Fade to White Read online

  “It feels right to share this song with you tonight. And, who knows? Maybe it will stay with you like it did me. Here’s ‘In Your Sleep.’”

  He reattaches his capo and brushes back his sandy hair. His shoulders draw inward, and he plays directly to me. It feels that way at least.

  Oh I just wanna believe

  That we were made for something

  More than just what we can see

  The sickness keeps you coming back

  If you could see what I’ve seen

  Then you’ll believe in something.

  With the final strum of his guitar, a showering applause fills the packed cafe. Khi takes a quick bow and sidesteps out of the makeshift spotlight. He places his guitar back into a sticker-clad case and strides across to the edge of the café to meet a beaming Nadia. She embraces him like a proud parent. But isn’t he just one of the many customers she has learned to greet by first name? He has to be more to her. It’s too personal of an exchange.

  The accolades lessen, and the barrage of concern recommences from Ashley and Jade. They are good friends, but I can’t divide my attention; their words reverberate against the side conversations of the intermission.

  Khi’s forearms nestle on the raised table where Nadia now sits as she showers him with European-style kisses. Even from afar, it feels intrusive to share in this moment, but I can’t help myself. Despite their shadowed location, Khi stands out from the crowd. Radiant.

  “Earth to Thea?” Ashley’s voice booms into my left ear. “What are you staring at?”

  I raise my head in his direction, refusing to break my gaze. “Khi.”

  “Who?” Jade’s head bobs into my view. “I can barely see to the next table.”

  At that moment, Khi’s causal perusal of the crowd freezes on me. His smile is restrained, compared to when he was on stage. Less confident than when we first met. But it still ignites an uncanny familiarity and comfort.

  Ashley and Jade continue to peer through the darkness, unsure of my focus.

  “I’ll be back.” I squeeze along the rows of chairs. Khi excuses himself from his own conversation but is slowed in his path by a stream of acknowledgments. I wait at the end of the counter, growing in pride, despite my threadlike connection to him. With each round of praise, he pushes at the sleeves of his plaid shirt, lowers his head, the hint of insecurity more visible behind his faltering smile.

  “You were incredible,” I say when he finally arrives within earshot.

  He scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks.”

  “Why are you embarrassed? The whole café loved your set.” I scan across the milling attendees and notice that many of the conversations are still angled in his direction.

  He also surveys the packed crowd and arrives back at his sleeves. “I don’t like all the attention.”

  “How can you not?” A pleasant jittering fills my chest. My first standing ovation was my middle-school production of Annie. I didn’t miss a single line, landed the final note, and even managed to pull off the choreography. “Don’t you feel a crazy adrenaline rush with that kind of applause?”

  His gaze flutters between my forehead and nose. “Like I said, I don’t need that kind of attention.” He shifts his focus over my shoulder. “Are those your friends?” He indicates them with a slight nod.

  “If a blonde Texan and a tall Asian girl are staring and possibly pointing, then yes, those would be my amazingly obvious friends.” I lower my head and am shocked back to the awareness that Ashley’s blouse is still grossly suggestive. Its crimson shade has undoubtedly transferred to my skin.

  He scratches his temple. “They seem to want you for something.”

  I reach my arm across to my opposite shoulder in an attempt to hide the gaping neckline. His eyes flutter again, this time from my oddly positioned arms to my friends.

  “Oh, they probably just want to know who you are.” You idiot. And now he knows I didn’t even think him important enough to mention to my closest friends. Epic fail number … what is it now?

  He nods with the same patience from last week and waits for me to continue.

  “I would have mentioned you were coming, but I don’t interact with the opposite sex that often because I apparently have this problem. Never mind …” Stop with the oversharing. “And tonight, I ironically made plans to meet both you and this other guy from my drama club here, so they are probably completely shocked.” I laugh, raising my other hand to the imminent release of hair. Just stop talking.

  “I didn’t really think … I mean, you are …” He seems to search for words between tentative gestures toward me. “I thought that you wanted to …”

  Something is wrong. Why can’t he look at me the way he did before: hopeful, intrigued, familiar?

