by Nicole Snow
“Let's just see.” Before I can stop him, he reaches for my bag, pulling the notebook out and flipping through it.
“Hey!”
Ryan whistles to himself, sifting through my equations and formulas. If he's looking for boy talk, he won't find it there. My friends and me have perfected our system, passing secret notes back and forth.
Too bad I forgot about the drawings. He hits the back of the notebook, stops, and turns it around on its end. I've drawn the world's derpiest looking caribou on the page, practicing a sketch for last week's art project.
I don't know what I was thinking. I let my mind drag my hand across the page with the charcoal, giving my poor animal antlers bigger than his body. Deciding to roll with it, I drew his eyes squinted with his tongue sticking out, like he's struggling under his own weight, trying to hold up the branches growing out of his head.
He starts laughing. Then, he can't stop.
I'm officially mortified. “What's so damned funny?”
“Quite the little artist, aren't you, Kara-bou?” he says, shaking his head as he pushes the notebook back into my hands. “That's the funniest thing I've seen in weeks. Why'd you leave his tongue sticking out? And those horns!”
“Because he's mocking jerks like you!” I sputter, angrily unzipping my bag to stuff the shameful secret away. As soon as the final version is done, I'm going to burn my stupid caribou drawing in the nearest fire pit.
“Hey, hold on, I didn't mean any damage.” He reaches for my face.
The kid has the nerve to put his hand on my cheek, if only for a moment, stemming the flow of hot, angry tears fighting their way out. “I'm starting to see why everybody keeps their distance,” I tell him, clutching my bag. “You're a dick.”
Ryan's grin fades to a sly smile. It's like he has to think about the insult. I'm mad because that means it hasn't fazed him at all.
“You're cute– even if you're a little clumsy. Give it another year or two. You'll have guys falling all over themselves to take you out. You're gonna leave every boy in your class with their tongues hanging out.” He's looking at me intently, honestly, but I won't let my eyes meet his. I don't dare. “Take it easy, Kara. Watch what's in front of you next time we meet.”
I'm stuck. Fumbling for my seatbelt, I decide to overlook his last condescending, trademark Ryan Caspian remark and focus on the fact that he just called me – Kara Lilydale – cute.
His hand crosses the space between us, brushes mine, and pops the button for me. The belt rolls over my shoulder and snaps against the side. I'm halfway out the door, more relieved than I've ever been, before I stop myself and finally look back.
“Thanks for the ride home, Ryan. Keep staying on daddy's good side.”
I run toward the house, hoping I can make it past mom and Matt without any side questions about the dark oil residue drying on my shirt and skin. Sometime between my shower and pre-dinner nap, I decide Ryan's playing an elaborate game.
I don't know why. There's no other reason he'd compliment my looks...right?
Sure, I can see myself changing in the mirror. I'm growing up, heading for womanhood, doing my best not to screw it up.
But no one's called me cute. Ever.
Maybe daddy has something to do with the shyer boys keeping away. Everybody knows his take-no-prisoners reputation. His shop hands out some of the best paying jobs in town to the kids who are the least bit mechanically inclined.
That doesn't explain why Mister Mysterious, Untouchable, and Perfect thinks I'm something special, and has the guts to say it.
Whatever's happening, it won't be a one off. He's rattled my head, and left his mark. There are only a couple hundred kids at our school.
I can't walk away from what happened today. I can't pretend it's nothing.
It's a guarantee I'm going to see him again. Next time – he said it himself.
That night, I lay awake beneath the covers, pulling about a thousand imaginary daisy petals. It's not a question of whether he loves me, or loves me not.
I'm frustrated, trying to figure him out, and I have an ugly feeling it's hopeless. I'm going to either kill this boy or kiss him before he graduates.
Two Years Later
No matter how many times I sit down to dinner with him at our table, I feel like hyperventilating.
Ryan looks up when I come downstairs to take the seat across from him. My older brother, Matt, is blabbing on about his latest antics in some shooter game.
