How to Say I Love You Out Loud (7 page)

“She said she really wants our project proposals by the end of the week.” Alex holds up his half-completed, stapled packet and grimaces. “I’m trying to take care of the
paperwork today so I can get back to actually doing something with the time. Things are getting kind of tight for me.”

He’s alluding to his Eagle Scout project, which he has been working on as part of independent study since the spring.

I nod, and he asks me, “Do you need a packet? You know what you’re going to do first trimester?”

“No.” My answer is blunt and crisp. Distracted by Phillip, I’ve given the topic little thought.

Alex shakes his head and makes a
tsk-tsk
noise. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his head, which causes his shirt to rise, providing me a glimpse of his boxers
above his jeans. I try really hard not to look.

“Not like you, Michaelson,” he scolds teasingly. “I figured, if anything, you’d be struggling to pick which of your
five
projects you actually wanted to focus
on.”

Last year, I did accomplish a lot. I came in knowing the reputation of my school. I felt the need to prove myself, to show that I deserved to be in their prestigious Gifted and Talented program
and that I wasn’t just “grandfathered” in based on my participation in a challenge program in my old, less rigorous school. I’d written four chapters of a dystopian teen
novel and restructured the school’s recycling program. All before Thanksgiving.

This year to date . . . I have nothing.

Alex is looking at me, eyes bright, waiting for me to join our familiar banter, our shtick.

When I don’t, he leans over and draws a quick cartoon portrait on one of the blank packets. He perfectly captures the obvious tension surrounding me in my features, and even my hair looks
on edge. Normally, if it was run-of-the-mill stress I was feeling, his picture would crack me up at once, and I’d feel a whole lot better.

I barely manage to force a smile.

The amusement drains from Alex’s eyes. He leans forward across the table, his face serious and concerned. “Jordyn?”

The sound of my first name throws me—it’s lobbed above the wall I feel surrounding me and actually reaches my heart.

But I’m not sure I want to feel anything right now.

I stare down at my binder. “Mind’s just somewhere else,” I mumble.

I make the mistake of glancing up, just for a second, and his eyes are as deep and thoughtful as ever. He looks at me, and he is worried. “Everything okay?”

Teenage guys are not supposed to be concerned like this. They are supposed to tell fart jokes, and comment on girls’ boobs, and not really pay attention when something is bothering a
friend. It’s really, really difficult when they convince you they can be something else entirely—a human being, one who truly cares,
especially
when they’re less yours
and more someone else’s.

Pain nudges at the numbness in my chest.

“Nothing you can fix,” I snap.

Alex’s spine straightens against his chair as he literally backs away from me. “Alright, that’s cool.” His voice is tight and flat, matching mine. He bends over his
paperwork and busies himself with completing the form.

I take a blank copy and pretend to get to work, too.

Except I have a couple of problems. The first being that I truly don’t have a first-trimester project lined up. The second being, I can’t stop myself from glancing up at him, every
few seconds.

The annoyance has faded from his face. I can tell he’s trying to concentrate, but it’s obvious his mind isn’t really on his work, either. Alex’s eyes are drawn and his
mouth is cast downward. He looks genuinely wounded, and I am surprised my stupid behavior has this kind of power over his mood.

Alex glances up once, and his eyes hold mine for an extended minute, assessing me, begging to understand the reason behind my snarkiness. It’s the look from him that will forever break
me.

So I hear myself apologizing. I am in a bad enough mood for the both of us, and he really doesn’t deserve the misery.

“Sorry for snapping.” I wait for him to look up again. “Really . . . I’m sorry.”

His sweetest smile reemerges, and his eyes clear. “It’s okay, Michaelson. I told myself I knew better than to take it personally. You girls are moody. I’m learning that
quickly.” Then the concern flickers in his eyes anew. “You just seemed really upset, but . . . I didn’t mean to pry.”

I
do
feel bad, but I still don’t want to talk about the thing that is weighing me down. So I force a smile, shake my head to dismiss his concerns, and scoot my chair toward the
corner of the table, closer to his. “So what exactly do you still have left to do?”