  Dang it. Because I don’t look familiar. I’m done up like a desperate newbie striking out at an all-ages club. Without my even realizing it, my fingers find roots and pull in unifying success. I feel nauseous. I shake the strands loose, each thread igniting a cascade of shivers on my bare neck. I want to hide. Need to escape. But this shirt. It’s like a beacon. Come stare at the slutty girl and her pathetic attempt to hit on the mysterious musician.

  There is no point in breathing exercises. Each inhale is too short. Too erratic to correct. “I am … so sorry … I didn’t mean to …”

  Shut up, Thea.

  I push through the café crowd. I need space. Air. Fast. If only I had running shoes. I would run straight home. And hibernate. Until next spring. Why did I agree to these ridiculous heels?

  I’m sure Ashley and Jade see the emotional wave hit as I pass. I avoid eye contact. I swipe my purse and coat and race for the door. Hot tears plunge downward. I heave the door open. A burst of cold sucks the warmth from each drop. I embrace the frigid air, fill my lungs. The claustrophobic state having almost suffocated me. I struggle to inhale. Shocking pain hits my diaphragm with each attempt. But in the darkness, I use the pain to dampen what is now pure and justified humiliation. His song, his lyrics are already lost on me.

  At this moment, I see nothing I can believe in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I stumble away from the café. I can’t stay here or the girls will find me. Right now, I can’t talk to anyone. The last echoes of teen chatter are dulled by the cinderblock walls as I round the corner of the strip mall. All the storefronts on this side lie dim and closed for the night. The heaving of my breath and the occasional hum of motors are all that is left. In the blackened windows of a nail salon, I stare at my reflection. Even in the lamplight, where imperfections can be softened to impersonate beauty, I scream knock-off. I try to pace, but a burning pain warns of blistering toes. I can’t even walk home with these monstrosities attached to my feet.

  Should I call Tom to pick me up early?

  And extend the humiliation to my home turf? That’s a solid no.

  I need to be alone. Deserve to be alone. But where?

  An oval moon flashes between breaking cloud cover. From where I stand, it silhouettes the vacant skate park opposite the school. I totter across the street, head for the most imposing of ramps, and drop behind it. The cement immediately chills me from beneath, but the need for cover and release outweighs basic comforts. I dig both hands into my hair and eject strand after strand from my scalp. Air finally leaks from my constricted throat.

  The gentle melodic voice that sang straight to my inner core now calls my name from across the road. I untangle the dead strands from my fingers. Khi calls out again. His volume rising with each elongated request. Feet crunch through frosted blades of grass. The same grass that encircles the skate park.

  Should I make another run for it? How juvenile would that look? I could wait him out. I’m not worth that long a game of hide-and-seek. I hold my breath. His footsteps reach concrete. Com’on, Thea, it’ll look even worse if he does find you. I wipe under both my eyes, likely massacring my eyeliner.

  “I’m over here,” I croak despite my best efforts to
sound collected.

  Khi’s shadow grows in the street light until two worn runners appear near my huddled body. “I was so … concerned … when you ran off,” he says between strained breaths. “Why did you run out like that?”

  “Why did I run?” I lift my head from my cocoon. Does he really need to ask me that?

  He watches me with a conflicted intensity that is hard to define. His arms hang tense, fingers balled into fists. And his serene smile has given way to a solid pursed line. He sways his weight from one foot to the other, as though an invisible force is preventing him from coming closer. Or maybe he’s just that repulsed with me now.

  “Well, let’s see. Other than making a fool of myself twice in one evening, I didn’t think you were interested in talking to someone who wants that kind of attention.”

  The swaying stops and, except for the lifting of a single eyebrow, he is motionless.

  I try again. “Wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to become your groupie.”

