasy ever, because now my dreams came with a tiny ray of hope.

  Chapter 11

  Jonah and I were definitely dating. Unless friends normally lean back in history class and whisper, “I was thinking last night how much fun it would be to paint you,” I think it was fair at that point to call our relationship official.

  I took my cell phone out and texted Kris the news. He says he wants to paint me.

  Her answer came back ten seconds later. Nice. But does he want to kiss you?

  Oh. Well. I didn’t expect him to think about that yet. And as for my own daydreams—

  I met him three days ago, Kris. Give it some time.

  My phone blinked. When can I meet him?

  I tapped Jonah on the shoulder. He turned around to me, glanced at the cell phone in my hand, and grinned. “I’m free this evening if she is,” he whispered.

  He couldn’t possibly have seen her message; the screen was hidden behind my textbook. “How did you know what I was going to ask?”

  “What else could it be?”

  Come by after school I wrote and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

  And then, just a few periods later, it was lunchtime, my favorite hour in the day. We sat together at the corner bench and talked about everything. He told me more about his old school, about some of his teachers, about Boston. I told him about Kristin, about my anxious mother and her strange family whom I’d never met. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to Jonah. It never once occurred to me to jot conversation topics down on my palm. Only a couple of days ago, I’d been so panicked about the idea of being alone. Those fears seemed so far away now with him sitting next to me. He actually leaned forward when I spoke to him, his eyes alive with interest, his smile reacting to my words. I felt bold when I talked to him. Bold enough to actually comment on his new relaxed smile, and laugh when he blushed at my observation. “When we first met, you had this shocked ‘deer in the headlights’ grin,” I remarked. “But now, it’s different.”

  He shook his head and made a “facepalm” gesture. “Half of my photos!” he groaned. “I look like I sat on a pinecone. It’s my nervous ‘smile for the camera.’ It goes away when I calm down.”

  “You mean your eyebrows come down when you relax?”

  He nodded. “But when I meet new people or get into tense situations, it can get pretty ugly.”

  “So this evening when you meet my mother, they’ll probably fly straight off your forehead?”

  His shoulders shook with laughter.

  I couldn’t believe I was making him laugh. I felt like I had stepped into another girl’s life. He actually thought I was funny! He’d admitted to being nervous around me. He was worried about meeting my mom. His awkwardness made me feel normal, and the coming evening seemed a little less terrifying.

  Still, there’s nothing quite like bringing over a prospective boyfriend to make you see your home in a different light. I had taken our small semidetached rancher for granted, but now for the first time, I wondered what it would look like to a stranger. As we entered my house, I saw Jonah glance around curiously, and I was suddenly aware of the mismatched weirdness of the place. It was like several different cultures had burst into our living room and made war with one another. Wooden African sculptures faced off with a giant Chinese screen; a replica of an eighteenth-century French painting hung opposite a Mata Ortiz pot. Even the furniture appeared to be having an identity crisis. The place was cluttered with battered antiques from different eras: a stiff pink armchair from the sixties, a coffee table from the baroque period. I knew the story behind every one of the eclectic piece
s, how my mom had picked each treasure up for pennies at some flea market and how she’d researched the history of every one of her unusual finds. But the sum total of the collection was pretty overwhelming.

  I watched him stare for a little bit and then suggested we go off to my room. I wasn’t embarrassed by that at least. I too had chosen every item in the place, but I’d done it carefully and tastefully (I thought). My walls were covered with posters of my favorite musicians: Evanescence, Linkin Park, Dido, Billie Holiday, Mozart. My throw rug and bedspread were striped navy corduroy, plain but warm, with no silly lace or puffs. My keyboard was propped up in the center of the room beneath my open window; I’d draped the corners of its stand with an embroidered tapestry from an old Druze village. The Druze thing might have been my mother’s influence, but I liked it, and everything else in there was mine.

  Jonah didn’t look impressed. He walked over to my keyboard, ran his fingers over the edge, and then turned to me with a disappointed expression. “Oh,” he said. “I pictured an actual piano.”

  “Seriously? What, a baby grand?” I retorted. “Where would I put one? There isn’t even room in here for a small upright. And besides, I can record myself on a keyboard.”