Alex mirrors my actions, scooting his chair closer to mine in return. The butterflies in my stomach flit their wings as I detect the familiar scents of Kenneth Cole Black cologne and cinnamon
Trident.

“A lot,” he answers. He slides the small crucifix, the one he’s never without, back and forth on the thin chain, a habit that emerges whenever he’s anxious about
something. “It’s a damn good thing that Mrs. Adamson gave me permission to work on this as part of independent study, even though it’s kind of double-dipping. I know it’s
been two semesters in a row, but I really need the time.”

I shrug. “I hardly think you should feel bad at all about spending your study time to do something so productive.” I roll my eyes in jest. “Really puts my recycling efforts to
shame, ya know?” He’s so close, and I feel brave enough to reach out and touch his sleeve, just for a second. The material is warm and soft against my hand and it’s harder than I
expect to pull away. “You deserve a lot of credit on all fronts. It’s really challenging, but more importantly, it comes from a really kind place.”

Alex’s heart is truly a really kind place.

A hint of color appears on his still-golden cheeks. “It’s not like I’m doing it all alone.”

“Yeah, but the project never would have even gotten started without you. It wouldn’t exist in the first place.”

He chews on his lower lip. “It just better turn out, right?” He laughs, the dimple in his right cheek appearing. “I’m going to be pissed off if this crazy vision I have
in my head doesn’t pan out.” Alex’s brow furrows and he sighs as he leans forward. “I spent so much time with research and fund-raising, I’m not sure if there’s
enough time left for the product to actually come together. There’s only about four weeks left until the dedication ceremony.”

“How can I help?”

“That depends on how handy you are with a circular saw or power drill,” he answers, lips quirking back into a smile.

My eyes widen in terror. “Ugh . . .”

The expression on my face cracks Alex up. “I’m just kidding. There’s painting, planting, cleanup . . . lots of things I need help with, actually. I was thinking about sending
some sign-up sheets around school, maybe trying to get together a Saturday work session.”

“Well, count me in. Provided I can have an exemption from the power tools.”

I’m really happy to hear I can help Alex out and show support for what he is trying to accomplish in our township. After realizing there was a dearth of wheelchair-friendly playgrounds
anywhere within a twenty-five-mile radius, Alex set out to change that. He tirelessly researched playgrounds for kids with disabilities around the country, spending hours reading product reviews of
ramps, elevated sand tables, and wheelchair-friendly swings and seesaws. Then he partnered with a local charity to raise the necessary funds, pounding the pavement with candy sales, car washes, and
hoagie sales. Campaigns with local businesses. Donation jars in every store in town.

Alex has finally arrived at phase III—playground construction—and he still refuses to take a backseat to the construction company doing most of the work. To Alex, the project is
still hands-on.

He’s shared the blueprints, sketches, and equipment images with me, and I have no doubt that the playground will be functional, beautiful, and impressive.

“It’s going to be
so
worth it,” I remind him.

“I hope so.” He fiddles with his paper, flipping it over, back and forth. When he speaks again, his voice is low and shy. “I get so annoyed when my mom has to feel apologetic
about not being able to maneuver around somewhere. How she sometimes has to feel like she’s an inconvenience to us, for something that isn’t her fault at all.” He shakes his head.
“And she’s an adult. Little kids who just want to go to a playground, to have fun like every other little kid, sure as hell shouldn’t have to feel that way.”

Does Leighton even appreciate you? Does she really? Does she
deserve
you?

I push the intrusive thoughts from my mind and try to refocus on our conversation. “Your mom . . . wow . . . how proud is she going to be when everything’s finished?”

The color flares again in his cheeks. “Yeah . . . well . . . hope so.”

Alex’s mom is a lifelong diabetic. Six years ago, complications with her condition resulted in a severe stroke at a shockingly young age. As a result, Mrs. Colby’s facial features
are distorted by partial paralysis, her speech is garbled, and she is wheelchair-bound.

I think the second or third time I acknowledged I was probably in love with Alex was when I saw him pushing her around the tennis club last summer for Family Day. He took such good care of her
and seemed so damn proud to be pushing her wheelchair.

