A/N: First off, a want to send out a big, whopping thanks to a pair of wonderful people, Crashcmb and Sarahlee. Without you two…well, I'd still be sitting on this! But really, thanks so much, ladies. I appreciate all you've done more than I can ever express.
And Brandywine and Avoidingnemo, thanks to you guys for the insightful, in-process feedback. I love you guys.
Romie said I can blame any possible problems on Ctoan. But am I that mean? Yes. Yell at Ctoan if you have a problem.
As for the story, this summer, after two brutal bouts of strep throat, I lost my voice for a total of almost two months. It was an extremely frustrating experience for me; I didn't realize how much I counted on my poor vocal cords. It was my own frustration that got me thinking of this story way back when. Just now have I found the time and inspiration to write it. Like I have time….
Does it fit in with his character so far this season? Probably not. I took liberties. Sue me.
No, wait. Don't.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The Worth of Words
The night was endless. Ryan had never been so tired, and yet so tired of sleeping, at the same time. He'd slip into a semi-conscious doze only to jolt awake a few minutes later to the sound of Summer laughing loudly at, scolding, or reprimanding Seth for a variety of reasons in the kitchen area. Even with the expanse of outdoors between the pool house and the main house, Ryan could still make out every click of her heels, every cluck of Seth's tongue and every groan emitted from both of them -- from what, exactly? He worked very hard not to let his brain mull that one over.
Ryan went from lying on his right side, to his left, to his stomach, to his back. He'd open his eyes and stare at the clock, the ceiling, a lamp, a chair. He'd cover his ears with a pillow or his palms, or shove his head under the thick blankets that cloaked his bed. Every time he thought he was comfortable enough to drift off, he'd suddenly get itchy, or cramped, or hot, or thirsty. Then he'd flip over and go through the entire process again. It was the most exhausting rest he could ever remember and even though all he wanted to do was sleep, he prayed and wished for the quick arrival of morning to rescue him from this hell.
The pattern continued for what felt like an eternity until he heard the sweet sound of Summer's BMW's tires rolling down the driveway, at which point, much to his dismay, his own body took over the job of ensuring that there was no sleep to be had in the pool house on this night. His throat was on fire, his eyes itchy, and his mouth continuously dry no matter how many times he sipped from the glass of water on his nightstand.
But by seven in the morning, the pool house was filled with the warm glow of morning, the big house was bustling with the Cohen Morning Ritual, and Ryan knew he'd be a fool to try and sleep away the remaining 20 minutes of his free time.
He tilted his head back into his pillow and rubbed deep circles over his eyes. He suspected he'd only gained about an hour of sleep, though he was sure he was greatly underestimating. Still, he felt as if his brain had been tapped overnight, his energy and whatever wit he might have had, siphoned out and then replaced with handfuls of cotton balls which had worked their way into his nose, mouth and throat, absorbing all of his water and dehydrating him to a prune-like state.
"Ugh," he tried to groan, but his vocal cords put their own spin on the simple expression, making it sound more like a Dutch greeting. "Ahmk."
Sitting up, he tossed aside the messy pile of blankets, closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his upper arm. His cotton brain sent a distorted signal to his throat, commanding it to perform the swallowing function, but that idea, Ryan abruptly realized, was not the best he had ever come up with.
Swallowing was great if there was something, even something as taken for granted as saliva, to actually swallow. Otherwise, it tended to feel like the two meeting sides of his throat were encrusted with thousands of pieces of broken glass.
He bowed his head and winced as pain crept up and down the tender flesh in short, sharp waves. He let his cheeks blow out as he sighed in defeat. He was thoroughly sick of this. He'd spent the past four days in a semi-coma, feeling like his entire body had been covered in three layers of glaze.
Seth had made the not-so funny assumption that Ryan was suffering from a bout of lovesickness.
He'd tried to glare his disapproval, but it was hard to tell what was getting through the glaze and what was trapped inside his distorted, sickly little world. Seth either hadn't noticed Ryan's displeasure, or had simply ignored it -- the latter, Ryan realized, the more likely -- but the loaded sarcasm and sly jokes that had been tossed in his direction like careless grenades were enough to make him hole-up in the pool house for nearly an entire school week.
But he wasn't mad at Seth, and he certainly wasn't in love with Lindsay, he was just miserable because up until about a week ago, things had actually been "good." Now he was girl-less, friend-less (because when not feeling well, the most unpleasant person to be around is Seth) and…saliva-less, apparently.
He pushed off of the side of the bed. The soles of his feet grazed the wooden floor as he shuffled listlessly toward the bathroom. He aimed straight for the sink, turning the cold knob on the faucet and waiting for the water to turn icy before cupping several handfuls into his mouth, swishing it around and then spitting it down the drain. He followed this up with a quick splash to his face. As he rubbed the clean towel over his head, he waited for that magical feeling of rejuvenation to sweep him off his feet.
Nada.
He tried to groan again, but this time it sounded more like a German exclamation.
It truly was turning out to be a great day.
He dressed in a fog, squinting to determine colors and sifting through his cotton brain to recall the rules of which colors should never be paired together as per Summer's rampant lectures. This morning, he could have thrown on red and orange (Summer's well-voiced pet peeve) and not have cared less. After all, if she and Seth had just kept their damn voices down last night, Ryan probably wouldn't be in such a careless mindset right now.