  He didn’t look convinced. There was a bothered expression on his face, like he was trying to work out a complicated problem that he didn’t know how to explain.

  “I just don’t think electronics and art are a good combination,” he declared finally.

  I laughed and sat back on my bed. “The majority of the music world would probably disagree with you.”

  He had paused beside my keyboard and was staring at it now with a strange intensity, as if he’d seen something on the keys that upset him. “You don’t understand,” he told me, his voice rising slightly. “Recordings can be taken away from you. Someone could take them.”

  I frowned at him and shook my head. “What are you talking about? Who would take my practice tracks? Why would anybody want them?”

  Again, the furrowed brow. He wasn’t looking at me anymore but was concentrating on something far away, something that was frightening him. I saw his body tense, and he turned his head quickly to the door. “Did your mom just come inside?” he asked me hesitantly.

  I got up and peered out the window. “No, not yet. I don’t see her car. Why? Did you hear something?”

  He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. “I just thought I heard someone call out. Never mind. I must be tired.”

  I was about to answer him when I heard a rhythmic tapping on the front door. Jonah started violently at the sound and then shot me a questioning look, as if waiting for an explanation for the unexpected noise.

  “Oh, you have better ears than me,” I said. “You must have heard Kristin coming up the street. That’s her at the door. She always taps out ‘Hail the Conquering Hero’ when she comes over.”

  He relaxed a little and smiled back at me, but the smile didn’t make it to his eyes.

  “Don’t be anxious,” I told him as I went to answer the door. “Kristin can be a little blunt sometimes, but she’s really sweet. You’ll like her, I promise.”

  He followed me into the living room and hovered a few feet behind me. I was watching his expression as Kris stepped into the light, and for the briefest moment, I felt a stab of envy as she smiled at him. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how pretty Kristin was. I’d always taken her looks for granted, ever since we were little. But now, in the same way that I was seeing my own home with fresh eyes, I was meeting my best friend again through Jonah. And though his greeting was casual and deliberately polite, I couldn’t help noticing the flash of appreciation in his eyes, that quiet acknowledgment of beauty that I’d seen so many times in others when they met her. It had never bothered me before. Even though Jonah never leered or stared, and though I saw his gaze shift immediately to me, that second of admiration awoke the voice of a thousand insecurities. In the moment that it took Kristin to say hello, I’d already counted all the differences between us and come up short on every point. Sleek, blond ponytail vs. Mount St. Hair, Teen Vogue smile vs. “lost her retainer after a month,” tanning cream commercial vs. connect-the-dots freckles and pores.

  I never meant to show what I was feeling; my expression was carefully pleasant, and I’m certain that my smile never changed. So I have no idea how he sensed what I was thinking. But before my self-examination could progress southward into a hopeless cataloging of my body’s imperfections, I felt Jonah’s arm steal quickly around my shoulder, and I was pulled gently but firmly to his side. It was the smallest gesture, outwardly casual and totally natural, but to me, it was as if he’d dipped me back and kissed me in front of the entire world. He noticed me—even with Kris standing there, all blond and unconsciously beautiful, it was me he wanted.

  We settled down on the living room sofas, Kristin opposite us and Jonah still solidly by my side, his arm wrapped securely around me. Our happy couple demonstration wasn’t lost on Kristin. She gave him a grudging nod. “Very sweet, Jonah,” she said, waving her finger over us. “I see what you’re doing with that arm there. Now put it back down at your side unless you want to lose it. April’s mom is at the door.”

  We all sprang up in unison, and I scurried forward as the knob turned and my mother entered. Her eyes went immediately to Jonah. Smiling sweetly, she stepped over to him and extended her hand.

  “I’m so glad you could come by this evening,” she began, and I held my breath and waited for the rest. But no, it actually looked like she was done. Jonah murmured a polite response, and now we were all sitting in a circle in the living room again and talking—about something.

  It was actually going well, I realized as I listened to them chatter. Incredibly, I was the only anxious one in the room. Whatever had bothered Jonah earlier had disappeared, and he seemed completely at ease now, lounging next to me (at a respectable distance) on the sofa. Kris was ordering a couple of large pizzas (with my mom’s permission), Jonah was doing an impression of Ms. Lowry and making them both laugh, and my mother was telling us a funny story that had happened at the office. It was unbelievable. I’d been worried about nothing.

