gave him away. They drummed against his knee, hinting at whatever lurked beneath his seemingly apathetic exterior. That tiny burst of motion—of lean, restless fingers striking worn denim— somehow demoted him from intimidating to approachable.
I remembered the way he’d stared out the window in homeroom, his quiet contemplation a huge contrast to the loud voices that echoed throughout the hallways.
“Okay.” I ducked under the tree branch and followed the brick-lined path to the bench. No big deal. I’d sit on my edge of the bench, he’d stay on his, and we’d ignore each other.
Great idea in theory. Hard to execute in real life. Because as I positioned myself on my half, I was aware of the steady rate of Hunter’s inhalations and exhalations, the way he smelled like laundry detergent and something spicier—sandalwood—and how he tapped his foot on the bench beside me while he read. Twenty-two times per minute.
I snuggled into Dad’s shirt. My plan had been to let the memories roll through my head, but I don’t know. I felt strangely exposed with Hunter sitting next to me. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to count the individual drizzle droplets as they landed, feather soft, on my face.
After an unproductive three minutes, Hunter’s book crinkled. “You’re Maya, right?” he asked.
An unexpected disappointment stabbed me. I opened my eyes. “Close. Mila.”
“Sorry. Mi-la.” The way he carefully drew my name out gave it a mellifluous quality I’d never heard before.
He nodded absently, his fingers drumming away on his left knee. I waited for a follow-up question. Instead, he hunched his shoulders and stopped tapping to turn the page on his comic.
I tried to shift my attention back to the courtyard, my shoes, anything besides Hunter, but the six-foot figure of damp, mussed, and brooding boy proved just a little too potent to ignore. I had a sudden craving to hear him say my name again, with that same melodic tone.
Mi-la.
I stifled a groan. Perfect. Kaylee’s boy-crazy ways must be rubbing off on me.
Hunter tilted his head up to the sky, closing his eyes and letting drizzle dampen his cheeks and eyelashes. Any other guy at our school would have looked silly in that position, like he was posing or something. Hunter just looked . . . peaceful. “The rain doesn’t bother you?” he said, seemingly half asleep.
I glanced up at the drifting mass of gray. The clouds blocked out any trace of brightness, casting the entire school in a haze of blah. “It’s actually a relief.”
He shot me a sideways glance, the curious rise of his eyebrows making me want to retract my words. I’d revealed too much. Any second now, and I’d get the pitying look. Any second now . . .
Instead his mouth softened into a smile. “Yeah” was all he said before closing his eyes again.
Just yeah. Nothing more. But that one yeah hinted at more understanding than a whole hour of lunch-table babble with Kaylee’s friends.
That one yeah unburdened me, like maybe I’d finally stumbled upon someone who could accept me as I was. This post-Philly, post-Dad version of me—not some happy, unfettered, whole version that everyone seemed to want. Including Mom.
Maybe here, at last, was someone I could talk to. Only, as luck would have it, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
I fumbled for a suitable conversational topic. Horses came to mind, but I had no idea if he rode or, like Parker, thought they were “smelly giants with big teeth.” No, I needed something he was interested in.
What did I know about him so far? Not much. He was new, he was from San Diego. He smelled a thousand times better than the guy who sat next to me in English. My gaze fell to the book in his lap. Instead of rows of words, it was full of pictures.
“What’s that about?”
“Ghost in the Shell? The usual. Good guys versus bad. Major Motoko versus the Puppeteer.” He coughed, nudged his backpack with his shoe. “I should probably put it away. The rain . . .”
Before he closed the book, I peeked at the graphics. I saw a girl with wild hair and a futuristic outfit, holding a big gun, standing in front of a weird-looking machine. Interesting, and definitely not the usual sort of thing students carted around with them here.
I pulled my knees to my chest and watched him unzip his bag and stuff the book in.
“Are you a fan of manga?”
I hugged my legs tighter and wondered how to respond. “Don’t think so” was what I settled on. Not a total lie, but not an uncomfortable truth, either. “But I do like to read. Did you bring that with you in the move?” I couldn’t imagine he’d picked it up in Clearwater.
“Yeah. We had a great bookstore back in San Diego. They kept a manga collection, special ordered anything they didn’t stock.”
His slow sigh triggered an echoing wistfulness in me. Oddly enough, the knowledge that I wasn’t the only one longing for the past made my loneliness dissipate, just a teensy bit. Even if that longing was only for a bookstore, it served as a reminder. I wasn’t completely alone in this feeling. Hunter had been forced to leave favorite things behind, too.
With one arm still cradling my knees, I pulled the other up to rest against my cheek. To breathe in Dad’s flannel, searching for the minuscule trace of his scent that remained, the smell of sweet, pine-scented cologne. Every day it faded, leaving me terrified of the day the smell would disappear completely and I’d lose that last link.
“Gonna have to trek to Minneapolis to find a decent bookstore.” He paused, then added. “If you ever want to come with . . .”
“Okay,” I murmured past the giant knot clogging my throat. His kindness, losing Dad; my feelings were all blending together into one big explosive concoction. Who knew which emotion would burst free at any given time?
“Hey. You okay?”
I swallowed hard, nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“That your dad’s shirt?”
I nodded again.
“He died . . . recently?”
I cleared my throat, forced air into my lungs. All this time, I’d been complaining about how everyone tiptoed around Dad’s death. Only a hypocrite wouldn’t answer.
“Yeah. In a fire.”
I heard his shoes scrape wood as he shifted positions. “Rough. Were you there?”
Supposedly. I sifted through my memory again, seeking flames, smoke, anything. Like every other time, nothing came.
And then I heard a scream. In my head, a girl’s scream.
The sound made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. But the only images to accompany it were those same white walls, a white lab coat. The smell of bleach.
Still no fire.
“I don’t remember.”
I