  That hit a chord. He shakes out his fists and storms away from me, only to turn back after a few short strides. An internal battle with his emotions seems to wage war on his body. He pivots, a scrunched expression activating each muscle. He whispers to himself, relaxes. Arrives back to me somewhere in mid-composure, only to have tension flare up again. Perhaps I’m not the only crazy one in the park tonight. His back is turned to me in retreat, and I watch his narrow silhouette rise and fall against the streetlight’s cast. With his next exhale, he spins on the heel of his shoe. All ten of his fingers press on his forehead. “I’m sorry. That is not at all what I meant to—”

  “No, I’m pretty sure that is exactly what you meant to say.” He may have temporary composure, but I sure don’t.

  “Okay then, explain to me, why did you dress that way? What did you expect I would think with that getup?” He swings his hand up and down at me as if scared to touch. “That shirt and the makeup and that lethal perfume?”

  “Scandalous.” I match his tone and pitch.

  “Exactly. The whole getup is scand—”

  Laughter escapes from my mouth. He doesn’t know how right he is. “I meant the perfume.”

  Frozen in confusion, he tilts his head with an innocence I want to vacuum seal and keep for future bad days.

  I shake my head at the stupidity of it all. “The perfume is called Scandalous Dare, but I guess you could apply that to the whole getup. You are definitely the one not from around here.” I use his question from our first encounter. He lowers himself to rest his back against the wall next to mine. The warmth of his body sends tingles of defrost down my shoulder. We sit in silence, watching satellites and faraway passenger airplanes connect the dots of the sky.

  After what feels like the perfect amount of silence, he exhales audibly. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. Could we maybe start again?”

  “Please.” I allow the opposite shoulder to release in unison. “I’m sorry as well. I have been a tad stressed out lately.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Nadia has a pretty solid heartbeat on her regular customers.”

  With intentional slowness, I glance toward the plaza. How does he know Nadia anyway? And how does Nadia know how stressed out I’ve been? “Does she also share in my so-called gift?”

  A smile raises his cheeks. “Maybe, but you can also learn a lot through being a really good listener.” He squints, as though he is preparing for me to bare my soul.

  I laugh more easily this time, baffled by the complete randomness of our encounters. I cross my legs and face him.

  He crosses his own legs so that our knees touch and leans forward on a supported arm. “Really, truly, Thea Fenton, tell me your woes.”

  My back stiffens, waiting for him to burst into laughter. But he nods slowly, clarifying his invitation.

  And so I do. I tell him my many woes. I start with the CliffsNotes on my family and friends and why I’m wearing such a ridiculous outfit. With the mention of Gavin and the pettiness of my senseless addiction to his beauty, I brace for him to scoff. But he does nothing more than bite his lip. I could tell him anything like I used to with Grams. Like I tried to with Mom. That was before she started to psychoanalyze my breakfast choice as an indicator of my overall mood. Will he analyze me too if I get into how messed up my internal world has been? I need to tell someone, though.

  I touch the cold skin of my cleared scalp at the back of my head. “If I tell you about this habit, do you promise not to check me into the hospital?”

  “Well …” He glances up and then sideways, his mouth scrunches to the side. “I guess so.”

  Despite his lighthearted response, the scattered strands of hair now surrounding me cause every muscle in my face to tingle and tighten. “I’m really messed up.” I gather a pile of strands and hold them out for him to see. I begin to twist the strands into a spiraled knot. “I get overwhelmed by . . . everything.”

  The emotions rush out of me, my voice cracking against a cry I don’t want to begin. “And now, I’m having these panic attacks or hallucinations. I don’t even know what they are. The world. It sometimes disappears, and all I can see is light. And it overwhelms me. Everything—the light, the sound—like I’m lost in this endless snowstorm.”

  He covers my fist full of hair.

  “I have a shrink,” I say. “I haven’t even told him about the hallucinations. It’s too messed up, and here I am spilling my guts to a guy I really—”

  “Thea, stop.” He gently pulls on my fingers until the hair is released to the cement below. A glisten covers the bold green of his irises. “You are brave. And so kind. To everyone else. When are you going to start extending grace to yourself?”

