by Holly Ryan
He sets the can down on the table, then turns back to me. He slips his hands into his pockets. “Well, then it’s a good thing it did.” He corrects himself quickly. “The first time, not the second time. That looked painful.”
“You’re not getting off that easy. What did you mean?”
He shrugs. “I notice you, that’s all.”
Oh, my God, he’s such a flirt. Seriously, will he flirt with anything on two legs? Or less than two, since I barely meet that requirement at the moment? This time, I raise my brow at him.
He shakes his head. “That came out wrong.”
“Uh huh.” I’m beginning to think this is pointless. I scan the cafeteria for any sign of Mara. If I can make eye contact with her, and she sees what I’ve gotten myself into, she’ll call me over and give me an out.
“I meant to say I’m glad you’re okay.”
That gets my attention. He did?
He continues, “And you’re welcome.”
“You’re welcome?” I say, confused.
“That is why you came over here, isn’t it? To say thank you?”
“It would have been, before you said you were glad that I fell and made a royal ass out of myself twice in one day.”
He reaches around and grabs the drink. He pops the top. “You didn’t fall, remember?”
So Ethan Harrington is a showman with a cocky front, who in a rare moment may allow a kind gesture to shine through. Okay.
He takes a long, obnoxious swig and he peers at me, his dark eyes shining from the sides of the can. If he didn’t have that thing in front of his perfect face, I’m sure I’d be able to see his smile. Maybe even that same smile he gave me a few minutes ago, before leaving so abruptly in a way that left me wanting more of it.
Stop it, Avery. Stop it.
Remember, the boy’s a player. He’s kind of being a dick.
He removes the can of soda from his mouth, and I was right – he’s smiling. Except it’s not the same affectionate smile I just received; it’s a cocky, adorable smile that says what have you got next?
And truthfully, I have nothing left. No more clever or witty statements, nothing left to impress him or counter all his responses that he somehow manages to weave perfectly. He’s melted me.
“Well, you’re right,” I say at last. I hope the meekness in my voice isn’t too obvious. “I do owe you a thanks. So thanks.”
Without hesitation, he says, “You’re welcome.”
He’s still holding the can, and he still has one hand in his pocket. His friends have got to be nearby. I would have thought they’d have been at this table he brought me to, but it’s empty, and no one around us is watching our interaction. Which is odd, because everyone in this school is usually up in everybody’s business – especially the business of their friends. He’s alone with me. And I would be, too, if it weren’t for Mara, who I see from a distance watching us. I did catch her eye. She has an amused look on her face and occasionally leans over to giggle with Camille.
There’s more I want to say to him; I would love to know why he stayed when he owed me nothing, and if we could please never do this again. But I’ve said my peace, and now he knows: I am thankful. I’m thankful that he helped me when all others were rude and heartless; even Brendan, who left me without reason even when I’d been helping him. That still hurts, and I plan to let him know when I next see him.
So I guess that’s it. I readjust my purse on my shoulder, hoisting it with one hand and clutching the strap with the other. Then, I turn to leave. Just as I do, he grabs me.
Okay, he doesn’t grab me. He clutches me, and gently, as if I’m something that might break. Still, it’s something I wasn’t expecting, and so it catches me by surprise. I gasp; my heart skips a beat and I spin around. My breath increases. The look on his face is one of surprise himself, so I’m betting he heard me gasp.
He releases me and doesn’t say anything to explain his actions. Isn’t that just like this kid, to give me nothing to go on?
He slowly bends down, his knees buckling beneath him. When he reaches the level of my knees I swallow hard.
What’s he doing?
He’s inches from my scar. I look around. Still, no one seems to be watching. I get lost in his closeness and the steady hum of my classmates’ voices. He reaches out both hands and completely bypasses my scar. He lifts up the bottom of my yoga pants, only a few inches to expose the fresh scrape on my knee. He runs his thumb near it with careful delicacy. He blows on it.
A chill runs through me.
Then, his thumb slides further, toward my scar.
I pull my leg away. I reach down and stretch the fabric down as far as it will go, my purse falling over my shoulder as I do and landing on the ground with a thud.
He’s still on the ground, looking up at me with his elbow resting casually on one knee. I walk away. I don’t want to – what he just did felt so caring and so sensitive and so right in every way, even despite its intrusiveness, but I couldn’t take it anymore.
I couldn’t take him anymore. Only five minutes in that boy’s presence and things were so intense that I couldn’t do it.
As I walk, my strides long and steady in a hurry to return to where I came from, I take one look back. He’s still there, watching me. He’s since stood and now turns to pick his drink back up, all while keeping his eyes locked on me with a magnetism that we both share.
I’d notice you, he’d said. Like it was nothing. Like I shouldn’t be surprised.
I reach my table and sit, not daring to look back again to see if he’s still watching me. Mara saw most of that; she knows better than to say anything to me right now. I’m sure she can tell from the look on my face that the best thing for me right now is to be left alone to process this, but she still speaks up.
“What was that about?”
“Honestly, I don’t know right now.”
She mouths, “You’ve got to tell me later.”
I nod.
