Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

I had no idea how to make things easier, or even if I’d done something to make them difficult in the first place. What I did get was that it was paramount that we protect my mom from anything that might upset her, even if I wasn’t sure what those things were. So I learned another system: When in doubt, keep it out—out of earshot, out of the house—even if this meant, really, just keeping it in.

Each time I got close to telling my mom about this, though, something would happen to stop me. I was the only one left modeling now. And 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.

the sharpness of her shoulder blades as they rose out of her skin, looking like the wings of a dead baby bird I’d once found in our backyard, hairless and barely born, already broken.

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.

If I had to, I’d pad the edges of the story, filling it in, trying to make it substantial enough to nourish this need, her hunger for my life, at least, to somehow be normal. The worst part was that I had things I wanted to tell my mother, too many to count, but none of them would go down so easy. She’d been through too much, between my sisters—I could not add to the weight. So instead, I did my best to balance it out, bit by bit, word by word, story by story, even if none of them were true.

a song can take you back instantly to a moment, or a place, or even a person. No matter what else has changed in you or the world, that one song stays the same, just like that moment. Which is pretty amazing, when you actually think about it.”

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.

“Only a real asshole takes liberties with someone else’s car stereo. That’s serious.”

Don’t think, or judge. Just listen.”

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.

Instead, we just sat there, together but really apart, watching a show about a stranger and all her secrets, while keeping our own to ourselves, as always.

“The thing is,” Rolly said, “it’s a big deal when you finally get the chance to do the one thing you want to do—need to do—more than anything. It can kind of scare the crap out of you.”

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.

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.

But as the days passed, and then weeks, it seemed like even if I could have told my story, now it was too late. Like the longer the distance from it, the less people would be willing to believe it.

What if even if I had told, or did tell, nobody believed me? Or even worse, blamed me for it?

Once, the difference between light and dark had been basic. One was good, one bad. Suddenly, though, things weren’t so clear. The dark was still a mystery, something hidden, something to be scared of, but I’d come to fear the light, too. It was where everything was revealed, or seemed to be. Eyes closed, I saw only the blackness, reminding me of this one thing, the most deep of my secrets; eyes open, there was only the world that didn’t know it, bright, inescapable, and somehow, still there.

I’d had so many chances. Her, Owen, Emily. For so long, I’d thought all I needed was someone to listen, but that wasn’t really true at all. It was me that was the problem. I did this. And now, I did it again.

There has to be a middle. Without it, nothing can ever truly be whole. Because it is not just the space between, but also what holds everything together.

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.

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?” At first, I didn’t. But then, I looked back at the screen, those images moving across it, and realized he was right. 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.

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. A pink shirt, a rhyme with my name, the feeling of hands on my neck. 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.

But you can’t always get the perfect moment. Sometimes, you just have to do the best you can, under the circumstances.

was. I was angry. Really angry. At him, for attacking me. At myself, for waiting until now to fight back. At every other chance I hadn’t taken. All these months, I’d been having this same reaction, but I’d blamed it on nerves, or fear. It wasn’t.

There comes a time in every life when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you’d better learn to know the sound of it. Otherwise you’ll never understand what it’s saying.

You about ready? she’d asked me earlier, and then, I hadn’t been. Maybe I never would be. But there was no way around it now. So as I got ready to tell my story again, I did what Owen had done for me so many times: I reached out a hand, to my mother and my family. And this time, I pulled them through with me.

“You’re grounded,” I said, clarifying. “Yes.” “For what?” He winced, then shook his head, looking over at the fountain. Who knew the truth could be so hard for Owen Armstrong, the most honest boy in the world. But if I asked, he would tell. That I knew for sure. “Owen,” I said as he squirmed, noticeably, his shoulder wriggling, “what did you do?” He just looked at me for a minute. Then he sighed. “I punched Will Cash in the face.” “What were you thinking?” “Well, clearly I wasn’t.” He flushed a deeper red. “I didn’t intend to do it.” “You punched him by accident.” “No.” He shot me a look.

There was no short answer to this; like so much else, it was a long story. But what really makes any story real is knowing someone will hear it. And understand.

I closed my eyes and saw not the flat black of the dark but something else. Something brighter, closer to light, shining small but ever steady. More than enough to go on as a part of me pushed up and out, finally, to meet it there.