He leaned over to grab his school bag, which had gone untouched the night before, slung it over his shoulder and absently ran his fingers through his bed-head hair. He could only imagine what hypocritical comments Seth had waiting for him in the kitchen.
"Hey, Ryan," Kirsten greeted him before he even had one foot in the door. She turned around and retrieved a glass from the cupboard behind her, lined it up with two already on the counter and poured a third glass of orange juice. "D'you want some orange juice?"
For some reason, even though his brain was working at the impressive speed of a turtle on Valium, a million snarky comments popped into his mind. He shook his head to clear the uncharacteristic thoughts. Maybe he'd release them on Seth, not Kirsten.
"No?" she asked, pulling back the jug of orange juice when the third glass was only half full.
He held his hand up and opened his mouth to reassure her. "--O. Suh."
She tilted her head, brow furrowing slightly. Seth turned around from his hunched position on one of the stools to eye Ryan amusedly.
Ryan cleared his throat and grimaced at the fireworks the action ignited.
He settled for a strangled whisper. "No. Orange juice sounds great, thanks."
He lowered himself onto the stool beside Seth, doing his best to ignore the stupid grin on the idiot's face.
"Nice voice, dude," Seth said through a half-chewed mouthful of cereal. "It's very becoming."
Ryan turned his head away, rubbing a palm over his forehead.
Kirsten resumed pouring the orange juice, and miraculously stopped just before it spilled over the rim of the glass -- especially miraculous considering her gaze was determinedly set on Ryan.
"You okay, sweetie?" she asked, placing the glass in front of him, her body language oozing with comfort, which, ironically, made Ryan squirm a little in his seat.
He forced a smile, nodded, diverted his gaze to the counter, and took the glass of orange juice in his hands, happy for the tactile distraction. "Yeah. Jus' didn't sleep," he assured her voicelessly.
"Me neither," Seth added quietly, like his brain completely forgot to mute the comment.
Ryan slowly turned his head to glare, channeling all of his discomfort and trying to displace it onto Seth -- the deserving party.
Seth stopped chewing, his eyes spastically jumping as he curiously met Ryan's gaze. "What?"
Ryan wanted to yell at Seth and smack him upside the back of the head with the comic book that was conveniently lying on the counter, but stopped himself. After what Seth did last night, he wasn't worth the words. Hitting, however, was still an option…. Ryan was further distracted when his chest went into spasm, erupting into a painful coughing fit.
Seth was one lucky bastard.
"I thought you were feeling better," Kirsten said when he'd finished, a twinge of disappointment in her tone.
"I was -- uh, am," Ryan stumbled over his winded words, still fighting the urge to clock Seth along with his miniature dictator of a girlfriend…ex-girlfriend…no, girlfriend. Whatever.
"Yeah, man, you sound awesome," Seth exaggerated, topping it all off with two sarcastic thumbs-up. When Ryan didn't react, Seth turned his attention back to his cereal. "Okay. Not in the mood. Gotchya."
"Do you want to stay home from school? I'm sure Seth can get your homework for the weekend." Kirsten looked to Seth for confirmation, but was barely rewarded with an absent nod.
"No." Ryan struggled to prevent another bout of coughing, swallowing thickly and wishing the glass in front of him was filled with water rather than the acidic orange juice. "I'm fine. Really," he added at the end, trying to look and sound as confident as he possibly could, considering he felt like his entire upper-body was a time bomb just one word away from detonation.
She smiled skeptically, but appeared to have been swayed. "Okay. I'll get a ride to work with Sandy and I'll leave you guys the Rover to take to school. You can always come home if you change your mind."
Ryan smiled, genuine this time, and nodded his thanks. This woman was the antithesis of his mother, he decided, and that was exactly why he liked her.
"Well, I'm off," Sandy said, popping his head into the kitchen. Both hands were occupied with the task of tying his tie, his briefcase pinned between his arm and side.
"Oh, honey, hold on; I'm going to come with you so the boys can take the Rover to school," Kirsten said.
Sandy leaned back in the doorframe, allowing enough room for her to sneak past him as she rushed to their bedroom area.
He shrugged and placed his briefcase on the floor as he made final adjustments to his tie. "I guess I have time for a bagel then."
Ryan eyed his orange juice, trying to weigh the pros and cons of the given drink when the phone rang. He looked up and spotted the cordless lying just off to his right. He reached for it and immediately passed it off to Seth.
"Ah, right, it's best to leave the answering of the phones to the verbally proficient," Seth muttered, eyeing the call display and then pressing the talk button. "I assume this is a call regarding the purple saddle Princess Sparkle left behind last night?" He hopped off the stool and slowly danced out of the kitchen.
Ryan shook his head in disbelief and then glanced up to see Sandy's eyebrows raised in a bemused arc. "It's too early for that."
Ryan nodded and whispered, "Yeeeah."
"Lost your voice?" Ryan liked how Sandy was always direct with him. No beating around the bush.
Ryan ran his finger over the rim of the glass. "Yep."
"Well, I doubt anyone will notice," Sandy joked, patting Ryan on the shoulder.
Ryan smiled, accepting the teasing graciously, even though he knew from Sandy's posture and tone that he had more to say on the matter.
Ryan pushed away from the counter and slid off the stool before Sandy could pursue the issue any further.
