Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

The camera moved in, closer, closer, until all you could see was my face, the rest dropping away. This had been before that night, before everything that had happened with Sophie, before this long, lonely summer of secrets and silence. I was a mess, but this girl—she was fine.

I was not bold and outspoken, or silent and calculating. I had no idea how anyone would describe me, or what would come to mind at the sound of my name.

If you could just be nice, then you wouldn’t have to worry about arguments at all. But being nice wasn’t as easy as it seemed, especially when the rest of the world could be so mean.

It was becoming clear, though, that my self-imposed isolation during the summer had been more effective than I’d realized. Right after everything happened, I’d cut myself off entirely, figuring this was safer than risking people judging me.

I felt my stomach physically drop, as if from a great height, straight down. Everything narrowed, the sounds around me falling away as my palms sprang into sweat, my heartbeat loud in my ears, thump thump thump.

And while I had told myself that in broad daylight I could be strong and fearless, I felt as helpless as that night, as if even in the wide open, the bright light of day, I still wasn’t safe.

while it is hard enough to take away something that makes a person happy, it’s even more difficult when it seems like it’s the only thing.

But there was something about our daily proximity that had made me relax, or at least not jump every time he looked my way.

I was beginning to see, though, that the unknown wasn’t always the greatest thing to fear. The people who know you best can be riskier, because the words they say and the things they think have the potential to be not only scary but true, as well.

There was a pattern here, some sense of connection, even if I didn’t want to see it. It didn’t seem fair or right, but I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe all of this, and where I found myself, wasn’t so accidental. Maybe it was just what I deserved.

I’d learned to forgive myself these little trespasses, because they made her happy. Unlike the real truth, which would be the last thing she wanted to hear.

“I don’t know,” I said as we turned into the school entrance. “Maybe because, you know, you have a whole day to yourself.” For a second, she didn’t answer, focusing instead on pulling over to the curb. “It’s a day,” she said finally. “I used to have a whole life.”

“Didn’t you get enough that night? You need more or something?” Somehow, I started to move forward again. Don’t get sick, don’t look back, don’t do anything, I kept telling myself, but my throat felt raw, my head light.

All I wanted—all I’d ever wanted—was just to get away. To be somewhere small where I could crowd in and feel safe, all four walls pressed around me, no one staring or pointing or yelling.

I pushed through the bodies beside me, one hand over my mouth. I could hear people talking, laughing, as the crowd gave way, bit by bit, and I finally reached the outer edge. The main building was right in front of me, a row of tall bushes in front of it that led around its back side. I ran toward them, their prickly leaves scraping my hands as I pushed through. I didn’t make it far, and could only hope I was out of sight as I bent over, one hand clutching my stomach, and got sick in the grass, coughing and spitting, the sound rough in my ears.

It was horrible and embarrassing, and one of those moments when you just want more than anything to be alone. Especially when you suddenly realize you’re not.

“So, um,” he said, “are you okay?” I nodded, the response instant. “Yeah,” I said. “I just felt sick all of a sudden, I don’t know…” “I saw what happened,” he said. “Oh,” I said. I felt my face flush. So much for trying to save face. “Yeah. That was…pretty bad.”

“I don’t…” I said, then trailed off, not sure exactly how to put this. “I just don’t like to hurt people. Or upset them. So sometimes, you know, I won’t say exactly what I think, to spare them that.” The ironic thing was that saying this out loud was actually the most honest I’d been in ages. If not ever.

Or my sudden awareness of how rarely I was honest. Either way, I broke. “I…I didn’t like it,” I said. He slapped his leg. “I knew it! You know, for someone who lies a lot, you’re not very good at it.” This was a good thing. Or not? I wasn’t sure. “I’m not a liar,” I said. “Right. You’re nice,” he said. “What’s wrong with nice?” “Nothing. Except it usually involves not telling the truth,”

He didn’t say anything; I knew he was waiting for more details. “She thinks I slept with her boyfriend,” I added. “Did you?” Of course he would ask, point-blank. But still, I felt my face flush. “No,” I said. “I didn’t.” “Maybe you should tell her that,” he said. “It’s not that simple.” “Huh,” he said. “Call me crazy, but I’m sensing a theme here.” I looked down at my hands, thinking again that I had to be awfully simple for him to deduce so much about me in less than a week. “So if you were me,” I said, “you would—” “—just be honest,” he finished. “On both counts.” “You say that like it’s easy, too,” I told him. “It’s not. But you can do it. It just takes practice.” “Practice?”