  The pizzas arrived, and we all dug in. I got tomato sauce on my shirt and had to change, and when I returned, Jonah was complimenting my mom on one of her unusual paintings, and she was beaming at him. She was so together, as if she’d stowed away all of her nervous energy for the occasion. And she looked good too; the outfit she’d chosen highlighted her small, slim form, her straight black hair was wound around her head in a spiral bun, and she was actually wearing makeup. I was proud of her and grateful at the same time.

  After Jonah went home, my mom walked over to me and hugged me silently, then shuffled off to the kitchen, smiling happily to herself. I didn’t need to ask her what she thought of Jonah. It was obvious. I helped her carry the glasses to the sink, and then Kris took my arm, and we walked together to her bus stop.

  “Well?” I nudged my friend as she waited for her ride. “What did you think?”

  “Definitely not gay,” she declared. “Very intense though. His eyes especially.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I love that about him.”

  “I can see that.”

  We were quiet for a moment; she was staring intently down my empty street as if silently willing the bus to appear and rescue her.

  “Okay. What is it, Kris?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. He’s very sweet. And really cute.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing. I’m happy for you. I honestly hope it works out.”

  Her bus rounded the corner, and she stepped quickly, eagerly, over to the curb. Something was still bothering me though, and as the doors slid open, I put my hand out and stopped her.

  “Kris, I meant to ask you something.”

  She turned around, one foot suspended over the first step
. “Yeah?”

  “When you came over this afternoon, did you call out to us before you knocked?”

  She looked strangely at me and shook her head. “No, I rapped the knocker like I always do. Why would I have called out?”

  “Oh, never mind then. It’s not important,” I told her as I turned away. “I guess he must have imagined it.”

  Chapter 12

  No one believes me when I tell them that Jonah was the best boyfriend in the world. They think I’m painting too rosy of a picture, considering what happened later. They insist that there must have been some signs, something wrong, some clue where this was headed. They want to hear symptoms. But I can only tell them how I felt with him.

  We became best friends by the end of the first week. Jonah seemed to need me as much as I needed him, even if he hid his social anxiety better than I did. And I was so relieved that I wouldn’t have to spend sophomore year alone that I never stopped to count the hours we spent together.

  We were rarely apart. After school, we hung out in my room or his until our moms separated us for the night. We took the train down to DC and roamed the National Gallery of Art, and Jonah showed me details about the great masters’ paintings that I could never have imagined. I learned about light sources and shadows. I learned how to critique art, what to look for in a portrait, how to interpret an artist’s choice of color and palette.

  We listened to music, studied for tests, watched movies on his laptop. He learned that I cried at happy endings and became angry at sad ones. I found out that he liked action-adventure flicks and oddball comedies. And I discovered that I didn’t care what we watched as long as I was sitting close to him and I could feel the tremble of his body when he laughed.

  Most of all, I enjoyed watching him when he wasn’t looking. I’d never had a boyfriend before, so I don’t know if this was normal, but everything he did fascinated me. I loved the way he bit his lip when he was concentrating on an assignment and then rubbed his eyes when he was frustrated. I loved it when he’d ask for help with a math problem and then make fish faces when I tried to explain the answer. I loved the sound of my name when he whispered good night to me. I even loved it when he fell asleep in the middle of a movie, because then I could just watch him. I’d brush the black curls from his forehead and trace his dark brows with my eyes, memorize the dimple over his open lips, the curve and hollow of his cheeks. I’d touch the dark hairs on his arms and follow them to his wrists, then slip my fingers into his hands. I’d study the open button at his neck, run my eyes over the dip beneath his collarbone and then imagine the rest, the hidden I couldn’t see. I’d wonder how his lips would feel against mine when he finally kissed me. I’d count the days we’d been together and worry that maybe he didn’t want to. But when he woke, I was always careful to look away, because I couldn’t let him know what I’d been thinking. I was embarrassed to let him see how much I cared.