Earthbound Read Online Free Page A

be free to “study” with me when fewer people are there to ask for his help—or overhear the conversation we’re about to have.
    As I reach into my backpack to pull out my textbooks, I’m dismayed to see my hands are shaking. Am I nervous to tell Benson? That doesn’t seem quite right. Maybe I’m just still so messed up from everything that’s happened.
    And I’m not sure exactly
how
to tell Benson about the blond guy from yesterday.
    And last night.
    This morning, technically.
    I don’t even know his name, but he feels special somehow. My secret. Not the kind of secret that makes you feel guilty and empty inside; he’s a cappuccino secret—something sweet and frothy that warms me from the middle out.
    Still, I need to tell Benson. I should tell
someone
in case … in case this guy really is dangerous. Though even the thought makes me prickle in defense.
    As though I
know
him.
    Benson will understand, won’t he? Benson knows everything about me.
Everything.
It’s been a slow process—you don’t just walk up to someone and say, “Hi! I’m the orphaned sole survivor of one of the biggest plane crashes in history and I’ve been hiding from the media for six months and oh, by the way, did I mention I’m recovering from a traumatic brain injury?”
    But slowly—and without me consciously intending it to—it all sort of spilled out. About a month ago, when I finally confided that the “car crash” was actually a plane crash, I expected Benson to be mad.
That
fact I’d outright lied about. More than once.
    He just laughed and stretched his arms out to the side and asked, “Seriously, is there anything else I should know about you? Long-lost twin? Secret baby? Toenail fetish?”
    I love how he makes me laugh at myself.
    But his smile was a little strained until I assured him that, no, there was nothing more and he now knew all my deep, dark secrets. And it was an incredible relief to tell him. To stop lying.
    To one person, anyway.
    I think that’s the day I realized I was falling for him.
    Not that it’ll ever happen. Probably. He’s so focused on school and I … I’m kinda broken. Not just my injuries. I’ve
changed
. In ways I can hardly put my finger on, but I can’t deny it. Concentration is harder than it used to be. Everything is harder, really. My brain injury was considered moderate and my recovery pronounced by the doctors to be “miraculous,” but simply
living
is a tiny bit less natural, a shade less instinctive. A little less … everything. I’ve mostly come to terms with it. But I don’t know that I’m ready for a real relationship with anyone yet. Or even soon. My life is a tangle of uncertainty.
    Besides, he has this girl. Dana. I haven’t met her—I don’t
want
to meet her—but apparently she’s gorgeous and funny and smart and amazing and … well, an angel come to earth, according to Benson. They aren’t dating.
Yet
, as Benson says. But he talks about her all the time.
    When I can’t get him to change the subject.
    He won’t even see me; not compared to that. And I’m not willing to lose his friendship just because I can’t have it both ways.
    Pushing away my self-pity, I look down and realize I’ve been subconsciously doodling. Just scribbles. Rubbing my pencil back and forth, essentially. But …
    But …
    I turn the paper sideways and swallow hard as a jolt of adrenaline tingles down my arms. The dark smudges definitely look like someone’s shadow.
    A guy’s shadow. A guy who’s tall and slim and has a hint of a ponytail.
    I let the pencil slip from my fingers and clench my fists, trying to get control of my breathing, my panic coming from a completely different source now.
    I haven’t drawn a thing since the day my plane went down. Not that I haven’t tried. But art is the symbol of my ruined dreams.
    And the reason my parents are dead.
    I know technically it’s irrational, but if I hadn’t insisted on going to tour the fancy art school that offered me a