Besides, Seth would need to be hurried along before they were late for school. Ryan was all-too aware of how long Seth and Summer could make fun of each other over the phone -- even if they were going to see each other in less than ten minutes for some in-person mocking.
"Wait."
Ryan mentally cursed himself for not escaping faster, but when he tiredly looked up, he was surprised to see that Sandy was pointing to Seth's half-finished bowl of cereal.
"Do us all a favor and lick his spoon or something, will ya? We could all use some quiet around here."
Ryan let out a breathy laugh and grabbed the comic book off the counter, heading for the stairs. If he couldn't yell at Seth, he'd probably need something to beat him with.
"We could just walk, Cohen, because even in heels and with my short legs, I'd still get there faster than you're driving us."
Ryan rolled his eyes and propped his head against the window in the back of the Rover, watching the pavement as it rolled by.
What a perfect day for Summer's car to get a flat. As if dealing with one rambling loudmouth this morning wasn't enough. But as much as he hated giving Seth the benefit of the doubt, Ryan wasn't sure what Summer expected Seth to do, seeing as how the entire drive from Summer's house to school was one stop sign after another.
"How about I drop you off and we test that theory of yours, then?"
"Huh. Funny, Cohen. How about you introduce your foot to the gas pedal?"
"How about you…." Ryan didn't know exactly what hand gesture ended Seth's sentence, but he was sure it wasn't gentlemanly.
"Good one, Cohen! Ryan, tell him what a grandma he is when he drives."
Ryan thought about testing his own theory of "if I ignore them, they'll go away," but he knew that ignoring Summer was like dangling meat in front of a lion; it would only serve to get her more riled up. So he shrugged, because he couldn't be bothered prepping his throat for any form of talking.
He knew she could see him in the side-view mirror, but apparently, his response wasn't satisfactory. She spun around, grabbing onto the headrest and poking her head around the side of the seat.
"He won't listen to me, Ryan, and God knows he listens to you," she rolled her eyes and let out an annoyed sigh to go along with the statement. "You've got to say something. Tell him he's senile behind the wheel."
Ryan's gaze fell upon an umbrella tucked in the pocket of the seat beside him and he had to muster all of his will-power not to use it as a weapon right this very moment.
"Summer," he whispered tiredly, shaking his head as if to say, "I really don't give a rat's ass about your fucking ridiculous argument." But it wasn't worth the words.
"See," Seth said, slamming down on the brake as he came to yet another stop sign -- just to make a point. "Ryan likes my driving."
Summer spun back around in her seat and Ryan turned his head a little more until his entire forehead was touching the cool window.
"He didn't say that!"
"He didn't say otherwise," Seth proclaimed defiantly.
The car inched forward very slowly, and Ryan knew Seth was just trying to defy Summer.
"Ugh!" she growled. Ryan heard more shuffling up front. "Ryan, you've got to tell him. Say something before it's 2050 and we're still not out of my subdivision!"
Ryan didn't want to tell Seth anything, and not just because he feared his throat might implode, but because he simply couldn't care less. He didn't care how Seth got them to school; he was still getting them to school. Why couldn't they just leave him out of their drama?
He had no idea where Summer got the impression that Seth always listened to him. Seth didn't listen to anyone, really. Why would Ryan waste his voice when whatever he said was just going to be shrugged off or ignored?
He knew that this whole driving debate was a lost cause.
He cleared his throat and slowly turned his head to meet Summer's gaze. "Both of you just. Shut. Up."
Summer tilted her head, her lips forming an exaggerated pout. "What's with the voice? You okay?"
So much for his selective speaking method; the shock value was obviously lost on Summer. He was done trying to beat them. They won. He was willing to forfeit.
He groaned and pushed the back of his head into the leather seat, closing his eyes. It was bad enough they had kept him up into the wee hours of the morning, but now they were both pushing it all a little too far. The umbrella option was growing more and more appealing as the minutes went by.
"Okaaaay," he heard Summer say, and then more shuffling as she turned around. Seth gave an evil laugh which was followed by a slapping sound and then, "Ow!"
What remained of the drive was relatively quiet. When Ryan slid off the seat and out of the car, he was surprised when Summer rubbed her hand on his arm, smiled apologetically and said, "Sorry."
Before he could even process what had just happened, she slammed her door shut, tossed her bag at Seth and strutted toward the school's large flight of stairs leading to the entrance.
Baffled, Ryan slung his own bag over his shoulder and started on his way. His neck was sore, his head throbbed and his legs felt like two stumps of dead wood.. All he really wanted to do was crawl back into bed, but that was no longer an option.
Seth, who'd just finished arranging the extra load of books Summer had thrown his way, tapped Ryan on the shoulder with the back of his hand.
"Here," Seth said, holding out the keys.
Ryan hesitantly reached up and took them, genuinely confused. Seth pretty much always kept the keys in his locker when they drove to school.
"You know, in case you want to go home early or something." He paused, waited for Ryan to pocket the keys and then continued, "Don't worry; Summer's jeep should be fixed by lunch so I can just get a ride home with her."
Ryan knew that was Seth's roundabout way of apologizing and, at the moment, that was good enough. Ryan nodded his thanks, rearranged his bag and the two walked silently up the steps.
