by Laura Miller
I count to three again and then slowly peer around the window frame. And just when my eyes get focused, I see a dark figure staring back at me. I jump and then quickly drop to the floor.
I feel my heart pounding in my chest. For a second, I think I might be having a heart attack. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the neon stars glued to the ceiling. Then I press my hand to my heart and slowly breathe in and out. I’d rather not go out like this—especially over a boy.
After a few, long seconds, my heart starts to slow. I don’t think I’m dying. I flip back around, so that my belly is pressed against the hard floorboards again. And I feel this sudden desire to pop up. And I even start to lift my chest back off the floor, but then I stop. Lately, I have been getting this annoying urge to rethink everything I do before I do it. I used to do just about everything that ever popped into my head. Consequences were inconsequential—until one day, they just weren’t. Now, I can’t do anything without this little, dumb voice in my head playing it all out first. “What would he think?” the dumb voice asks. “Wouldn’t you look stupid? Like a creeper? Like a stalker? And what on earth are you wearing? Didn’t your grandma give you that tee shirt for your tenth birthday? For the sake of all things cool, you’re wearing a darn Winnie the Pooh shirt? What are you thinking?”
Momma told me the dumb, little voice was called my conscious. I called it a waste of time. Then she said that all adults have one. And it made me give it a little more consideration. I want to be grown up. And I guess if this is part of it, then I’ve just got to accept this little, nagging friend that keeps hanging around. But, that doesn’t mean I’ve got to like it—or listen to it all the time.
I force another breath into the old floorboards, and then slowly, I start to push myself up. Everything in me is telling me to close the curtains and just let it go; I can find out more about these people in the morning. But I’m not very good at listening to the little voice, yet, so instead, I crawl to the door, turn off the lights and then scurry back over to the window. At least, now, he can’t see me.
I peek out the window for the third time. And this time, there’s no figure in the window staring back at me. This time, I see a bed and a dresser and someone moving things from the bed to different parts of the room. It’s a boy, and he does look as if he’s my age, maybe. He looks taller than me. He has long hair—for a boy. And he’s kind of stringy, like those shoestring potato straws my grandma always let me get at the dime store when I was younger.
Just then, he stops in front of the window and looks in my direction. I gasp before I realize that he can’t see me.
I stay frozen, as I watch him. It looks as if he scans the whole house and then stops back at my window. And after a moment, he smiles. He smiles. And for a few more seconds, he just stares at my window. And then eventually, he goes back to moving things again.
What a weirdo. What was he smiling at?
I shut the curtains and then jump onto my bed and switch on the lamp on the nightstand. I’ve had enough of the weird boy across the street for tonight. No wonder Momma and Daddy were acting strange. His whole family is probably weird. They probably have dead bodies in their basement and eat kittens for breakfast. I’m going to do everything I can to stay away from that boy, even if he is the only other kid in this whole town and even if he does have a cool, older sister. I have a subscription to Seventeen magazine that Angel’s momma secretly bought me just months before they left town. I’ll figure out one way or another how to be a cool teenager someday. I don’t need any strange neighbor’s help. And I’ll even be fine if I have to spend the rest of my adolescence alone in this town. I’ve got my sketch pad and charcoal, and I’ve also grown quite good at entertaining myself, so I’ll be fine. I’ll be just fine.
Chapter Five
Miss America
Twelve Years Old
Iva
I spot a little rock at my feet. I kick it to the left with one foot and then I kick it back to the right with the other. This keeps me busy for maybe a minute, and then I’m bored again. I would wait inside if it weren’t for last winter, when I missed the bus. I didn’t even hear it pull up. I waited until eight for it. And when I didn’t see it, I figured maybe they canceled school, so I stayed in my room drawing pictures of the ocean all day. But when my momma got home and found out what I had done, she was furious, for one, that I had missed the bus in the first place and for two, that I didn’t call her. I didn’t bring up the fact that I wouldn’t even know who to call to find her. How was I supposed to know if she was at the craft store or Grandma’s or some salvage sale? It’s not like she has a phone taped to her Jordache jeans. And I wasn’t about to go calling every Tom, Dick and Harry looking for her.
And I would dread today more if it weren’t Friday and if summer weren’t almost here. I dread every morning I have to go to school. I don’t hate school, necessarily. But I do hate the dumb, long bus ride. It’s an hour and fifteen minutes of driving around the county, picking up all the weird kids that live around here.
I seriously can’t wait until I get my license.
I’m about ready to find a new activity to help pass the time, when a rock shoots across the street and lands at my feet. Instantly, my gaze travels upward and to a long-limbed boy staring back at me.
My body freezes—kind of like it did last night when I thought he almost saw me through the window. He’s cute—cuter than I thought he was, which makes me feel embarrassed for spying on him last night.
“You waiting for the bus?”
I feel my eyes narrow, and that little voice tells me to just say yes.
“No,” I say, dryly. “I’m waiting for the aliens. This is their beam-up location.”