“Dude, I flamed his ass hard,” my brother says with a grin. “He came at me as soon as he got a second chance, and I blasted him again.”
They're the same age, but the maturity level gap between them could fill the sky. I don't know why they're friends, being such opposites. I guess even Ryan needs to lighten up on the broody, aloof act sometimes.
Part of me hopes he does.
“Kara-bou.” He says my name and smiles, capturing my eyes in his stare, stark blue and deep as oceans. “Where you been hiding yourself all week? About time you showed up to join us.”
“Dance recital,” I say smartly, wondering why I have to spend my night off with homework and Ryan's barbs. It's like he expects the world to fall neatly to his feet, even when he's a guest in our house.
“Don't mind her,” Matt says, brushing me aside with the wave of his hand. “She's too good for us now, hanging out all the time with her boring ass friends. Kara-bou used to be fun back when she drew those silly pictures, but the herd's got its hooks in her now.”
The worst part about that pet name Ryan gave me a couple years ago? Everybody's using it.
My friends, my teachers, my dance coach. It's even turned up on daddy's lips a few times, as if it's a perfectly acceptable replacement for 'peanut' now that I'm getting older.
I give Matt a dirty look, but I don't reach across the table and push his soda into his lap, like I've done a few times before when he gives me crap. I don't want to catch hell from mom.
Besides, he isn't the one I want to punch. The boy who deserves it is next to him, staring smugly across the table at me with his freakishly handsome face.
Two years have only added to his good looks, like a master sculptor putting on the final touches. Ryan's filled out. His muscles are bigger, harder, and more natural looking after years of hard work in daddy's garage.
He's still killing it at school, too, and he's probably going to graduate Valedictorian in a few months. That really irks the smart kids who got their 4.0s outside the college courses. While they're busy living high school drama full time, with all the rules, Ryan's bringing headphones to the lab and doing advanced work in math and programming.
Of course, all this means is that his head's about the size of a hot air balloon. To think he laughed at my stupid caribou drawing years ago for being way too top heavy.
Mom comes in just then, pauses next to the table holding our bread basket, and smiles. “Glad you could join us for dinner again, Ryan. How're Greg and Sally?” Her face softens as she sets down our piping hot slices of bread with a bowl of honey butter, completing the delicious feast laid out in front of us.
Ryan's smirk disappears. “They're okay. Busy as usual. I like eating here better. Dinner smells delicious as usual, Mrs. Lilydale.”
Mom beams, but it doesn't completely erase the quiet concern on her face. We've heard the whispers.
Ryan's foster parents are the reason he's started coming around for dinner three, sometimes four times a week. They've been unemployed for awhile, several months after he moved in. Last year, CPS paid them a visit when too many teachers noticed him going empty handed at lunch, and Ryan slept over in Matt's room for the better part of a week.
Daddy calls them deadbeats. Losers. People hiding behind charity to enrich themselves, taking in older kids every so many years so they can use the extra stipend from the government to feed their drinking habits.
“You clean up so well, Ryan,” mom says, sliding a chair out to join us. “If only Bart could freshen
up as fast after work. We wouldn't be sitting here with our stomachs growling up a storm.”
She taps her fingers impatiently on the table. Fortunately, we hear daddy's footsteps coming a second later. He walks into the kitchen and smiles, stopping to kiss my mother before he takes his seat at the head of the table.
Ryan might have brains, good looks, and an ego too big for our little town, but I feel like I'm the lucky one, watching him across the table while Matt whispers some crude joke in his ear. He cracks a smile, but it's different than the one he wore when he greeted me. It hasn't been the same on his beautiful face since mom asked about his folks.
I'm fortunate to have such a loving family. That's something Ryan's never had, if everything we know about him is right.