The first class of the day was relatively easy. At least Ryan found it easy. Marissa, who sat beside him -- sometimes too close --, seemed to find it a little more difficult. The only good thing about sitting next to Marissa was that she didn't talk much. In fact, she rarely spoke two words to him, unless asking him about an equation or something class-related. Ryan could tell she was nervous around him, what with the way she chewed her pencil and kept casting tentative glances at him out of the corner of her eye, but he didn't care. As long as she didn't make things awkward with words, he was content.
And on this particular day, he didn't have any words to share anyway, so Marissa was as good a companion as anyone.
She said "Good morning" when he took his seat. He smiled in response; unconvincingly he was sure, seeing as her face fell immediately.
After Mrs. Cook had finished the short lesson at the front of the class and assigned the class questions from the text, Ryan noticed Marissa prepping herself like she was going to say something; sitting up in her chair, placing down her pencil and even opening her mouth. But nothing ever came of it, and though it was kind of distracting, Ryan feigned ignorance and tried to go about his work.
From that point on, she appeared to be minding her own business…even more so than usual. She didn't ask for his help once and even went to the other side of the class to sharpen her pencil instead of using his -- like she usually did.
Ryan's head was pounding too hard for him to care. Sure, he didn't like it when his friends were hurting, but Marissa took things way too personally and he certainly didn't have the energy to placate her with words he didn't mean and smiles he wasn't feeling.
"Mrs. Cook?"
The entire class froze when the room's intercom came to life.
"Yes?"
"Do you have Ryan Atwood in class?"
Ryan's head jerked up, a surge of panic roaring through his chest. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears.
"I do." Mrs. Cook gave Ryan a smile that could have been interpreted as either leering or compassionate. Ryan just stared back, waiting for the intercom to determine his fate.
"Can you send him down to Dr. Kim's office, please?"
Ryan pushed out his chair, Marissa's eyes burning a hole in his back. Before Mrs. Cook could even respond, he had gathered up his books and was closing the classroom door behind him.
Heat radiated through his body as he was instantly enveloped by anxiety. He strode down the hall toward Dr. Kim's office, rubbing his palms on his pants, trying to rid them of the thin layer of sweat. His mouth had, once again, dried up completely and he felt as if the air he was gulping down in quick, erratic breaths was suffocating rather than sustaining him.
He stepped into the office, swallowing painfully and nervously clenching his fists at his side. "Dr. Kim wanted to see me?" he asked in a squeaky whisper that accurately represented his fear.
"She's waiting for you," the secretary answered, pointing to the door at the end of the hallway.
Ryan tried to force himself to take a deep breath to calm his nerves, but that only threw him into another painful bout of coughing. He stalled outside Dr. Kim's office for a second, willing his chest to calm down, and just when he was almost settled, the door swung open.
"Ryan," she greeted him, standing back and holding the door open as he stepped inside. "Come in; have a seat."
Ryan cleared his throat and nodded, stepping inside and standing behind one of the large chairs opposite her desk.
"Sit," she urged him again, but her voice was soft and not at all angry or vindictive like he'd been expecting.
She closed the large wooden door to the office and took her seat behind her desk. She leaned forward and linked her hands on top of a yellow file, on which the tab read, "Atwood, Ryan."
She started into her speech before Ryan's brain could start spinning its wheels again; trying to figure out what he possibly could have done this time.
"Don't worry, Ryan, there's nothing to be concerned about." She smiled, unlinking her hands and placing them palms down on the file. "It's been a year since your suspension and this is just a simple meeting to evaluate your progress and either retract or extend your probation here at Harbor."
Ryan leaned back in his chair, perplexed. He had no idea he was on "Harbor probation." He nodded and let out a chestful of air he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He reminded himself to breathe.
"I've talked to all of your teachers and obtained progress reports. You're doing really well, Ryan. Every one of your teachers speaks of you in glowing terms. It would appear as though you're the model student. Congratulations."
Was Dr. Kim seriously praising him? He'd been preparing for some sort of modern-day lashing. Still, he couldn't read this woman. He couldn't help but feel as though she was mocking him or threatening him through her supportive words. It was like she was accusing him of cheating or something. He had the sudden urge to defend himself, but she continued before he could even try.
"Needless to say, your probation has been retracted. And since you're well on your way to being granted a scholarship, we want to make sure you keep up your grades."
Here it comes. Intimidation. Veiled threats.
"So if there's anything you feel you need help with, or if you want to rearrange your schedule to help you obtain those grades, please let me know. Come and talk to me or Mrs. Fisher. We want to help you."
Ryan glanced over his shoulder, subtly checking to see if there were cameras hidden around the room. It was all just a little surreal. "Um…thanks," he said under his breath.
"At the very least, I'd like you to meet with Mrs. Fisher once a month. You can talk to her and tell her what you need, if you're having any difficulties, or just want some guidance. She'll help you stay on track so we can make sure you can get that scholarship. All you have to do is speak up, Ryan. We'll listen and try to help you."
She said it, but she didn't mean it. He'd tried that method before. He'd tried to trust these people and the only thing that that had resulted in, apparently, was a secret, one-year probation.
Sure, everyone said they wanted to talk, but no one really seemed to care. No one listened. It didn't take him long to realize that every spoken word in Newport -- every comment, compliment, and even insult -- was laced with layers of underlying deception. No one meant what they said, no one took anything at face value, and the decoding process was far beyond Ryan's social grasp.