I’m trying to act normal, and I’m trying to feel normal. But I’m not doing a good job at either. As we all sit and wait for the bell, I reach down to my knee where he just was and touch it with my own fingers, as though trying to sense what he sensed and feel what he felt. The chills return.
I pull my hand away.
The following night, Mara calls my house around six o’clock. My mom must be one of the only people on the planet to still have a landline, and Mara likes to call it as a sort of joke. “I’ve never called an actual house phone before,” she’d once said. “I think it’s hilarious.”
I get it. It is like a kind of thrill, like interacting with a museum exhibit that you know is from the olden times. The antiqueness is fascinating. And it is hilarious, I guess, especially when my mom answers and doesn’t see the humor in it at all.
“Hold on,” my mom says into the receiver. She holds out the phone to me, extending the cord as far as it’ll go. “Here.”
“Hello?” I say, my voice high and fake as though I have no idea who it could possibly be. I’m playing this up for Mara.
She breaks out laughing through the receiver. “Is your mom ever going to get rid of this thing?”
“Probably not.” My voice goes back to normal. “She’s kind of resistant to change. I should never have given you this number, should I? I have a cell phone for a reason, you know. Privacy. Social norms. Stuff like that.”
“That on applies to texting. I want to call one of the last landlines on earth as long as I can, before your mom comes to her senses and stops paying on it.”
“So listen,” she goes on. “Come to the movies with us tonight.”
“Tonight?” I hate spur-of-the-moment plans being sprung on me. I function best as a planner and thrive on the ability to prepare; Mara is the complete opposite. It’s been that way since we were young.
“We’re leaving in a few,” she says. “Want me to pick you up?”
I don’t bother to ask what movie, and she doesn’t bother to say. She’s been
doing this ever since my attack, making these persuasive offers to get me out of the house. And she’s smart about it, too, casually sneaking her attempts into our everyday conversation, automatically inviting me along at the last minute like she’s doing now.
“Who’s we?” I ask as if it’ll make a difference, like it’ll somehow grant me Mara’s personality. No matter who’s going, I still won’t want to go on such short notice. Before she called, I was binge-watching Netflix, curled up on the couch in my comfy Wildfox sweats. Not much can pull me away from that. But I know how convincing she can be, and I already know which way this will go. Time to ditch the sweats, and Orange Is The New Black will have to wait.
“I really want you to come,” she says, ignoring my question. “Oh, and next week is James Connor’s party. You know the one. You have to go with me, okay? I can pick you up for the movie in ten. That work?”
“Okay. Fine.” I hope she can sense my irritation. “This won’t be like last time, right?”
The last time I went to the movies with Mara was two days before my attack. It was before everything, actually; before my dance recital, and before I ever got into that fateful argument with Cole. We saw some sappy romance, and after watching the main character sob over her lost love interest I was bawling my eyes out, too; Mara, on the other hand, was perfectly composed and had snuck in a burrito from the Mexican joint across the street. She chomped on it through the entire movie.
I didn’t mind the eating. It’s just that that was a little too close to criminal behavior for my comfort level.
Call me a good girl, call me a killjoy.
“Cross my heart, I won’t sneak in any more Mexican food.”
“Not sure I buy that.” I sigh. “Okay. Pick me up in ten.”
Ten comes and goes. It’s been about twenty minutes since I got off the phone with Mara. I’m waiting in the living room with my phone glued to my hand, listening for either the buzz of her text or her rap on the front door. Either would do.
I check the time. Make that twenty-two minutes.
I don’t know when the movie starts, but I hope this doesn’t mean we’re going to be late for the movie. And I hope she didn’t lie to me, and is late now because she’s stuffing more meals in her purse as we speak.
Trust, I guess.
I stand and walk to the sliding glass door that leads to our backyard. I stretch my arms above my head. Only then does my phone chime. I sprint, reaching it in two wide strides. Mara’s here; she says to come outside.
I allow a smile to play at the corner of my mouth. I guess a part of me, deep down and way hidden, is excited to be finally getting out, after all.
I take my seat. The chairs are uncomfortable. I squish my back deeper against them. Oh well. This could be worse; at least they’re clean and not covered with splotches of gum or mysterious stains. I can never bring myself to sit on those.
Mara’s sitting next to me, and next to her is Camille. There’s one other girl with us, a friend of Camille’s who I haven’t met before. We’re seeing a romantic comedy, which is good. I don’t think it I’d be able to take it if I had to watch another Tom Hanks heartbreaker.
Being here brings back memories. How could it not? The last time I sat in these seats was just before my life changed forever. The sensations, the sounds … even the sticky, buttery smell of the place makes me feel sick to my stomach. I take a sip of soda; the carbonation calms my belly.
“This’ll be fun,” Mara says, scrunching her face and clutching the arm of the chair.
I smile and nod.
I think it’s about to start. Just as I’m squinting my eyes toward the screen, the lights dim around us.
And my heart starts to race.
The screen flickers and lights up, illuminating his face in the darkness. At least, what I imagine his face to be. That is, the scariest, most evil-looking thing my traumatized mind can conjure up.