Of course, he always deflects. He never dwells on his problems, his past, or admits he has any issues. Nobody dares to tease him about his background after he established his willingness to throw fists at bullies asking for it. And my parent's questions about his family quickly fall away whenever he starts talking about school, or the latest haul he caught out on Lake Superior, fishing with Jack and Mickey.
I listen to the small talk after we've served ourselves, munching on garlic potatoes, asparagus, and meatloaf. A few minutes in, after we've given him our one-line answers about our day, daddy turns to Ryan.
“So, you got a better idea about how you're going to put those brains to use outside my garage?” he asks, a friendly interrogation that's been happening about once a month at our table since Ryan started his last semester at Split Harbor High.
“I've got a few big ideas, Mr. Lilydale. It'll take a lot more practice coding in my off hours when I'm not busy in your garage this summer. Hoping I can pick up another class or two in Marquette this summer to fill in the gaps in my knowledge.”
Daddy's fork slips and clatters on the plate. “What happened to Ann Arbor?”
I pull on my skirt nervously under the table. Everybody knows he was offered several full ride scholarships to the best schools in the state earlier this year.
Ryan looks up, and glances at me, before looking daddy in the eye. “Degrees don't get a man anywhere with what I'm trying to do.”
“Bull –“ Ever the gentleman when mom's around, my father catches himself. “Son, you've got three tracks in life when you live in Split Harbor. Go to school, join the service, or get stuck here forever.”
Matt nods across the table, silently agreeing. He's been talking to a recruiter with the Marines, eager for bootcamp later this year.
“You left out the fourth option. The one the Draytons did, and they've been riding high ever since.”
My father smiles, shaking his head. “Things change a lot in a hundred years. Nobody's becoming a railroad and mining baron in this town or anywhere else in the U.P. You're a century too late.”
He isn't wrong. Everybody knows the name of the most charitable, wealthy, and respected family in Split Harbor several counties over. Nelson Drayton, the seventy-something year old patriarch, just finished his last term as mayor. They're loved because they stay here and help us when they don't really need to.
The Draytons could move anywhere, taking vital money away from our town. They're the whole reason we aren't losing more people and hemorrhaging extra jobs. Sometimes, it feels like we're hanging by a thread tied to one family and a whole lot of history.
“It's never too late to see potential, just like they did a hundred years ago. Split Harbor needs jobs and new industries,” Ryan says firmly. “This town can't lean on fishing and mining forever. We need to innovate. If I can invent something new, create our own little tech boom here in the U.P., we'll do something incredible.”
I snort, unable to resist cutting in. “The Upper Peninsula isn't Silicon Valley, and you know it.”
My eyes turn away from a very surprised Ryan to daddy, who I expect to see looking on with approval. Instead, he looks sad, subdued, like he's too disappointed by what Ryan said to argue back.
He knows it's wishful thinking of the worst kind. We all do.
“Look, we can't keep leaning on the same old industries, or the decline is going to become a crash,” Ryan says matter-of-factly, before he turns to my father again. “I know you don't agree, Mr. Lilydale. I'm old enough to respect a difference of opinion without getting mad about it. But I'm not giving in without trying.”
“I just want you to have a good career, son. You've got a better chance at that than most, and it's a shame to throw it away without turning all those college credits you've already got into a proper degree. You're the only kid I've ever wanted to take off payroll for the right reasons.”
“Come on, guys. My man's going to prove us all wrong.” Matt cracks a smile, holding out a fist to his best friend. “He'll be making robots for me to chase down bad guys overseas in a couple years. Isn't that right?”
I roll my eyes. I'm scared my brother's played too many games to take the military seriously, and he's going to get himself killed hamming it up.
“Not in Split Harbor,” I say. “This town doesn't have the skill to run a factory with robots, much less make them.”
Ryan looks at me while he bangs my brother's hand with his. “If you're not going to scamper off after dessert, Kara-bou, I'd be more than happy to sit here and talk all about local economics.”