People might have been crude and unruly in Chino, but they said what they meant. When he came to Newport, he had to learn an entirely different language -- one in which choice of words and tone of voice were just masks for true intentions.
He was sure that Dr. Kim, more than anything else, would have wanted to be right -- would have wanted Ryan's progress reports to support her belief that he wasn't good enough for her school. But he wasn't going to let that happen. Sometimes he wished he didn't have to fight so hard, be so much better than everyone else, just to be accepted as an equal. But that was the hand he was dealt and he was prepared to do whatever he had to do to make it work.
"I will," he assured her voicelessly, and then mentally kicked himself for playing her game -- their game. He would never come to her and he knew it -- hell, he was sure she knew it too. He didn't want to be one of those kids who talked his way out of trouble or conflict; it wasn't his style.
He was sure Dr. Kim was one of those people who would take advantage of that. He had to be spotless.
"Good. That's it! I'll ask Mrs. Fisher to inform you of your first appointment time to discuss your status," she said cheerfully, picking up his file from her desk. "You can go to your next class now. I'll let Mr. Harper know why you're late."
Ryan got up slowly, almost afraid of making any quick movements.
He could have easily let himself believe everything Dr. Kim was saying, but if he had learned anything living in Newport, it was that deceit was a prominent fixture in their culture. Very few people were going to be straight with him. He wasn't naïve enough to ignore the intuitive voice in his head that was telling him that this was just Dr. Kim's way of keeping tabs on him.
She was always waiting, he reminded himself. She was just waiting for him to screw up. He wanted to let her know he was onto her, knew all about her ulterior motives, but she wasn't worth the words.
He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. He was going to try his hardest not to do anything wrong -- make sure she had nothing to build a case on.
But there was one thing he knew he could always count on. He certainly wasn't going to say anything that could hurt him.
On a normal day, Ryan found it difficult to remain awake in Mr. Harper's history class. But today, with seven hours of overdue sleep weighing down his eyelids, the task was verging on impossible.
Harper was talking loudly, but the words were slurred, muffled, far away. Ryan had tried blinking rapidly, sitting up perfectly straight and following along in his text, but each of these methods only kept him alert for a maximum of 30 seconds.
By the halfway mark of the class, he'd looked at his watch 14 times.
He allowed his eyes to slip shut for a second and let out a quiet sigh. Kirsten was right; it wasn't even lunch and he'd already realized there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to make it through this day.
"Who knows? On what island did a group of US Marines raise their flag in February of 1945?"
Ryan pried his eyes open and scanned his book, his gaze fortunately falling on the answer to the teacher's question. He lined up his pencil directly under the line of text, just in case he was called upon.
"C'mon, guys. It's in your books. If you know, shout it out!" Mr. Harper clapped his hands together a few times, conjuring very little enthusiasm from the class. A few people reached into their bags and begrudgingly pulled out their books, others continued to stare blankly ahead.
"Ryan, c'mon! You've got your book open. What island?"
Ryan leaned forward and squinted at the page. Never before had he felt like he needed glasses, but the pounding behind his eyes was blurring his vision with every heartbeat. "Uh--" He did his best to clear his throat and willed the class to shut up so he wouldn't have to repeat his answer. "Iwo Jima," he said as loudly as he possibly could.
"Hey, c'mon, guys! Quiet down please," Mr. Harper pleaded with his students. For once, Ryan actually wished the guy was more of a hard-ass like most of the other teachers at Harbor. "Ryan, speak up!" he urged.
"I can't," Ryan whispered in frustration, more to himself than anyone else. But it would appear as if Hell had frozen over and the seas had parted because for the first time all semester, everyone in the class was silent.
Someone laughed, some girl behind him went "aw" and Ryan almost reached for his pencil to stab himself in the chest because accepting pity was a personality trait he'd somehow failed to develop. Instead, he had the sudden urge to tell them all to piss off, but it wasn't worth the words.
Mr. Harper chuckled sympathetically. "Okay. Well, never mind then. Anyone else? Who knows? Yes, Shannon."
Ryan sank down in his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. At least Harper wouldn't bother him anymore. He didn't think so, anyway.
At his old school, unless you wanted detention or suspension or worse, you kept your mouth shut and minded your own business. Here in Harbor, he'd followed the same rules. He didn't need to draw any more attention to himself with words. But they were constantly urging him to, "Speak up, Ryan." They wanted to talk about his schedule, his homework, his essays, projects, labs…everything.
He didn't know how to handle it. He just tried to keep to himself because, not for a second, did he really believe that anyone cared what a delinquent from Chino had to say. But they had insisted they did, and when he'd spoken the truth -- the only form of speech he had a semi-decent grasp on -- they'd ignored him, laughed at him, labeled him, and called him crazy.
He wasn't going to do it anymore. He vowed only to say what people insisted they needed to hear. It was less incriminating that way. No one was going to write him up or kick him out for glaring. At least, he didn't think so….
Ryan glanced around, emerging from his trance when he sensed people rushing past him. He looked at the clock on the wall; class wasn't over. What the hell had he missed?
"There's a surefire way to find out who's sleeping in your class," Ryan heard Mr. Harper say.
He suddenly felt uncomfortable and anxious, even though Harper was smiling as he gathered his papers from his desk.
