The One Thing (17 page)

“It’s a long drive.”

Mason was quiet for several moments, and then, sounding slightly embarrassed, he said, “I thought she was a fan—that she faked her blindness so Ben would feel sorry for her. I
thought she was stalking me, trying to find information about our concerts.”

David whistled, long and low. “Damn,” he said, “that’s some bigheaded shit right there.” When Mason didn’t reply, David went on. “Is it that much of a
stretch to see that Ben and Maggie might have something in common? I mean, life has basically handed them their asses. Maybe Maggie just needs a friend? Maybe she’s going through a rough
time?”

Big sigh from Mason’s side of the car. “I know, I know,” Mason said. “Mostly, I was worried about Ben—he’s too trusting, and I didn’t want him getting
hurt. He really likes Maggie, you know?” He was silent for some time, and when he finally spoke, he seemed to be grasping for the right words. “And sometimes...sometimes I’d swear
she can see. Sometimes it’s like she’s looking right
at
me.”

“Yeah, jackass, it’s called
adapting to your circumstances
. You should try it sometime.”

“I have to pee” was the first thing I said to Ben. And then I cracked up.

Ben puffed out his cheeks and shot Mason the dirty eyeball. He gestured to the Miltons’ living room, where we were currently standing—leaning, actually, in my case. To Mason, he
said, “You stole her from here and got her
drunk
? I’ve been worried about her, you know. I mean, all you had to do was call and let me know she was all right.”

Ben sounded so adorably old for his body that I started laughing again. “Aw. Ben?
Ben.
It was a spurred-moment thing.” I shook my head. “A spur-moment.” I
sighed, let my head fall back, and shut my eyes. “A—spur—of—the—moment—thing, and I did not know I was drinking alcoholic beverages until they were all in my
bladder. Can I go pee? I’m going pee.” I stepped grandly into the tiny powder room to my immediate right, from where I could hear Ben and Mason arguing. It was about either what to do
with me or what
not
to do with me. Definitely one of those. But when I made my way back into the living room, Ben was the only one standing there, still looking charmingly parental.
“Where’s Mason?” I asked.

“Went to find you some aspirin. Says you’re gonna need it.”

“Ah,” I said, and I wove my way across the room, slamming into the piano and knocking a half-dozen or so pictures off the lid.

“
Don’t. wake. up. my. mother,
” Ben hissed. Ben had never been angry with me before, and I found it sort of endearing. I reached out and pinched his cheek between my
thumb and index finger. He mashed his lips together and said, “My uncle would freak if he knew you’ve been drinking.”

“Which is why you won’t tell him. My probation officer would not understand what went down tonight.”

“Yeah? Well, neither do I. What gives? You leave with my brother without even telling me?”

I collapsed on the couch, all sighs. “Ben. Ben, darling. You’re only ten and I’m about to be a senior in high school and sometimes I need to hang out with people from my age
group.”

A small frown appeared between his brows. “I didn’t know my age bothered you so much,” he said quietly.

“Aw, c’mon, Ben. Your age doesn’t matter to me. You know that. It’s just, your brother is...” I heard a sigh escape my lips. I didn’t know how it got there.
My lips seemed to be sighing on their own.
“Mason Milton.”

Realization slid over Ben’s features, and then he took a step backward. He looked as though he’d been slapped. “So Mason was right. You’ve been using me to get near
him.”

“Ack. That’s not what I meant,” I said, but Ben just shook his head—his eyes the deepest, darkest oceans of hurt and sadness—and spun around on his crutches and
left.

Goddamn it. I tried to go after him, but the room was spinning, which was not something I thought actually happened in real life. Anchoring one foot on the floor, I shut my eyes. No dice. Still
spinning. Next thing I knew, Mason was hovering over me—looking concerned and gorgeous and late-night tousled—tucking a stray curl behind my ear and letting his hand linger on my cheek,
like it was fragile, like it was beautiful, the intensity of his eyes making my heart lurch. “Brought you some aspirin,” he murmured.

