Free Sleeping Handsome by Jean Haus

~1~

 
 
 
 
    His
mother gestures for me to go in first and I force myself to cross the
threshold. I walk into a room that smells like medicine and sounds like death
between the whoosh of air and a constant beep. My eyes scan the wall shelves
full of trophies, the posters of athletes and girls, the computer desk covered
with medicines, the plaid lazy boy chair in the middle of the room, and the
machines near the window anything but the body on the bed.
    Mrs. Wallace motions to
the wooden shelves next to the bed. Too close to the bed. “These are his books,
his favorites. Any of these will do. Just…if you start one, please finish it.”
    I nod and force a
closed lipped smile. Yesterday, during our long phone conversation—I suppose
interview—she had put me at ease with this odd situation, but today the
stillness of the room has my stomach pinching.
    “I’ll be here today,”
she steps into the hall, “but usually I’m at work. If you come back, the nurse
will let you in.”
    Scared to speak and let
her know how much this is freaking me out, I run a hand through my long hair
before I nod again. She pauses outside the doorway and her gaze rests on the
bed. After a slight shake of her head, she leaves me alone with the body.
    I finally look with her
gone. Though the shape under the blanket is thin, the face under the breathing
tube is swollen and fat. A wide swath of medical tape covers the nose. Dark,
brown hair cut in a neat buzz frames the face. A hospital gown rises and lowers
over the chest in a beat matching the whoosh of air from the machine. Tubes and
wires go from him across the tan carpet to the machines. Other than those
machines, the room is silent and motionless.
    A dry lump of yuck forms
in my throat. If only he were older, not near my age, this would seem a little
normal. Not so creepy.
    I catch my expression
of revulsion in the mirror above the dresser. The face I didn’t want his mother
to see. Geez, my tan skin is almost as white as his. The brown of my eyes and
the pink sheen of my lip-gloss are the only color on my face. I slowly set my
favorite purse on the dresser and move even slower to the shelf of books.
Without looking, I grab one and fall into the chair. My French manicured nails
tap the cover while I think of the repercussions of escaping this tomb of a
room.
    Possible expulsion from
school.
      For both Amanda and me.
    I open the book and
begin to read. My mouth forms the words and pauses when necessary, but my brain
doesn’t totally connect to the historical story about a man in France. I’m sure
I sound monotone, even robotic, but it’s all I can do at this moment. Beyond
saying the words, I’m thinking of how I got here.
    ~~~
    “Paige, I know you
wrote the paper and did the project,” Mr. Block said from behind his desk.
    I shook my head and
gave him my most honest expression—practiced in the mirror, tried not only on
both of my parents, but in auditions. “I helped her a little, that’s all.”
    He let out a long sigh.
“You may not be aware of this, but you have a certain writing style. It’s very
distinctive. I compared it to your previous works and showed Amanda. She
admitted it this morning, even said you offered.”
    Anger shot through me
as I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed my denial. One because she lied, she
had begged, almost ordered me to do the project for her. And two because she
could have told me he knew. She could have texted me a warning during first,
second, or even third hour.
    “Cheating on such a
large project is possible grounds for expulsion.” The reality of that E-word
floated through me and landed with a thud in my stomach. I’ve never stood up to
my best friend, but at that moment I wanted to strangle her. “However, Amanda
has agreed to redo the paper and board presentation. She has also agreed to
join Future Leaders and do several weeks of community service. Would you be
interested in such an agreement?” He gave me a pointed look.