“Look,” he said, “I’m just going to say this: It’s got to suck, you know? Keeping something like that in. Walking around every day having so much you want to say, but not doing it. It’s gotta make you really mad. Right?”

But hearing this, I thought of something else, the thing I could never admit, the biggest secret of all. The one I could never tell, because if the tiniest bit of light was shed upon it, I’d never be able to shut it away again.

“How do you stand it?” he said. I blinked. “I’m sorry?” “I mean,” he said, “it’s just so silent. Empty.” “What is?” “This,” he said, gesturing around the car. “Driving in silence. With no music.” “Well,” I said slowly, “to be honest, I didn’t realize we were, actually.” He sat back, his head bumping the headrest. “See for me, it’s immediate. Silence is so freaking loud.”

If you can’t trust yourself, who can you trust? You know?”

Maybe it was a stupid exercise, and you couldn’t grow things in winter. But there was something I liked about the idea of those seeds, buried so deep, having at least a chance to emerge. Even if you couldn’t see it beneath the surface, molecules were bonding, energy pushing up slowly, as something worked so hard, all alone, to grow.

“What about you?” he said. “What about me?” “How can they tell when something’s wrong with you?” They can’t, I thought, but I didn’t say this. Couldn’t say this. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess you’d have to ask them.”

He studied the pictures long enough that I began to regret pointing them out. “It’s strange,” he said finally. “Gee,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” “No, I mean, you don’t look like you, or something.” He paused, leaning in a little closer. “Yeah. I mean, you look familiar, but not like the same person at all.”

That girl was different from who I was now, more whole and unbroken and okay than the one I saw in the mirror these days. I’d just thought I was the only one who noticed.

“Man,” Owen said, blinking as he pulled over by the curb, “that was really something.” “Told you. Everything sounds better in the car wash.” “Everything, huh?” He was looking at me as he said this, and I had a flash of his face just moments earlier, staring up at the windshield, listening so carefully. Maybe sometime, I would be able to say everything I’d thought at that moment. And even more.

She knew. I could tell with one glance, one look, one simple instant. It was her eyes. Despite the thick makeup, they were still dark-rimmed, haunted, and sad. Most of all, though, they were familiar. The fact that we were in front of hundreds of strangers changed nothing at all. I’d spent a summer with those same eyes—scared, lost, confused—staring back at me. I would have known them anywhere.

“Hey,” I said. “Did you get lost?” As I stepped over the threshold into the dark, I had my first prickling sense that something wasn’t right. It was just how the room felt, like the entire space around me was unsettled. I stepped back, reaching for the knob, but I couldn’t find it, my fingers only touching wall.

Even so, deep down, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. That this wasn’t my fault, and in a perfect world, I could tell people what happened and somehow not be ashamed. In real life, though, this was harder. I was used to being looked at—it was part of who I was, who I’d been as long as I could remember. But once people knew about this, I was sure they’d see me in a different way. That with every glance, they’d no longer see me, but what had happened to me, so raw and shameful and private, turned outward and suddenly scrutinized. I wouldn’t be the girl who had everything, but the girl who’d been attacked, assaulted, so helpless. It seemed safer to hold it in, where the only one who could judge was me.

As I turned away, I felt his hand on my arm. “Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?” “What?” I asked. “Why?” “I don’t know.” He dropped his hand, then looked at me. “You just seem…I don’t know. Not yourself, or something. Everything all right?” And here I’d thought I was hiding it. But like the difference between the picture on Mallory’s wall and my face in the picture he took, this contrast—between who I’d been and who I felt myself becoming, again, with each step I took or was forced to take backwards—was obvious. To both of us. Which was why this time, I didn’t hesitate and try to be honest, instead just going with what came naturally. “I’m fine,” I told him, but I could feel him watching me as I walked away.

“Yup.” Owen nodded. “She’s dead honest. Doesn’t hold back.” As he said this, I felt some part of me just sink. Because I so wanted this to be true, enough that, once, I’d actually believed it was. But now, I just sat there, feeling them both looking at me, and felt like the biggest liar of all.