Knowing that Alex has a family member with a disability has made me consider confiding in him a thousand times. I’m sure in his home, it’s sort of like mine—every aspect of
family life revolves around the limitations of someone else in the house. He could sort of relate, right?

But I always decide . . . not really.

Despite her speech problems, Mrs. Colby is
with it
. She is sweet and friendly, a social butterfly that simply lacks wings. She’ll talk your ear off when she sees you—even if
it takes a while for her to spit it out—and she remembers everything you ever said to her. She enters wheelchair relays and decorates her spokes for the seasons. Blinking pumpkins illuminate
her wheels through October and November, then they’re replaced with green and red tinsel as soon as Thanksgiving passes. Everyone loves Mrs. Colby, you can just tell. She’s hardly a
source of embarrassment or pity.

So Alex really can’t relate at all.

He’s finished filling out his form for Mrs. Adamson and reaches toward the far end of the table for a stack of brightly colored flyers. “If you really need a project
idea”—he slides a neon green paper across the table toward me—“here you go.”

I stare at the flyer, announcing the regional Oracle Society’s annual high-school speech competition, slated to take place at Villanova University at the end of October.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Bet you could write an amazing speech.”

I start folding the paper in half. “Yeah. Too bad there’s just that small little issue of delivering it to, oh, what? A few hundred people in a college auditorium? With a panel of
judges sitting front and center? Suuure.”

Alex’s eyes take on that serious cast again. “You shouldn’t have let me read the first couple chapters of your book then.”

“I didn’t!” I laugh. “You took my notebook without asking.”

“Either way. Now I know how good your writing is.” He taps the speech-contest flyer with his pencil. “Just a shame not to share your words and ideas.”

I flip my hair over my shoulder, aiming for glib. “Once I’m a published,
New York Times
–bestselling author, they’ll be shared with plenty of people.”

I have to laugh at his idea. Public speaking really isn’t my forte. That whole “eyes on me” scenario I hate so much. By
choice
.

And before I fold the paper in half, I catch a glimpse of this year’s topic.

“The Power of Speech.”

Silly thing for me to try to write about. As someone who stays silent about so many things she’s thinking, feeling, and enduring, I really have no business commenting on the topic.

It’s a quiet day at school on Friday. (Forty-two days to go.)

I have a successful afternoon. We play a home game against Great Valley, and we win. In my position as midfielder, I don’t have a lot of opportunities to shine in terms of goals scored or
blocked, but my performance is steady and strong. I set Leighton up for most of
her
goals, at any rate.

The mood in the locker room is exuberant and silly as Leighton and Dana flit through the room, spinning the rest of us in impromptu dance moves and handing out bunches of victory Blow Pops.
Sometimes, I’m as susceptible as everyone else, and the positive attention from Leighton feels like a gift.

My family isn’t at home—maybe Phillip has a med check with one of his various doctors—and I blare the radio loud enough for the Black Keys to be heard over the running shower.
I’m in and out in fifteen minutes, in a pretty darn good mood despite the week’s chaotic beginning and excited for the night.

I head toward Bravo Pizza to meet Erin and Tanu for a brick-oven pie before the football game. By the time we arrive forty-five minutes later, the sun has set and the air is crisp and chilled.
Fallen leaves crunch under our feet and I’m glad I dug out my colorful striped gloves to pair with my jeans and long-sleeved field hockey tee. We always wear them after a home win. We make
our way to the far end of the home stands, our conversation attempts drowned out by the tinny din of the marching band, the static play-by-play from the announcers’ booth, and the rhythmic
calls from the cheerleaders.

I spot Alex’s mom in the crowd, pom-poms in hand, her wheelchair positioned near the bottom of the bleachers. She sees me walk past and raises her good arm to wave to me. I’ve only
spoken with her a handful of times, but she swore she never forgets a face and she makes good on that promise.

Our group isn’t hard to spot, with its members clad in identical maroon T-shirts. We have to sit as a team—Leighton’s orders—but at least other friends aren’t
excluded, so we don’t have to ditch Tanu, who would absolutely hate that.