He shoved them in his briefcase and then reached over and flipped Ryan's book shut. "Have a good weekend, Ryan."
The nervous tension in Ryan's chest slowly began dissipating when he caught Harper's amused smile.
Ryan gathered his books and shoved them into his bag. "Thanks."
"Uh huh." Harper turned to erase the blackboard.
Ryan didn't even bother sticking around for lunch, let alone the second half of the school day. He'd slipped a note through the grid on Seth's locker, letting him know that he'd have to go home with Summer. When the lunch bell rang, releasing all the other students from their classes, Ryan was pulling out of the Harbor School parking lot.
Before he'd even made it to the second of many stop signs, he heard his cell's quiet pulsing ring from inside his bag. He blindly went through the pockets, finally pulling out the phone from underneath one of his binders. He was actually surprised that whoever was calling hadn't hung up, considering how long it was taking him to answer.
"NEWPORT GROUP" was the name illuminated on his screen. Kirsten, he assumed. He'd bet good money that Caleb wasn't calling to check up on him.
"El-o." He cringed at his raspy rendition of the word and was starting to wish Kirsten had just text messaged him instead.
"Hey, Ryan. How are you doing?"
He braced the phone between his ear and shoulder, leaning over to turn off the radio. "Ey. I'm fine." He realized attempting to enunciate his whisper was pretty much a lost cause.
There was a long pause before Kirsten spoke again. "Are you in a car?"
"Uh, yeah. Heading home."
He swore he could hear her smile through the phone. "Good. Go home. I want you to drink plenty of fluids and try to get some rest; you looked exhausted this morning. I'll call between meetings to check up on you."
Of course she'd call, but Ryan knew Kirsten wasn't a stupid woman by any means, and she could probably figure out that his condition wasn't going to significantly deteriorate over a few hours, but as different as the Cohens were from the Coopers and the Fishers and even the still-Nichols…or Cooper-Nichols…whatever, they still needed to talk. All. The. Time. He'd tell her what she wanted to hear but only because he didn't want to worry her over trivial matters, not because he feared expulsion from the family.
"'Kay." He grinned into the phone.
"Don't humor me, Ryan. There's some extra-strength Advil in the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. Take a couple of those and check Seth's bathroom for some of that throat spray…. I think it's still good. I'll pick some up on the way home just in case."
Ryan wanted to laugh at her, tell her she was overreacting because he just needed to sleep, but he felt like he was choking, trying not to cough into the phone. As he turned the corner into the gated community, he pressed the phone against his leg, unable to suppress the bout any longer.
"Sorry," he whispered, blinking to clear the water that had sprung up into his eyes when his throat had expressed its displeasure.
"If you're still feeling this way tomorrow, I'm taking you to the doctor," she said firmly.
Ryan had to shake his head, thoroughly confused. He couldn't even remember the last time he was dragged to a doctor, and he'd certainly been sicker than this before. And now Kirsten was going to make him talk to a doctor? He didn't need a doctor to tell him he had no voice; he was well aware. It would be a waste of everyone's time and money. It wasn't worth the words. "Kirsten, it's noth--"
"I don't want to hear it. You were feeling better yesterday, and I want to nip this in the bud if it's going to continue to get worse. Does it hurt to talk?"
Usually, he thought, but he knew he was misinterpreting her comment.
"Yes," he finally conceded, realizing that maybe if he just admitted it, she'd let him…well…not talk.
"Okay, then. Get some rest, sweetie. I'll try not to bother you. But no guarantees."
Ryan smiled as he flipped shut his phone.
He now could see why some smothered people turned into hypochondriacs. If he had allowed himself to get wrapped up in Kirsten's irrational response to his minor illness, he might have actually believed a visit to the doctor was justified.
God, he feared the day Seth came down with a cold….
For the life of him, and as tired as he was, Ryan still couldn't convince his body to let him sleep. Every time he'd lie down, he'd start coughing. Every time he sat up, he'd get dizzy. He wanted to scream and throw something in frustration, but the screaming was obviously out and he certainly didn't want to be breaking the Cohens' things in a childish temper tantrum.
Defeated, he threw on his hoodie and went back into the house to Kirsten's medicine cabinet. He was definitely in need of one of those "Sleep Eaze" pills he'd spotted earlier when retrieving the Advil she'd made him take. He had to turn on the light to read the fine print on the dosage instructions. This cold was seriously compromising his vision.
He popped two tablets out of their bubbles and replaced the package on the shelf in the cabinet. On his way back through the kitchen, he snatched a bottle of water from the fridge and meandered back into the pool house, taking the pills along the way.
He dumped the sweater on the chair by the door and literally fell back onto the bed. All he had to do was wait now.
What was that about gel caps working fast? Right….
A persistent, annoying ringing sound kept poking at Ryan's brain, ushering him back into consciousness. He opened his eyes, squinted at the ceiling and waited.
There it was again.
A ringing. A ringing phone. His ringing phone.
He rolled over onto his side and scanned the nightstand for the offending, ringing object. Fortunately, he had left it right beside his alarm clock. He stretched out his arm and was just able to grasp the phone's antenna with his finger tips.
Dropping it onto his chest, he ran his fingers over the bubbly keypad until he felt the familiar and worn "talk" button. He didn't need to check the call display -- not that he'd be able to read it with his now extremely foggy vision; he knew it was Kirsten. He pressed down and then raised the phone to his ear.