He's challenging me to a debate. I want to stick my tongue out, but I'm supposed to be older and better by now. Immune to his teasing.
“Sorry, Ryan. I need to brush up on French before I turn in. Big test tomorrow.”
There's been plenty of teasing lately, too. Little remarks behind the garage when I come out for some fresh air, finding him back there on his break. He doesn't smoke like the older men, just leans against the wall, playing with his phone, studying lines of code that look as impenetrable as Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Nobody knows it except the two of us, but we walked into dinner with tension guaranteed after what happened the last time I saw him.
It's just my luck that everybody thinks I'm the second smartest person in our school after the boy genius. His very presence doesn't make me flush anymore like a the sad little freshmen I used to be. I'll tolerate him, up to a point, but I'll never be comfortable.
Last week, we got into it over the school's funding for extracurriculars. I held my own.
He said the levies they passed last year, giving them a funding hike, were supposed to go directly to classrooms. I told him what happens after school is just as important. We need to fund sports and art programs, giving us a chance to round ourselves out before we hit college.
Ryan said I had a point, if only it was distributed equally, and the dance team had more chances to flash their short skirts in front of half the boys at school.
Like yours, Kara-bou. I remember how the bastard said it. Especially yours.
I hadn't blushed so hard since the day he dropped me off, savaged my dumb sketch, and called me cute.
Almost two years ago. Where does the time go? And what will another two bring?
“You know, dear, Ryan isn't the only one whose future should be under the microscope,” mom says, spreading butter on another piece of her awesome artisan bread.
“Shit, ma, you want to hear about boot camp again?” Matt's face lightens up, gloriously oblivious to the glare daddy aims his way for cussing at the table.
“Not just yet,” mom says sweetly. She reaches over and pats his hand, turning her attention to me. “I'm talking about our Kara-bou.”
My freshly eaten food gurgles in my stomach when she says Ryan's nickname. “What, the immersion school?”
“You're going straight there if they let you in, and I don't care how much it costs,” daddy says, looking happier than he has all evening. He's proud of something that hasn't even happened.
“Immersion school?” It's Ryan's turn to look glum. His baby blue eyes darken a shade as he looks at me, catching the light from an odd angle. “You mean you're leaving Split Harbor?”
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This isn't his usual tone. His words are sharper, angrier, almost...betrayed.
I blink, surprised. “I haven't decided anything yet, honestly. It's not like it's official.”
“You're being modest.” Mom wags her finger. “If you want it, the letter last week practically said you're a shoe-in. Somebody at this table is going to Ann Arbor.”
I sigh, picking at the last of my mashed potatoes. I wonder why the bar is always so much higher for me than Matt, not that he's letting anyone down by serving his country. It's almost like being sent away to study something intense and respectable has been in the stars since day one.
But ever since I applied on a whim and took their assessment, thinking maybe I could wind up a teacher or translator, my parents have been waiting with baited breath.
They don't get it. Yes, I want a good education. I'm just not sure I want to jump on the first ticket to Paris and a fast track Masters I'm offered.
“Well, I'm going to follow up next week, if that makes you feel better,” I tell my parents, still glancing at Ryan. He's staring at his plate, quietly clearing the food, refusing to even look at me.
What's the deal? Did I say something wrong?
“Always had a feeling you'd graduate early,” mom says, a constant smile on her lips now. “If you do this, Kara, you'll be out in another year. Right on the heels of our boys.”
Ryan finally looks up and manages a smile. I think the way she says our boys, plural, really touches him somewhere beneath that mysterious, handsome mask he calls a face.
“Speaking of French, I really need to run. Can I be excused from cleanup tonight?” I ask hopefully, plastering on my biggest fake smile.
Daddy frowns disapprovingly. No matter how well I do, he isn't one to soften up, or grant any special privileges.
“I'll take over clean up tonight. Let her study,” Ryan says, sitting up extra straight. “It's the least I can do to say thanks for another home cooked meal.”