  I tilt back to take in his reaction. He lowers his gaze to my hand, flattening my fingers between his callused ones. His shoulders hunch in to match my own anguish, but he is alight again.

  “But that’s not everything, Khi. Sometimes, I see light around people. And you. Why you? You are …” I search for the word, “… radiant, as if you have this energy source that never falters. Why? And you don’t overwhelm me like every other guy. I have to be crazy.”

  With a microshake of his head, he whispers, “Thea, you are far from crazy.”

  Having somehow removed all tension from my hand, he meets my eyes, his now glowing with this unrestrained joy. He intertwines his fingers with mine, and I believe him. At this moment, I am not crazy. The surrounding cold seems to be pushed away by the warmth and connection between our touching skin.

  “You have such compassion.” He squeezes my hand. “You just don’t know what it is for yet.”

  “If it is such a gift, why am I so scared of it, like I am losing who I am every time I feel it?” My bag begins to vibrate next to me in patterned beats. How long have we been talking? I can’t feel my butt. That’s not a good sign.

  I lean sideways to retrieve my purse. “Oh no. Hold on.” I locate my phone and hit home. A laundry list of texts greets me, including a missed call from Tom. “Gah! It’s past eleven. How did this happen? I’m never late. And now twice in one day. I’m so sorry, but I’ve gotta run.” I use the wall to hoist myself up. “Can we please meet again? This week?” I mentally prepare for a third round of rejection.

  “Yeah. But no getup or perfume, okay?”

  “Point taken. When are you free?” My narcissistic radar kicks in with this simple question. I have spoken about myself for more than an hour. Did I ask him a single question about himself? I don’t even know if he goes to school. Or how he knows Nadia. Or why the heck he decided to leave Iceland. Or how he learned to bore a hole into someone’s heart with some verses and an acoustic guitar. If I were him, I wouldn’t have any time to see me again.

  “Wednesday night could work.”

  “Absolutely. Anytime after three.” I rub my thighs, willing blood to flow through the lower half of my body, and teeter toward the street. We check for traffic before crossi
ng. “And I will not just talk about myself. I promise. I’ll text you—I mean, call you. And I mean it.”

  “Sounds perfect, Thea.”

  The way he says my name causes the pins and needles to travel. He slowly stretches his arms overhead. I feel like my knees may give out as I catch the edge of a tattoo on the side of his lower abs that reads perfect in weakness with some code like a license plate below it. 2COR129. Something else to ask about next time.

  Tom’s car appears as I round the corner to the café. He is staring at his phone. I am a horrible sister. Calling him back while I stumble to him would have been a decent start. I quicken my pace. A distinct wool jacket appears in the distance. Apparently, Gavin did not go far either. He too is teetering, but I doubt from a numb bum or blistered feet.

  “Hey Thea, why dench you go wit me to da park?” he slurs from across the parking lot. He leaves the plaza wall and stumbles on an obvious trajectory toward me. Lennox and Fleur follow behind, keeled over in laughter, just waiting for round two of my humiliation.

  With renewed effort, I glue my attention to the ground and run. The blister on my left heel bursts. The last few strides are killer, but I refuse to show any emotion. Not until I have opened and closed the passenger door.

  An unexpected silence replaces Gavin’s slurs with the blessed thud of the door. Where is the indie punk rock? Oh no. This is not good either. Tom does not look up, but methodically places his phone into his pocket and then grips the wheel. In the rearview mirror I catch a glimpse of Gavin, closer than he should appear. The rearview warning sticker doesn’t help.

  I slam the locks down and yell as though a zombie apocalypse is upon us, “Drive!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Despite Tom’s frigid reception, he supports my plea with a tire squeal that leaves Gavin dumbfounded and alone in the middle of the road. The lights of the plaza blur past with our expedited departure. I shouldn’t, but the urge to peek back overwhelms my better judgment. Lennox has come to Gavin’s aid, acting like a crutch as they head back toward M&H. A platinum blonde with a distinct taste in heels meets them at the corner. Is that Ashley? We exit the plaza onto Hillside before I can be sure.