He eyes me suspiciously—as if he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m crazy. I don’t care. Let him think I’m crazy. Then, maybe he’ll just automatically stay away from me, and I won’t have to waste my time trying to avoid him at every turn.
“Why the backpack then?”
I pull the strap of my bag up to its place on my shoulder. “It’s full of foil—for the radioactive waves.”
Another suspicious look, followed by a slow-crawling smile, sweeps across his face.
“Well, I think you missed ‘em.”
“What?”
“They came last night. You missed ‘em.”
I narrow my eyes even more.
“They took my sister.” He shrugs. “But then, they gave her back because they figured out what a pain in the ass she is.”
I keep a watchful eye on him, while I try really hard not to laugh. He, on the other hand, just squares his feet in my direction and stands there, in his place across the street—not saying a word.
I don’t know what to think of him. The little voice is telling me that he seems kind of interesting, not to mention, cute, and that I should be nice to him. But then, there’s another voice yelling that I don’t know him and that every boy I’ve ever known has been stupid or weird or has thought that girls can’t do anything.
“Hey, it’s kind of like last night,” he says.
I snap out of my thoughts.
“What are you talking about?” I keep my eyes on him for only a second before I feel them awkwardly shifting toward my momma’s yellow roses along the sidewalk.
“Us,” he says. “Us, staring at each other from our rooms across the street.”
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “I wasn’t staring at you.”
He shoots me a disbelieving look and then pulls his own backpack strap higher up his shoulder. “Okay.”
My gaze falls to my pink and gray sneakers. I’m wishing now I would have worn some nicer shoes today. I’m pretty sure I wore these to the farm last weekend, and that means there’s probably cow shit stuck to the bottom.
Why does he have to be sort of cute? And why does him being cute even have to matter? I’m okay with him thinking I’m crazy. But I can’t have him thinking I can’t dress myself—or that I’m
okay with cow shit on my shoes, which, I guess, technically, I am.
“And I wasn’t smiling at you, either, then,” he says, regaining my attention.
I look up at him from underneath my eyelashes, as if my eyelashes are some kind of protective shield, and I watch his grin stretch wide across his face.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’m mortified. He definitely saw me last night.
I sigh inwardly. Fridays used to be good days.
I hear the sound of the bus’s loud engine even before I see its big, yellow self barreling down the street. Thank you, God.
It stops right in front of my house, and I hurry on.
A few seconds later, I try to act as if I don’t notice that he gets on, too. I watch him from the corner of my eye scan the ugly, brown seats. We’re one of the first ones on the route, so no one is on the bus, except for Blueberry Ben. He’s in first grade and lives on the other side of town. I don’t know what his first name really is, but he always smells like blueberries, and Ben goes pretty well with blueberry, so ...
The bus starts moving before new, weird boy can pick a seat. There’s a gazillion seats to choose from; I don’t know what’s taking him so long.
I force my stare to the window. The last thing I want is for him to catch wind that I’m staring at him. I focus on his house, instead. There’s an old dirt bike propped up against the faded, red brick. I’ve never known anyone who’s owned one. Daddy and I went to the county fair last year and watched the motocross race. Ever since then, I’ve been wondering what it would be like to ride one. I’d ask Daddy if I could have one if I didn’t already know what he would say. He has a weird definition of danger. Like, last weekend, he said I couldn’t go to the movies with Melissa because her older sister was going to drive us. Yet, just yesterday, I was helping him fix the roof of a grain bin thirty feet in the air. And when I slipped once on the slick, tin surface, he took a rope, tied it around my waist and then tied the other end to the top of the bin. And no joke—he looked at me, smiled and said: Now if you fall, I can just pull you back up, and we can get right back to work.
Falling thirty feet: Simple work hazard.
Melissa’s sister: Danger.
Out of nowhere, a girl shoots from the neighbor’s front door, leaving the screen door to slam behind her. She looks older than me. She’s pretty, with blond hair and big boobs and cool clothes. Within seconds, the bus comes to an overly dramatic halt, sending me and Blueberry Ben face-first into the stiff vinyl.
I peel my cheek from the seat in front of me and notice the girl again. She runs across the lawn and in front of the bus, as the doors open and the STOP sign mechanically flaps into position. The boy isn’t seated yet, but that doesn’t stop her. She just pushes her way right past him, giving him a shove as she moves to the back of the bus. And for a split second, I meet eyes with the boy, and I feel sorry for him. But I quickly remind myself that he was staring at me last night and that worse, he knows I was staring at him. I turn my attention back to the window. But it’s not even two seconds later that I feel the seat puff up beneath me.
I look over, and he’s sitting right next to me—in my seat.
I study him. He doesn’t look at me. He just stares straight ahead into the aisle.
“You had every seat to choose from,” I say.
His eyes meet mine. They’re brown—just like the seats. But I have to admit, I guess, the brown looks better on him.
“I wanted this one.”
I’m never without words, so I can’t quite say I’m speechless, but I’m close—maybe the closest I’ve ever been.
“But this is my seat,” I say.
“And that’s why I picked it.”