"Lo?" he breathed heavily.
"Ryan?"
Ryan could feel his mind scrambling to find the right face to connect with the voice. Kirsten's picture certainly wasn't matching, throwing him for a loop.
"Marissa," he said before he even realized his brain had found a match.
"Hey. I noticed you weren't in World Lit. and I was hoping to talk to you…."
"Uh…." Ryan sat up, hoping that would help clear his head.
What time was it? How long had he been asleep? Why the hell did Marissa want to "talk?"
"Hello?"
"Yeah," he whispered, rubbing his hand over his face. "Sorry."
"Is this a bad time?"
It was always a bad time, Marissa. This was a horrendous time.
"No," he gave in. "S'fine."
"You sound--"
"Marissa!" he snapped, feeling his last resolve of patience sailing away with the ship of dignity. "What do you need?"
"I don't need…." He could tell she was fidgeting, probably with her hair. "Today I was kind of hoping we could talk…."
Ryan let his upper body fall back onto his pillows. "'Bout what?" he asked, too exhausted to try and find a way out of the conversation. While waiting for Marissa to gather her typically unorganized thoughts, he managed to catch a glimpse of his clock; he'd only caught up on one measly hour of lost sleep.
"I was hoping that maybe we could talk about…us. But if you're not…you know, that's fine. It's just…."
First the Cohens, then Summer, Dr. Kim, Mr. Harper, and now Marissa. Why did everyone want him to talk? Why did everyone say they wanted to talk when more often than not, there was nothing to talk about, just things they wanted to hear or wanted him to understand? He certainly didn't know how to talk to Marissa about "us" when there hadn't been an "us" in a very long time -- and even back then, the term "us" could have been easily debated.
But Ryan understood the role Marissa was casting him in. She wanted someone to tell her she was okay. She wanted someone to make her feel special. She wanted someone who would talk her off ledges and lead her toward the realm of acceptable sanity.
But Ryan couldn't be that person. Not anymore. He'd failed at that position once already.
He couldn't make her normal. He didn't know how to make her happy. And he had no idea how to talk to her…even when his brain was firing on all cylinders. He couldn't do it before and he certainly didn't feel like he had gained the essential skills to succeed this time around. Marissa needed someone who knew how to make her tick, and he would be the first to admit he had no idea how she functioned -- what buttons to press, what points to massage, what topics to avoid.
She was a product of Newport and he'd never received his manual in the mail. It was best to leave that job to someone who had the necessary credentials.
"I can't."
She didn't respond right away, and Ryan wasn't even going to begin to pretend he understood what that meant.
"Okay…then," she said robotically, fake cheer causing her words bounce up an octave. "Sorry to have…bothered you. I'll see you…on Monday."
Ryan waited the few seconds, thought about stopping her from hanging up, but opted not to. It wasn't worth the words. He didn't have the physical or emotional strength to deal with Marissa right now. He pressed the "end" button on the phone, tossing it off to the other side of the bed.
He might have mulled it over further -- felt the guilt and shame that always accompanied doing what he thought was the right thing -- but the drugs were too good.
Sleep was a vacuum and he was being sucked away by its incredible strength. He'd have plenty of time to feel guilty later.
The first thing he noticed was that the blinds on the pool house doors had been lowered. As the seconds ticked by, everything else methodically began to register with his senses.
The light on his bedside table was on. A mug sat beside his alarm clock, and he had to blink to clear the sleep from his eyes to make sure there was steam rising from its contents.
A block of light streaked across the floor to his right, undoubtedly coming from the bathroom. The block was then cut in half by a shadow.
He glanced to his right to see Kirsten approaching, a bottle of pills in her hand.
She stopped mid-step, meeting his eyes, then smiling and closing the rest of the gap between them, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," she whispered, setting down the pills with one hand and reaching out to brush his hair back and off his forehead with the other.
"S'okay," he choked, his mouth sticky and void of all wetness.
She grabbed the mug from the nightstand, holding it out knowingly. Ryan lethargically pushed himself up onto his elbows, eagerly taking the drink. He tested the hot liquid on his lips before taking a large sip and swallowing cautiously. Though he had no idea what he was drinking -- another Newport specialty, he was sure -- it didn't irritate his throat in the slightest. In fact, the strange minty taste was cooling.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, taking the mug from his hands and resting it on her thigh.
He seriously considered the question, shrugging in response.
"Well, at least you got some sleep," she said, pointing to the clock. Ryan was a little surprised to see that it was after ten o'clock. "I'm sure that will aid in your recovery."
He nodded, but he still felt like he was well behind; his eyes burned as he forced them to focus through the still-heavy exhaustion.
"How's the voice?"
He dropped from his elbows and let his head sink back into his pillows. "Nonexistent," he whispered, frustrated.
"It'll come back," she assured him, her smile radiating warmth. "The question is: will we notice?"
He watched her eyes carefully, waiting for the answers they weren't going to reveal. He shook his head a little, furrowing his eyebrows, expressing his confusion through the more favorable method of actions over words.
Kirsten leaned back, carefully placed the mug on the nightstand and crossed one leg over the other. She folded her hands in her lap and cleared her throat. Apparently, she was willing to ignore Ryan's confusion for the time being, pursuing a different avenue altogether. "When I called the school to tell them you weren't going to be there in the afternoon, I talked to Dr. Kim."
