I’ll fix that for you, Killer types. Before I can reply, he jumps off the stool and leaves the kitchen. He gives me a little wave before disappearing into the next room.
I roll my cup back and forth between my palms, unsure if I should follow him. Probably not. Even if he’s being nice to me, he didn’t sign up to have me trailing along after him like some sort of puppy. I take a little sip of the energy drink, even though I’m not really thirsty anymore; my spinning thoughts have completely ruined my appetite.
The drink tastes too sweet, like it’s made purely of sugar. But I ignore the taste and chug down the last few drops. As I set down the glass, I stare into it. It reflects my face, paleness and bruises and all. What am I doing? I mouth, watching my lips in the glass as they move with the words. Then I add, I don’t belong with these people.
But just as I mouth the words, the RV hits a bump in the road, tilting the cup over and ruining the reflection.
15
JACE
I COLLAPSE ON the couch and bite back a groan. After an entire day of driving, my shoulders are aching from their old injuries. Usually when I get like this, I go on a run and let adrenaline numb my pain. But I’m hesitant to leave Ali, who still looks nearly as stressed as she was when we met up this morning.
She sits on the other couch, staring out the window into the darkness. With the shades drawn, there’s only a little sliver of the night sky exposed at the top of the window. Ali has an opened magazine in her lap, but she seems too anxious to focus on reading, and she keeps nervously crinkling the corner of one of the pages.
Night fell about an hour ago, and our caravan stopped at a rest station right outside this dusty little town called Blythe. With our first day of travel behind us, we’re perfectly on schedule. Thank god, because when we aren’t on schedule, Tony throws hissy fits that scare pretty much everyone.
A scratching sound comes from the other end of the RV, and I recognize it as Cuddles trying to get out of my room. Usually, I take her for a long run in the evenings; she needs the exercise, I need the physical challenge, and fans need a giant pit bull to get the message to stay the hell away from me. It’s a good setup for all of us.
But Cuddles is going to have to wait for a run, because I’m not going to leave Ali when she’s wearing that scared expression. I wave my hand a little, pulling Ali’s attention to me. I have zero clue how to comfort her, but I’m pretty sure awkwardly ignoring each other isn’t the ideal option.
“Tell me about yourself,” I sign. I’m still a little surprised at how easily ASL is coming back to me. Technically, it’s my first language, but I haven’t signed in years. And I never thought I would again. Amazing how that’s changed so quickly.
She raises her eyebrows. “What about me?”
“Anything. Like, do you have any pets?”
She shakes her head.
“Any sort of job?”
Another head shake, and another thing that makes us different. I glance out the window behind me, using the movement to hide my groan. Is there anything we have in common, besides parents who aren’t overly fond of us?
“Friends?” I sign. “Come on. You’ve got to have one of those.”
Her expression brightens just a little, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.
“A-v-e-r-y,” she finger spells, and I assume this is her friend. “She’s the one who dragged me to your concert.” She blushes as soon as she signs that, and I can tell she’s regretting her word choice. Too bad. I think it’s cute that she had to be dragged to see me perform. It’s kind of refreshing, actually.
“We’ve been friends since we were ten,” she rushes on. “She lives across the street from me. She’s like my sister.”
As soon as she says that, her expression falls again. I raise an eyebrow and sign, “She didn’t want you to run away, did she?”
“She wants me to be safe,” Ali signs, her hands moving a little slower now. “But I’m not sure she’d think this is a good way to go about it. So I didn’t tell her exactly where I’m going or who I’m with. I know my dad is going to ask her questions, and I don’t want to put her in a bad situation.”
“You’re a good friend for that,” I sign.
She nods and looks away, but I can tell she’s still upset by the way her jaw clenches.
Then she signs, “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For saying that. I needed to hear that I’m doing the right thing for her.” She takes a deep breath and then signs, “How about you?”
“What about me?”
“Who are your friends? Other musicians?”
I laugh, not even trying to hide it. She cringes, but I ignore it and say, “Rock stars don’t make friends. The band is my family, but aside from them? No. I make fans and haters, but not friends.”
She purses her lips. “But you have to have some.”
I shrug. “I’ve got my band, and that’s all I need.”
She nods and then signs, “So . . . what do rock stars do for fun?”
“Play music. Write music. Perform music. What else?”