His eyes tunnel into mine. I didn’t even know eyes could do that. And for some reason, it makes me feel awkward. And suddenly, all I want to do is turn into vinyl and melt into this ugly seat. And all I can think is that Seventeen magazine has failed me. It’s the first moment in my entire life that I actually need to be cool, and I’m clueless. Completely clueless. I want to smile. But I don’t. And I’m not sure what’s going on with my stomach, but something’s wrong. I don’t feel sick, but I don’t feel right, either. I press my lips together and force my stare to the window again. Old farmhouse after old farmhouse flies by as the bus hightails it down the road. There won’t be a stop for another five miles, so for five miles there won’t be anyone else to distract us. For five miles, it’s only me and him.
I take in a healthy breath and then slowly force it out. I have to say something. I can’t stand the dumb silence any longer.
“Are you in the habit of calling other people’s things yours?” I ask, sharpening my gaze on him.
I watch him shake his head. “No, just your things.”
I feel my forehead scrunching up, as I pull my backpack closer to my chest. There’s a battle raging in my head. I feel as if I could really get along with this kid. He’s funny. And he seems nice, I think. And on a scale from that big guy on The Goonies to Justin Timberlake, he’s definitely closer to Justin. But that being said, there’s also a very high likelihood that he eats kittens. I look at him kind of like I look at Joseph Gordon-Levitt from 3rd Rock from the Sun—nearly perfect, except he’s an alien.
My gaze accidently crosses paths with his, and he smiles. I roll my eyes and try my best to fight back a rogue smile of my own. This boy is crazy, with a capital C. But I’m not altogether sure I don’t like it.
I didn’t talk to the boy the rest of the ride to school. It was weird, but then again, it kind of wasn’t. Every once in a while, I would look his way, and our eyes would meet. And each time, he would smile, and I would try not to, as I quickly forced my stare back out the window.
I didn’t see him at school the entire day, either. The teacher announced that we were getting a new student but that he would be in the office all day doing new-student stuff.
Hearing that he was in my class kind of made me a little giddy, but it also kind of made me a little nervous, too. I usually know how to act around people. But in front of him, I just turn into a bumbling, blue elephant.
I get on the bus after school and sit in my regular seat. The bus fills up fast, just like it always does in the afternoon. And just like always, no one sits by me because no one my age lives in Sweet Home.
The boy gets on last. I keep my eyes trained out the window, but for a split second, I steal a quick glance at him. He’s scanning the seats, as if he’s looking for something ... or someone. I quickly look back out the window. One part of me is hoping he walks on by my seat and picks another one, while the other part is hoping he plants himself right next to me—just like he did this morning.
I take a deep breath in and then let it go. Seconds crawl by as if it’s the week of my birthday. And then, I feel it—the rise of the air in the seat as someone sits next to me. I wait a second, and then I turn my head.
He’s smiling when our eyes accidently meet.
“Were you waiting too long?”
I narrow my gaze.
“I wasn’t waiting for you.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps grinning.
I try to ignore his grin.
“Where are you from, anyway?” I ask.
“Sulfur.”
“Is that a name of a town?”
“Unfortunately.”
I push my lips to one side, weighing his answer. “Where is it?”
“Three hours south of here.”
Again, I take a few moments to weigh his words. I’ve been south of here. I went with my daddy to a livestock auction in southern Missouri just last fall. There was nothing there. Then again, there’s nothing here, either.
“Well, why did you move here?”
“My dad. He’s the new manager at the bottling company.”
“Oh,” I say. People around here respect the bottling company. It means jobs and money and happy people.
“How old are you?” he asks.
I contemplate addin
g a couple years to my age because it might make me look cooler, but he’s in my class, and he would figure it out Monday. And then it would just look as if I had flunked or something.
“Twelve,” I say.
“Really?”
“Yeah, why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. You seem older.”
“Really?” I don’t even try to hide my pride, as I sit up a little taller in the seat.
He’s still looking my way a few seconds later.
“If I can guess what grade you’re in, will you let me ride that dirt bike that’s sitting outside your house?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and it makes me regret the deal I’ve just made. What if he thinks I like him now ... or that I’m desperate? Seventeen magazine says that acting desperate is the worst.
“All right,” he says, “what grade am I in?”
My fears all scurry away, and I silently breathe a sigh of relief. “Seventh,” I say, boldly.
He starts to smile.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yep. You win.”
He gives me an approving look.
“What grade are you in?” he asks.
“Seventh,” I say.
He nods. And then, it gets quiet. I turn my attention to the passing trees outside our little, rectangular window. I have this new desire rising up in me to know everything about this boy. I’ve never cared to know anything about any boy that wasn’t already on some poster in my room.
“Wait,” I say, looking over at him. I’ve just realized that I have no idea what to call him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Berlin. Berlin Elliot.”
I weigh whether I want to say my thought out loud. But before I get to any conclusion, I just blurt it out. “My daddy says you shouldn’t trust anybody with two first names.”
He smiles. “He’s right.”
I stare at him, apprehensively.
“My mom says a name should be as ordinary as the person who owns it,” he adds.