The air between us was electric, the ions vibrating, unbalanced. I blinked up at him, achingly aware that his lips were only a few breaths from mine, and if I weren’t so dizzy, so groggy,
I’d close that distance and kiss him. Instead I reached up with my hand, found his mouth, and ran a clumsy index finger along his bottom lip. Suddenly—idiotically—I said,
“Your lips feel a lot softer than they look.”

The last thing I saw before I passed out was the stiff set of Mason’s shoulders as he strode away.

“C
ripes, Maggie. You’re a late sleeper.”

I winced and pulled the covers over my head. Clarissa was on the phone, shouting words into my skull.

“How come you’re still in bed at one in the afternoon? Are you okay?” she asked.

Good question. I remembered going to Ben’s last night. I remembered David asking me to tag along to the concert. I remembered the music, the dancing with Mason. The lemonade. Getting
kicked out of the club. Arriving at the Miltons’ and talking to Ben and Mason—

Oh shit.

Ben.

Mason.

I jerked upright. Clearly the wrong move, because—holy crap—my head was absolutely
screaming
at me. I lowered back down an inch at a time, holding it like any sudden
movement might cause it to detonate right off my neck. Slowly letting go, I ran one trembling hand to the side.

My nightstand. My room. Had Mason brought me home last night? Yes. He must have, yes. I didn’t actually remember it, but I could feel that it was true.

I was queasy and sweaty and smothered in blankets, and if I didn’t stop thinking about my stupidity last night, I might throw up or explode or otherwise blink away from existence.
What
have you done
? a voice whispered from some dark, regretful place in my chest.

I groaned quietly, a sound that banged agonizingly against my cranium.

“Anyway,” Clarissa chirped, “Girl Scouts was canceled today, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to work on our paper? Or else obsess and brainstorm on the Big Secret? Did
you see the new comment on the last concert video? There’s some guy called Cannon Dude who says that ‘the secret lies with the singer’ and that anyone who hasn’t figured out
the Big Secret by now doesn’t deserve to listen to the Loose Cannons, let alone attend a concert. I know, right? Totally ridiculous. It cannot be that easy. It cannot. I may not be brilliant,
but I am a huge fan and I know
every
.
stinking. thing
about the band. And I have spent hours investigating them, Maggie. Hours searching that website. Wouldn’t I have
figured it out by now? Yes. Of course I would, yes.” She sighed loudly in my ear. “So. What do you say? Want to hang out today?”

I rolled onto my side and regretted it immediately. Something that smelled suspiciously like puke was crusted against my pillowcase. I swallowed and slid backward. “Actually, I think I
have the flu or something.”

“Want me to bring you some soup?”

My hand flew to my mouth. “No, thanks,” I choked.

“Won’t take no for an answer,” she said lightly. “Fenstermacher soup is famous for its healing powers.” And then she threw a bunch of words directly at my headache,
telling me about all the things Fenstermacher soup had done for her—how last year, when she’d failed a math exam, she’d eaten it nonstop, and how it had helped soothe her after
her dog had died, and so on and so forth.

In the end, I agreed to the soup, though I had no idea why. And when I stood up and staggered into the bathroom, the very thought of soup had me running to the toilet to dry heave. I stayed
there for a moment, forehead resting on the cool toilet seat, before I crawled into the shower. Slumped under the faucet, I let the water massage my neck and tried to work out how to apologize to
Ben, tried to decide what to say to Mason, tried to figure out how to clean up the gigantic mess I’d created.

I was still wrapped in a towel when I dialed the Miltons’ number. It rang five times before someone picked up, and even then they didn’t speak. I felt a cold trickle of water drip
off my hair and slide down between my shoulder blades. “Hello? Ben?” I said after a few heartbeats. “Mason?”

Dial tone.

Something huge and sticky wedged itself into my throat.

