Gyver didn’t answer, just steadied me and hurried me out the door, down the grass slope, and into his black Jeep, which was still running at the edge of the nearly empty parking lot. Most people parked on the other side of the woods, so they could escape out the back and run if needed. Gyver barely stopped for me to shut my door before he pulled out and sped away. I waited for him to speak. He didn’t.
It was dark in his car. And quiet. The party lights and noise faded as we traveled around the lake and back toward town. It was too dark to see the titles of the CDs stored on the visor above my head. Too quiet for comfort. I couldn’t handle silence; I’d gone to the party to escape, so I wouldn’t have to think about what I learned today—and what would happen tomorrow. Not that I understood tomorrow’s agenda. I still couldn’t grasp what the doctor had told me. I understood the individual words, but strung together in a sentence they no longer made sense.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to comprehend anything yet. I wanted to hide from the truth for as long as possible. So while the doctor told my father about treatments and my mother sobbed on the shoulder of some supportive nurse, I’d tuned out and planned my outfit for the party we’d just left.
Parties and I were a predictable fit, like Gyver and his music. I reached up and grabbed one of his CDs—it could be any of his custom playlists: Songs for Studying, Rhythms for Rain, An Album for Algebra.
He liked alliterative titles. And names. Walt Whitman, Galileo Galilei, Harry Houdini, Arthur Ashe. And me, Mia Moore. Was that why we were so close? If I’d been named after Dad’s mother instead of Mom’s, would I be sitting in his car right now? Maybe my name was his sign.
But Gyver didn’t look for signs the way I did, and he’d laugh if I suggested this.
He wasn’t laughing now. He fixed his frown on the road, and I studied the CD I twirled on my finger. I wished, not for the first time, that his car had an iPod hookup so I could see the contents of his playlists.
It didn’t matter; the first song that played would be a sign—and I needed something to point the way. Should I tell him? Could I tell him? I hadn’t said the words out loud yet.
I slipped the disk into the CD player and pressed shuffle to add another layer of chance: track six.
A few notes floated out of the speakers and I leaned forward on the seat to catch them. The song began thin, a light piano repeating, fleshed out with the quietest tapping on a cymbal and a background layer of electric guitar.
Before the lyrics began, however, in the pause while I held my breath waiting for the first words, Gyver reached over and switched the stereo off.
“Let’s talk,” he said.
I twisted my fingers in my necklace, clutching the clover-shaped pendant.
Gyver glanced at me and sighed. “It’s just a song, Mi. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want you looking for hidden meanings and all that crap.”
He knew me too well. Hopefully well enough to know I couldn’t let this go. “But what is it?”
“It’s a bad CD selection.” He pressed Eject, turned on the overhead light, held up the disk, then read the title while I squinted at his smudged lefty letters. “Anthems for Anger. You’re already weirdly quiet and you’re going to get all superstitious. What’s up? Talk to me.”
“I need to hear it.” A tidal wave of panic battered against the blockades I’d reinforced all day. Something, anything, was liable to tear them down and leave me useless. “I picked it—I’ve got to hear it.”
“Mia, it’s just a stupid song.” Gyver’s voice was rough with frustration. He used his elbow to hit the window-down button and bent his wrist back to throw.
“Don’t!” I snatched at his arm and we veered onto the dirt shoulder. My elbow slammed against my door as we jerked to a stop. A few feet from us was a blur of pine trees, and beyond that, water. The builders hadn’t yet bulldozed nature on this side of East Lake, but unless there was a sudden drop in the number of couples moving from New York or Philly to raise their kids in our sleepy, postcard-perfect town, these trees had a limited life expectancy.
Life expectancy.
“Dammit, Mia! Do you want to kill us? What’s wrong with you tonight?”
I was glad it was dark in the car—too dark to see the emotion I knew would be carved into his forehead, making his brown eyes blaze. Gyver was a master at intimidating stares, and his frown would be all it took for me to crack and spill everything. My fingers started to tremble. I untangled them from my necklace, sat on my hands, and waited him out—let him curse under his breath and squeeze the wheel with a one-handed death grip.
“Fine. You’re not going to listen to anything I say until you’ve heard it, are you? It’s ‘Break Myself’ by Something Corporate.”
“I don’t know it—I may need to hear it more than once.” I rubbed my elbow. It was already bruising, a reminder of what I wasn’t telling him.
“Be my guest.” Gyver thrust the CD in, punched the Advance button, then twisted the volume to an uncomfortable level.
It was a male singer and he started quietly, but I knew I was in trouble before he’d finished the first verse. I was sniffing before the chorus. It was starting to be too real.
I’m willing to bleed for days … my reds and grays so you don’t hurt so much
And crying before the refrain.
I’m willing to break myself. I’m not afraid.