Ryan squinted, forcing his brain to work harder. But he shouldn't be worried, right? Dr. Kim had said he was doing well, after all.
"She sounded really impressed with your grades. Said that she wants you to talk to the guidance counselor once a month?"
He pressed his tongue into the side of his cheek, raised his eyebrows for a split second and rolled his eyes just slightly, expressing just how excited he was about the prospect of the meetings.
"I think you should, Ryan. They're there to help you." Kirsten's voice was soft, like she was trying to pacify him, persuade him into cooperating.
He tucked his chin into his chest, suddenly cold and strangely uneasy. "I don't know…."
Kristen laughed, surprising Ryan with the sudden change in volume. "She's not a therapist, Ryan! She's not going to ask about your deepest darkest fears. Just go and see her. Chat with her about your classes and your teachers." She unfolded her hands, her rings clanging against each other, amplifying the quiet and stillness in the room. When she continued, her voice was soothing again, back to that hypnotizing tone that Ryan knew would eventually sway him. "She might be able to give you some good advice, point you in the right direction for college. But she can't help you if you don't talk to her."
He tilted his head back again, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly, bobbing his head ever so slightly. Whatever you want, Kirsten.
"I just want you to try it. Go once for me."
He cracked his eyelids open and gave her a small half-smile.
"Good," she said sharply, victory gleaming in her eyes. Kirsten tried, but rarely succeeded in hiding her fervent competitiveness.
She sat in silence for a few seconds, her eyes darting around the room. Finally, she sighed, and bowed her head. "That being said," she said slowly, looking up at Ryan, "and I don't want you to take this the wrong way…but Sandy and I have noticed that you've been a little…withdrawn, this past week or so, and I know you haven't been feeling well…"
Ryan felt a large lump forming in his throat, forcing him to swallow repetitively. The stinging sensation that followed caused blood to rush through his ears. Kirsten, however, kept going; either she was oblivious to his discomfort or adamant that he hear what she had to say.
"…but when you actually can speak, you know you can talk to us, right? About school…about Lindsay…about how annoying Seth has been…."
Her eyes twinkled and Ryan wanted to smile, but all he could do was frown as he fought to determine Kirsten's motives and rid his throat of the nerve-induced obstruction.
The Cohens were always telling him to speak up, express his thoughts, speak his mind, share. But as a kid, he'd been told, in no uncertain terms, to shut up, be quiet, shove it, and only speak when spoken to. He was just following the rules he knew.
Ever since he'd come to Newport, the Cohens and Harbor, he'd been struggling to understand this fascination with words, speech and talking, in general. And now, more than a year and half since he became fully immersed in this culture, he still struggled to figure out what everyone expected out of him, and why.
How, in the same country and even state, could the rules vary so drastically? He didn't get it. He couldn't get it. And to this day, he still had a hard time wrapping his brain around it. It was a culture shock that was taking a hell of a long time to wear off.
He would be willing to bet good money on the fact that his mom wouldn't have even noticed he'd lost his voice. Kirsten not only noticed, but she was obviously bothered by it.
Chino and Newport. Chino Hills and Harbor. Dawn and Kirsten.
Night and day.
"Wipe that horrified look off your face. That's the same expression Sandy wore when I asked him to marry me."
Ryan's eyes widened in surprise; his nervous system relishing the distraction. "You asked him to marry you?"
"Sort of," she mumbled, biting her lower lip then shaking her head. "It's a long story."
He diverted his gaze. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Her fingers gently grazed his arm, settling on his hand. Her touch was warming -- surprisingly relaxing. Ryan shifted so that he could just see her face in his peripheral vision. "I'm just saying that if you ever have anything to say, we want you to say it."
He didn't respond. He didn't know what his line was.
She reached over with her other free hand and turned his chin toward her, forcing him to look at her as she spoke. "Don't censor your thoughts for us, Ryan. I promise that inside of these walls, no one will judge you."
"You want me to talk?" he asked, almost smiling as if it was a ridiculously easy and laughable request, when he knew it was anything but. It just sounded so…foreign.
She squeezed her fingers around his hand. "Well, not now. Now I want you to be quiet because if you keep using that voice of yours, you're never going to get it back. But when you can speak, I would love to hear what's on your mind."
"Like Seth?" Ryan asked mischievously.
She held up her hands in protest. "No. Please, no. Not like Seth."
Ryan laughed, immediately regretting it as it sent him into another wretched coughing fit. Kirsten grabbed the bottle of water off the nightstand and held it out to him.
He thankfully accepted, cringing when the water clashed with his smoldering throat.
"I stopped by the pharmacy and picked up some of that throat spray," she said, standing up and straightening out her pants. "I'll go get it for you."
Ryan wasn't going to argue.
She picked a piece of lint off her blouse, then linked her hands together, wringing her fingers and licking her lips before speaking again. "You'll find your voice, Ryan. It's just going to take time."
She left him with a warm smile, gently closing the door shut behind her as if the slightest noise might harm him.
Maybe she was right. He hadn't just spent a day without a voice, he'd spent his life without one.
Maybe one day he'd find his voice in Newport.
He'd certainly try for Kirsten. Because Kirsten, he decided, was definitely worth the words.