Shortly after I got dressed, Clarissa appeared at my front door like an overly caffeinated jack-in-the-box. She passed me a Tupperware container of soup and some rather chirpy encouragement:
“Eat this immediately” and “Call me tomorrow if you need more” and “I’m sorry you feel lousy.” I nodded and um-hummed and thank-youed and said good-bye.
And as I put the container in the fridge, I tried not to think about how Clarissa was acting like a real friend, even though I’d hardly said boo to her. I tried not to think about how
she’d probably sooner shoot herself in the foot than hurt somebody’s feelings. I tried not to think about how she’d basically dropped everything to come by and help
me—something I hadn’t done for a friend, not once in my life.

When I was twelve or thirteen—or however old you are when you’re in the seventh grade—I decided quite suddenly and without sufficient thought that I should become a beekeeper.
Back then I was terrified of bees. I found their little buzzing sounds and their little pointy stingers and their little fluttering wings absolutely frightening. Which was exactly why I found it
necessary to conquer them.

Conquer them, conquer my fears.

Maggie Sanders: bee wrangler.

Looking for clear-cut beekeeping instructions, I went to the bookstore, where a bespectacled woman with pursed lips and a posture more erect than necessary led me to the
Idiots
and
Dummies
section of the store. She then spun around on one heel and stalked off, leaving me alone to decide which book to purchase. After some thought, I bought
The Complete
Idiot’s Guide to Beekeeping
, because if I had to classify myself, I’d be more of an idiot (somewhat ignorant) than a dummy (just plain stupid).

Anyhow, I learned that there were a couple of ways to start a bee colony. Either I had to invest a significant amount of money in buying a colony of starter bees, or I needed to find a hive and
collect the starter bees myself. My being an idiot and all, I decided to go with the cheaper route: scale the oak in my backyard and bag the grapefruit-size hive that dangled from a thick,
gnarled-up branch about halfway up the tree.

So I was up in the tree—teetering on a fat branch with an extra-large trash bag in one hand and a broom in the other—when I remembered why I’d always sucked at softball. I had
hideous aim with a bat. I swiped at the hive with the business end of the broom, trying to knock it into the bag. But I missed and nicked the thing mid-hive, breaking off a large bee-filled chunk
of honeycomb, which flew straight up in the air, directly over my head, and then straight back down into the floppy gap in the back waistband of my shorts. Yes, I was stung about thirty times. And
yes, on my ass.

On the positive side of things, I was no longer afraid of bees. I’d seen the dark side of fear and, except for my backside, I’d made it out unscathed. So I’d accomplished my
goal. Sort of. But my real takeaway that day had been this: the best way to tackle the things that terrify you is to not overthink them—to just do them quickly. So late that afternoon, I
asked Gramps to drop me off at the Miltons’.

Even from the porch, the place seemed excruciatingly bright. The crystalline radiance bled out of the house and onto my feet. And I wondered, as I stood there waiting for someone to answer my
knock, if Ben was getting even brighter or if my hangover had made my eyes more sensitive to light. Whatever the reason, the place seemed too vibrant, too intrusive, and it picked at the back of my
brain for some reason.

When nobody answered, I headed around to the back door, where I could hear Ben through an open bathroom window. He was giving Wally a bath, carrying on a conversation with him as though he were
a person: “So next week, we’ll go to the old-folks’ home. The one across town? The Meadows? Granny has a roommate there who’s been down in the dumps. I think we can cheer
her up. I’ll make armpit farts while you do that thing where you cock your head to the side. Everyone thinks that’s hilarious.” I probably shouldn’t be so proud of someone
whom I hadn’t helped shape into a kind, decent human being, but I couldn’t help myself.

How could I have ever hurt this kid’s feelings? What sort of asshole
does
something like that?

The back door was unlocked. I swept inside, taking quick, purposeful steps to the bathroom, where I rapped on the door. “Ben. Open up.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. I could feel him thinking of what to say, and as he did so, I sensed him pulling away from me, the space between us expanding and stretching from a
few feet into several miles. When he did speak it was almost a whisper: “Go away, Maggie.”