In an instant, the moisture disappears from my throat and mouth.
I lean over and take a sip from my straw, but it does nothing. As soon as I swallow, my mouth dries again. The previews begin. I bounce my leg up and down.
“Are you okay?” Mara whispers.
I nod. “I just need some air.”
As quickly as the symptoms came on, I’m up, out of my seat and flying down the theater’s stairs. I burst through the door and I’m in the lobby, out of the darkness.
I lean my hands on my knees, breathing heavily, trying not to draw attention to myself.
“Did you fall?” someone says.
Damn. It didn’t work.
I rise, placing my hands on my hips and breathing deeply. “I’m–”
I stop. I was about to say that I’m okay. But since Ethan is standing in front of me, I’m not.
“You,” I say.
“Me.”
“I mean – hi,” I say, turning to him in automated response, sounding too chipper and goofy to be any kind of sexy.
“What are you doing here?”
He laughs and looks around. “It’s a public place, isn’t it?” When I don’t answer, he tilts his head and leans closer. “Did you fall?”
I almost take offense. Except he’s not teasing, not mocking in any way. He talks with kindness and optimism and patience – he’s worried. He’s actually worried about me.
“No,” I say defensively. “I didn’t fall.” I thumb over my shoulder. “I’m here with my friends. I just … needed some air.”
“I’m here with some friends, too.”
“Ethan?” Julia Crane stops at Ethan’s side. She’s taller than I remember, and when I glance down I see it’s because of the heels she has on.
Who wears heels to a movie theater?
She eyes me viciously; I’m surprised she doesn’t put her hand on his shoulder and flash an engagement ring.
“We’re going to be late,” she says to Ethan.
“Sure. You sure you’re okay, Avery?”
I give him a bobble-headed nod.
He doesn’t respond. He probably knows I’m lying.
Before they leave, he smiles at me, that special grin of his, the one that draws one side of his mouth up his face in picture-perfect beauty. Then they leave, and I’m left alone in the middle of the hallway.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he liked me. Even with Julia Crane practically attached to his arm. Bold son of a bitch.
Ethan
“Why don’t you see him again?”
It’s my mom, interrupting my after school snack. I’m sitting at the kitchen table where I thought I’d find some peace while she reads her Food Network magazine in the living room. Doesn’t she know I’ve been waiting all day to eat these Cheeze-itz?
“Who?” I say, my mouth full of cracker.
“You know who.”
I know who. But I’d rather pretend I don’t for the sake of delaying the answer. I pick up my bowl and I stand, ready to retreat to my room the second this conversation ends. I shrug while picking at a few of the crackers in the bowl. “I don’t want to.”
She uses a damp rag to wipe the counter where I was just sitting, scrubbing in circles like I’m contaminated. She’s always working. She should stop that.
“I didn’t know you don’t want to,” she goes on. “You were pretty eager the last time.”
“The last time was the last time,” I say matter-of-factly.
“I stand corrected.” She keeps wiping.
I’m just waiting for her to get whatever she wants off her mind so I can go to my room and waste the rest of my time on the computer. I don’t mind talking to her, but any conversation that broaches the topic of my father is a different matter.
“Did he say something?” she asks delicately.
I nod, still picking at my snack. “He said lots of things. Nothing sane, though.”
“I see. Well,” she stops, tossing the rag aside. It lands clumsily near the sink. “I told you it’s your decision. If you don’t want to see him again I�
��ll tell the prison to stop letting him call.”
I almost choke. “He’s been calling?”
“Well, you know how it is. He’s been trying to call my cell. I haven’t accepted any of them. But,” she holds her hands up, “if that’s the way you want it, I’ll leave it at that.”
I’ve already started to leave. And I’ve almost reached the first stair with my precious bowl of crackers when I reply, “That’s the way I want it.”
I swing open the door to Chemistry without a care in the world. As I walk, I thumb some papers in front of me, trying to sort them out in the midst of all my messy homework. There’s a lot of crap here, and our group project is due today. I’ve done my part. I didn’t do it until just before midnight last night, and I had to forfeit a video gaming session, but still … it got done. At least my teammates can’t yell at me for slacking off.
Speaking of teammates and anger – I’ll be surprised if I make it through class without another tension-fueled conversation with Avery. It seems no matter what I say to her, it’s always wrong.
I slide the piece of paper we’ll need out of the folder. Just as the paper leaves the front of my face, exposing the area in front of me, I see her. I guess I should have been paying more attention to where I was going, because she’s right there. I’m on the verge of invading what could be considered her personal space.
She’s in the same seat as always, and our desks are already fitted together into a square. It looks like she was the first to arrive, given that she’s sitting all along, and I can’t help but wonder if that change in her behavior had anything to do with that I said about noticing her. She holds my eyes for a second and then darts them away, down toward her own papers.
If she was a blusher, I’m pretty sure I’d see some rosiness right about now. But there isn’t a hint of redness there.
I sit across from her and check the clock on the wall. We’re four minutes early. There are a few other kids here, too, slumped with bored looks on their faces. Mr. Miller has already begun writing his lecture notes on the chalkboard, his back to us.