Once outside, the cold air hit me like a smack, gravel crunching beneath my feet as I left the building behind me. It was all too familiar, this bubbling up inside me, my throat burning, never enough time to get away. I barely made it to my car before I was dropping to my knees, the waters spilling to the ground as I smoothed my hair back with my hand. This time, though, as I felt my stomach clench, my body retch, nothing came up. All I could hear was the raspy sound of my own breathing, my heart thumping in my ears, and in the distance, barely audible but still somehow playing, music.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and as the words came out I heard my voice break. “I just…” This is the problem with dealing with someone who is actually a good listener. They don’t jump in on your sentences, saving you from actually finishing them. Or talk over you, allowing what you do manage to get out to be lost or altered in transit. Instead, they wait. So you have to keep going. “I don’t know what to say,” I finally managed. “I just…don’t.”

“Then what happened?” he said. “Why did you just bolt? I didn’t know what was going on. I waited for you.” There was something in these last few words that made my heart just break. I waited for you. Of course he had. And of course he would tell me this, because unlike me, Owen didn’t keep secrets. With him, what you saw was really what you got. “I’m sorry,” I said again, but even to me it sounded so lame and weak, meaningless. “I just…There was a lot going on.”

Owen looked at me, shifting his bag to the other leg. “What?” “It is like me,” I said. My voice was low, even to my ears. “This is just like me.” “Annabel.” He still sounded annoyed, like this could never be true. So wrong. “Come on.” I looked down at my hands again. “I wanted to be different,” I said to him. “But this is how I really am.”

Everywhere I went, I needed some kind of noise. When I was in the car, I instantly turned on my stereo; in my room, I hit the light switch first, my CD player ON button second. Even in class, or sitting at the table with my parents, I’d always have to have some song in my head, repeating itself again and again. I remembered Owen telling me how music had saved him in Phoenix, that it drowned everything out, and it was the same for me now. As long as I had something to listen to, I could blur the things I didn’t want to think about, if not block them out completely.

“Oh,” she said. Her voice was quiet but audible. “There you are.” Like I’d been lost. Misplaced, only now turning up, like a sock you find long after you’ve assumed it was eaten by the dryer. I didn’t say anything, too distracted by a rising panic. I’d picked my spot because it was secluded, faced the wall, and was tucked away from everything, the same reasons it was the last place you wanted to find yourself trapped.

I started to cry. Cry. Really cry, the way I hadn’t in years, the kind of full-out sobbing that hits you like a wave, pulling you under. Suddenly the tears were just coming, sobs climbing up my throat, my shoulders shaking. I turned around clumsily, trying to hide myself, banging my elbow on the edge of the carrel,

I saw you today. After lunch. You were leaving the library, and you just looked really upset.” Maybe it was because she’d brought up Owen. Or because at this point, I really didn’t have that much to lose as far as she and I were concerned. Whatever the reason, I just decided to be honest. “I’m surprised,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d care if I was upset.”

I wondered which was harder, in the end. The act of telling, or who you told it to. Or maybe if, when you finally got it out, the story was really all that mattered.

It was a good thing, and yet I felt strangely disconnected. As if I were now a car on the street outside, slowing down to stare, with nothing in common at all but proximity, and barely that.

If you don’t pay attention to the past, you’ll never understand the future. It’s all linked together. You see what I’m saying?”

The past did affect the present and the future, in the ways you could see and a million ones you couldn’t. Time wasn’t a thing you could divide easily; there was no defined middle or beginning or end. I could pretend to leave the past behind, but it would not leave me.

I could suddenly feel myself getting more anxious, even as I tried to focus on the images on the screen. My mind was racing, too fast to even think, and after a few minutes I went back to bed.

I closed my eyes, the events of the last few days blurring across my vision in bits and pieces. My heart was pounding. Something was happening I didn’t, or couldn’t, understand. I sat up, kicking off the covers; I needed something to calm me down, or just even take away these thoughts, if only for a little while. Reaching

All I’d ever wanted was to forget. But even when I thought I had, pieces had kept emerging, like bits of wood floating up to the surface that only hint at the shipwreck below.

Because that is what happens when you try to run from the past. It doesn’t just catch up: it overtakes, blotting out the future, the landscape, the very sky, until there is no path left except that which leads through it, the only one that can ever get you home.