The Murmurings by Carly Anne West Read Free Book Online

gelcap answers in little white Dixie cups. And no, Dr. Keller, if you’re reading this, I haven’t been hiding the teal ones. And if I was, good luck finding them. I totally feel like I’m channeling Sophie’s rebelliousness right now.
    But this guy. This guy is different. He doesn’t act like the other orderlies or smoke like some do. Especially the man-child. That one sweats and smokes more than any of them. This new guy, he said he’s been working here forever, but today’s the first time I saw him. He brought my lunch (dry turkey on white with a banana—delish). He has to be the tallest person I’ve ever met in my life. So of course that’s the first question I asked him: How tall are you? What is it with me? I can’t seem to filter anything when I get embarrassed or nervous. It’s like whatever is in my head just falls out of my mouth. Only Sophie would understand. But the guy barely flinched. Six foot nine. Then he told me his name is Adam. A good name. So nice it doesn’t need a nickname.
    Most orderlies set the tray down and leave without a word. Occasionally, the old one tells me to “eat up, dear” (“dear” . . . seriously). But this guy sat with me for practically ten minutes. He asked me what my name was, and how long I’d been here. It was weird having a normal conversation with someone. We talked about poetry, about T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound and Sylvia Plath. He caught me with my journal open and saw a poem. And he asked me if I write those a lot. I have no idea why, but I started crying. Just sat there bawling like a two-year-old.
    And that was that. He might have left quicker if I’d lit him on fire. It’s hard to say who was more embarrassed.
    I can’t imagine he’ll be back after the way I fell apart. But if he does come back, I’d talk with him again.

6
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    E VAN’S LEANING INTO HIS CAR when I pull up to the front of his house, which was as easy to find as he promised. He lives a couple of neighborhoods over in one of the “newer” developments, which means his house was built in the eighties not the seventies. His front yard is sparse but manicured. That’s more than I can say for ours.
    He doesn’t hear me as I pull up—remarkable considering I’m driving my mom’s rumbling old Buick. He’s holding an armful of what look to be empty Gatorade bottles and take-out bags from every fast-food restaurant within a five-mile radius. I’m out of the car before he looks up, startled, embarrassment overtaking his face.
    “Just cleaning up a little,” he says, depositing the trashinto the recycling bin at the curb and wiping his hands on his jeans.
    “You kinda have a thing for Gatorade,” I observe, trying not to sound like I’m making fun of him. I’m not good at that, though, and everything comes out sounding snide. At least that’s what Mom says. Mom has charm, or at least she used to. So did Nell. I have sarcasm.
    “I have a thing for whatever keeps me hydrated so I don’t heave up my lunch during practice,” Evan says, wiping the sweat from his upper lip with his forearm. Then he licks his lips absently to rewet them. I look down at my shoes to keep myself from wishing he’d do that a hundred more times.
    “So where are we going?” I ask, trying to sound like it doesn’t really matter to me.
    “It’s a surprise.” As I reach for the door handle, he’s at my side in an instant, pushing away my hand gently, then letting his fingers linger on my skin. A cool rush surges through me.
    “Here, lemme get that,” he says, drawing his shirt up from the bottom to cover his fingers and open the passenger door. “It gets kinda hot.”
    I catch a glimpse of his stomach and the seam of his gray boxer shorts poking above the waist of his pants. Once again, I find my shoes to be the most interesting thing in the universe.
    I get in and gingerly pull the seat belt across me, sucking in my stomach as the hot metal clasp finds its other end. I can’t even count how