Part 2 (2/2)

I get the number as we're reaching the outskirts of the city.

Stretches of gra.s.s and farmland change to pavement and will lead to large buildings.

When I get the hospital on the line, they confirm my mom's admission but refuse to tell me what's wrong with her over the phone. I hang up frustrated and close to tears. I have no idea why Mom is in the hospital or how serious her condition is.

Adam reaches over and pats my leg and then presses his foot to the gas pedal and flies around the turnoff from the freeway. ”Hang on,” he says. ”Ten minutes tops.”

I picture my mom when I left for work. She had a package of cigarettes tucked in her bra, like she thought she was a glamorous movie star in an old movie. I squeeze both hands tighter around my phone.

”Don't worry,” Adam says. ”It's probably not as bad as you're imagining.”

My ears heat up and I look out the window. There's a sign on the side of the road with a blue H and an arrow. ”I hope not,” I say, and my voice sounds funny.

”We're almost there,” he says, and he reaches over to pat my knee.

I stare at his profile as he checks the rearview mirror. A motorcy- cle roars up from behind us, pa.s.sing too fast and too close. ”Idiot,”

he mumbles.

After a moment of silence, he asks, ”Did your parents split up?”

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e He flicks on the turn signal and steers onto another off ramp, and I see the long brown building. It conjures up images of sick people in hospital gowns and doctors running to surgery.

The question about my parents hangs in the air, but I can't find words to answer.

”I a.s.sumed because you haven't said a word about your dad. Or is he dead?” His eyes open wider, and he sneaks a look at me. ”G.o.d.

Sorry. Stupid. I totally suck at bedside manners.”

I blink at his profile. ”Bedside manners?”

”Yeah. Um. I'm going to be a doctor someday.” His chin lifts slightly, and he grips the steering wheel tighter but keeps his eyes on the road. ”I've been applying to schools. Premed.”

”It's summer,” I remind him and turn my attention to the hospi- tal as we get closer. My knee is bouncing up and down.

”It's only summer for a little while,” Adam is saying. ”Then senior year.” He sighs. ”A big year.”

”Yeah,” I agree and then, because he's being nice, add, ”I have no idea if my dad is dead.”

Usually I go for months without discussing my dad, but today he keeps coming up. ”I think he was basically a sperm donor. I mean, my mom never went to a sperm bank, and as far as I know, I was conceived the old- fas.h.i.+oned way, but I never met him or anything.

He took off before I was born. No interest in me.”

I sneak a look, and there's pity in his eyes and I kind of hate it.

”It doesn't matter,” I say louder than necessary, as if adding volume will make the statement more true.

Adam speeds up to a set of lights, but they turn yellow and he

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J a n e t G u r t l e r slams his foot on the brake. The hospital is only a few blocks away now. ”Yeah. It does,” he says softly. ”It matters. That sucks.” I keep my eyes on the hospital, and we sit at the red light, staring ahead, but an invisible tentacle stretches over and wraps around my heart, bonding me to him just a little. ”No one deserves to feel aban- doned or unloved.” The words reach inside and touch me, and he turns for a second to look at me, and something s.h.i.+fts between us.

”I'm sure your mom is going to be all right,” he says quietly.

I nod and then stare out the window, afraid to admit to myself how much this connection means to me. He's like a full gla.s.s of cold water after a hot, muggy walk. I didn't know boys could be so nice.

”Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asks.

”Twin brothers. Twenty- one. They live at home. My mom still does their laundry and buys their underwear.” I force myself to sound lively.

”Do you get along with them?”

I shrug and reach for my backpack. ”Better now than when I was little. You're driving Josh's car, remember?”

”Yeah,” he says.

”What about you?” I ask and search inside my backpack until I find my ChapStick and pull it out.

”One brother. Younger. He's cool. But if it's any consolation, my dad is kind of a jerk. For real. Sometimes I've wished my parents would split up. It would be easier for me in a lot of ways.” He clears his throat as if he's embarra.s.sed. The confession touches me.

I glance over and his cheeks are red, and he keeps his attention on the lights.

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