“Ah!” I shout, jumping out of the chair. Mason steps back and raises his palms.
“Sorry, thought you heard me,” he says, holding back a laugh.
“You’re like a ninja; how would I have heard you?”
This makes Mason laugh for real, and I find it’s impossible to keep a straight face. His unfiltered happiness is a rare treat, like when comedians laugh themselves out of character while performing sketch comedy. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, it’s contagious.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay down here,” he says after we’ve composed ourselves, waving a hand at the computer setup.
“I’m fine,” I say, sitting down.
“Okay, good. Because we’re ready to start now and won’t be taking a break for three hours,” Mason replies.
“Great,” I say.
Mason turns to leave.
“Hey, Mason?” I say. He turns around and looks at me expectantly. “I think I’m getting attached to Omaha.” Admitting it feels good, like a weight off my shoulders. I feel even better when Mason responds.
“Daisy, you’re an adaptable young woman, and that’s a great asset for the program,” he says. “But if you didn’t start getting attached to places or people at some point, I’d be worried. Honestly, hearing you say that is a relief.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to move again.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to see that we don’t.”
I smile and Mason leaves, and I sit at Wade’s computer wondering about what Mason said. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure it will do any good. I’ve heard that God likes Mason, but ultimately, God is the one in control.
If God says we move, there’s nothing Mason can do about it.
If God says we move, we move.
eleven
At dinner, the adults encourage Wade and me to hang out together tonight. I can see through Wade’s forced smile and gritted teeth that he’s as thrilled about the idea as I am. When Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman stand to clear plates and get dessert, Wade starts texting under the table and Mason leans over and whispers in my ear.
“I really think you should do this,” he says.
“I wanted to watch a movie at the hotel,” I protest. “And you know how I feel about…” I jerk my thumb in Wade’s direction so he doesn’t perk up at the sound of his own name.
“That’s the point,” Mason says. “Maybe you just need to get to know each other better. I think it’s important that you have friends, and at least Wade understands your past. You can talk about it with him.”
Mason looks at me pointedly, reminding me that I can’t talk about the program with Audrey or Matt.
“Except that he’s in denial,” I mutter.
“It’ll be fun,” Mason whispers before straightening up, signaling the end of the conversation. Mrs. Zimmerman returns carrying a coffeepot and Mr. Zimmerman trails behind with pie.
“Who likes blueberry?” Mrs. Zimmerman asks. Normally it’s my favorite, but right now, facing a night with Wade, and with Audrey and Matt back in Omaha, where I want to be, not even blueberry pie can make me happy.
An hour later, I’m riding shotgun in a car no teenager should own, listening to some weird rap-country hybrid on full blast, wishing upon wishing that I was a better debater when it comes to Mason. When there’s a break in the noise, I reach over and turn down the radio dial. Wade looks at me like I just slapped him, but he doesn’t turn it back up.
“So what are we doing tonight?” I ask.
“I thought we’d chill with my boys and my girl at The Field, and then hit up a party later.”
I bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the personality one-eighty. Wade would make a great Disciple someday, if he weren’t so ashamed of the program. Then again, I haven’t talked to him about it in a while. I decide to try again.
“So, how’s the test going?” I begin.
“Fine,” Wade says. “You know….”
“Yeah,” I say. “How far did you get today?”
“Just through the physical,” Wade answers. His tone is not necessarily encouraging, but it’s not dismissive, either. I decide to dive in with one of the biggies.
“So, Wade, how much do you remember about the day of the bus crash?”
Wade’s head snaps in my direction and he stares at me for so long that I’m afraid he’s going to crash the Porsche. Finally he looks away.
“Nothing,” he says flatly before turning the music back up. He ignores me for the rest of the drive.
As it turns out, The Field isn’t some hipster hangout downtown—a play on “playing the field”—nor is it a great wide expanse of landscape. It’s a soccer field.
And it’s lame.
We’re sitting with Wade’s girlfriend, Brittney, and his friends Colin and Nate on the top two benches of movable bleachers flanking a community play space. In thin jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, I’m warm even though the sun’s almost down.
“How do you know my boyfriend again?” Brittney asks defensively before sipping something that makes her shudder.
“Our dads are friends,” Wade answers quickly. He catches my eye and smiles, but underneath I can see a warning: Don’t go there.
“Oh, right,” Brittney says, tossing her satiny dark hair off her shoulder, hitting me in the face with it in the process.
Wade and Colin sit in front of Brittney and me. Nate, a little too broody for my taste, is sitting four rows down and to the side, by himself.
Colin turns to look at me and smiles. Muscular, blond, and blue-eyed, he’s nice-looking, but nothing close to Matt. Colin’s the guy next door you can’t believe lives in your town; Matt’s the one so striking you can’t believe he lives on your planet.
The obvious way that Colin flirts with me grosses me out a little.
“I almost didn’t come out tonight,” he says in a low voice that tries too hard. I look over and realize that Brittney and Wade are actually making out. Right next to us. I turn away quickly. “But I’m glad I did,” Colin continues, looking me up and down. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Thanks,” I say as I inch away from him. I try to look at anything other than the PDA to my right, so I watch Colin take a swig from his cup. I don’t even like the way he drinks.
Finally, Brittney and Wade come up for air, and though I’m happy that I don’t have to listen to any more smacking, sloppy kisses, the silence is uncomfortable. And frankly, the night is boring so far.
I consider the blood-red contents of my cup. Mason would call it a cup full of brain damage, but being with Wade and his friends might be doing me more harm than the booze. And Mason’s the one who forced me to come anyway. Shrugging, I down it all in one drink.
“More?” Brittney asks, seeming to like me a little better now. She holds up a thermos and shakes it a little.
“Sure,” I say. “Hit me.”
Who knows how long later, I wake up on foul-smelling carpet in a dark, red-lit room with walls that are oozing bass. I have no idea where I am, and for the first few minutes, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything other than how I feel right now. And how I feel is bad.
