Signs of You by Emily France

Author:Emily France
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Young Adult Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2016-05-09T17:47:39+00:00

Chapter 11

Tell Me Everything.

I drop the balloon light cover and pull him into my room. I wrap my arms around him and hold tight.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whisper over his shoulder. But then I pull back and look into his eyes, his pupils small black knots of worry. “Wait. You’re okay? Right?”

He nods. “I’m okay.”

But it’s totally unconvincing. And with that, everything comes f looding back: the 14,000 unanswered texts, the mad dash to Maryland, the terrifying trip into the cave to look for him. I want to sock him in the stomach.

“Where were you?” I hiss. It’s a struggle to keep my voice down.

He looks at me sheepishly, stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets. “Would you kill me if I said I can’t tell you?”

“Yes. Absolutely yes.”

“Well, I can’t. I promised.”

“Promised who?”

“Promised whom, and I can’t tell you that either.” He sits down on my bed. I’ve never seen him look so tired, so stressed.

“Did you seriously just show up in my room after midnight, dodge my question, and correct my grammar?”

He f lashes me a quick and silent I’m sorry. “And I was going to text you from the front porch so you could sneak me in, but all the curtains were open and the lights were on, so your dad saw me come up the porch steps. Then he just let me in, like I didn’t just show up at midnight. He seemed a little . . . distracted.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. He’s on a date. But just tell me—” I stop as a warm breeze f ills the room, and I look at the large square of blackness that is my bedroom window. It’s cranked open to let the night air in and a nearly full moon hangs in the sky. I think about all the research in Noah’s room, the stuff about my mom, the stuff about the cross necklace. I sit cross-legged next to him on the bed and look directly into his eyes.

“Tell me what you know, Noah.”

He looks away and doesn’t say anything. It’s like he’s waiting for something. Finally, he talks. “All I can tell you right now is—” he starts but stops again, hesitating.

“Tell me,” I plead, feeling my hazel eyes burn bright. I’m told they get more green than brown when I’m mad or when I really, really want something. And I bet they’re near a deep emerald at this point.

“Just . . . pay attention,” he says.

“I am.”

“No. I mean, that’s all I can tell you right now. To pay attention. To every idea you have. If you feel like doing something, stop and ask what it feels like in your body. Does it feel like a splat, like a drop of water hitting a stone? Or does it feel soft, like water hitting a sponge?”

“What the hell? Sponges? You’re talking about sponges now? You sound crazy. You know that, right?” I scoot away from him on the bed. “Just tell me why your room was full of stuff about my mom, stuff that you got from here.

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