Free Sleeping Handsome by Jean Haus Page B

real guy the stuff I tell him—that doesn’t seem to be the case. If
anything, it’s just helps me understand myself. Something I’ve never tried to
do before.
    “Carson asked Amanda to
homecoming. Like I didn’t see that was coming. I’m getting a little more than
pissed at how she goes after every guy I like. Well, I’m attracted to. With her
around, I never get to know them long enough to find out if I really like them.
She fits that saying, you know the one, with chicks like her who needs
enemies.”
    Refusing to look at his
motionless body, I notice the table on the far wall. Littered with toothpaste, soap,
and sponges, I realize the nurse uses that stuff to— ew— keep up his hygiene. My eyes
quickly find the cover of The Count of
Monte Cristo . That’s another reason I like to talk. Too much looking always
freaks me out.
    I force my thoughts
back to our, well my, conversation. “Maybe I should pretend to hate the next
guy who catches my interest.” My fingers find the last page folded over from
yesterday. “She never does it to Kelly. Though I must say, Kelly has bad taste
and likes the ones who treat her like crap.”
    The book waits on my
lap. “ Which is kind of funny. Not the getting treated
like crap part, but Kelly’s better looking than both Amanda and me. You know
the all American look, blonde hair, blue eyes, and tall while Amanda looks
like…one of the Kardashian sisters. Yeah, that’s probably it. All tits and ass.
That’s why all the guys fall for her. While I’m just brown. Brown hair, brown
eyes, brown skin—too much sun my mom says, but who doesn’t like to lounge
around the pool? Though I do have a great smile,” I say with a cheesy grin and
tap my front tooth. “I’ll admit when I’m not with those two, I feel somewhat
attractive and notice guys checking me out. But with Amanda’s boobs around,
what guy can see past her D cups?”
    I lean forward,
pretending he can hear me. “I also have to admit it gets real annoying. Being
obsessed with how I look all the time. Dieting all the time. I’m thinking next
year out of high school, except when I do auditions, I’ll dress like a bum,
won’t wear make-up, and keep my hair in a ponytail. Eat ice cream and
cheeseburgers. In moderation of course. I’m expecting it to be liberating,” I
say with a sweep of my arm and lean back into the cushioned confines of the
chair.
    “Okay,” I bring the
book up to eye level, “where were we?” I expect to finish this lame story
today. I have been putting more drama—changing my voice for the characters and
changing my tone in times of suspense—into it since that first day. Though at
times the story’s all right, most of the time it just drags in melodramatics.
It’s shocking that a seventeen-year-old sports nut—if I were to judge him by
his wall of posters and trophies—would shelf it with his favorites. It’s not
girly or anything, just so old-fashioned. The language so ancient. I pretend
I’m auditioning for a historical role while I read to keep myself interested.
    Over halfway through
the hour, I finally come to the end, the last paragraph.

 
    "Darling,"
replied Valentine, "has not the count just told us that all human wisdom
is summed up in two words? -- `Wait and hope.'”

 
    Air rushes
into the otherwise silent room as the body lies still as always. Wait and hope.
His future explained in three words. His mother’s too. How sad. I feel for both
him and his mother. But it’s a hollow feeling. I know nothing of this boy other
than stillness, nothing of his mother other than sadness. My fingers absently
twist the four-karat diamond in my ear. I don’t like how the hollow feeling
makes me feel empty.
    My thoughts
of emptiness halt and my hand drops when a tall man stands in the doorway. He’s
gray haired and wearing a tie and dress shirt. The book drops in my lap.
“Ah…hello.”
    With
narrowed eyes, he nods but doesn’t say anything, just looks skeptically at