by Laura Miller
I take a second to think about what he just said. “So, does that make you extraordinary or just really abnormal?”
He laughs. And for the first time since I met him, I kind of feel a sense of pride for making him laugh.
“Probably a little bit of both,” he answers.
The bus comes to a careening halt, and we both thrust our hands to the seatback in front of us to prevent our bodies from slamming into it.
“I didn’t see you there, John,” Carla, the bus driver, calls out. I can see her big, blue eyes and gray hair in the long mirror over her head. “You got your walkin’ shoes on today?”
Berlin and I watch the second-grader as he makes his way down the aisle, toward the bus door. “Yes, Ms. Carla,” he says, in a defeated, monotone voice.
“Good,” Carla says, pushing up her big glasses. “It’s only about a hundred feet to your driveway; I think you can manage that.”
John nods and then disappears down the bus steps. And a second later, we’re barreling down the county road again—just like that part in Ghost Dad, right before the taxi flies off the bridge.
And D.A.R.E. is worried about drugs killing us.
Berlin suddenly turns to me.
“What?” I ask.
“See,” he says. “Ordinary-name almost got a one-way ticket to Carla’s house tonight.”
I surprise myself and laugh out loud.
“And what if he didn’t wear his walkin’ shoes today?” he asks.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force my hand to my mouth, trying to hide my giggles. Meanwhile, he just smiles at me.
“What’s yours?” he asks.
“My what?”
“Your name?”
“Guess.”
He chuckles, and for a moment, I think how I kind of like his laugh. It’s relaxed and cool, and afterward, it sort of hangs on his lips—as if he’s trying to soak up all its magic.
“You do know there are, like, a million names out there?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Okay, fine,” he says. “What do I get if I guess it?”
I think long and hard about it. I’ve always liked guessing games, and part of the fun of the game is the prize, I suppose.
“If you guess it by tonight, I’ll let you sit with me on the bus Monday.”
He nods, as if considering it. “Okay, deal.”
I smile, and when it gets awkward, I toss my stare outside the window.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.” I say it kind of sadly, but I don’t know why I do. I’ve never really cared about not having any siblings. I get by okay on my own, and anyway, Angel was always kind of like a sister.
“You’re not missing much,” he says.
“Is that your sister?” I ask, gesturing toward the back of the bus.
“Elin?”
I just stare back at him. How am I supposed to know her name?
“Yeah,” he says. “She thinks she’s Miss America.”
I smile at that. She probably could be Miss America.
“She’s all right,” he goes on. “But just wait until you catch her on a bad hair day or on one of those nights that her boyfriend doesn’t call her. You’ll be happy you’re an only child.”
I watch his mouth as he talks. I wonder if he’s ever kissed a girl before. I realize it’s a silly thought. Who thinks about that?
I bet he has.
“Well?” I hear him say.
I jump and quickly force my eyes from his lips to the window.
“Hmm?” I ask.
He laughs to himself. “I said: What’s this town like ... that we live in?”
That we live in. I like how that sounds.
“Oh, it’s fine, I guess,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “There’s not much to do sometimes, but it’s all right.”
He looks satisfied enough with that answer.
“Was the town you came from bigger than this one?” I ask.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t too big.”
I look down at the legs of his jeans. His clothes are different than the clothes most people wear around here. Most guys just put on normal blue jeans and a collared shirt and call it a day. But Berlin’s jeans are black, and his tee shirt is black, too. And he’s wearing a leather jacket, and it’s also black. When I saw him this morning, my first thought was Johnny Cash—like the Johnny Cash on all my daddy’s old record covers. But then, my second thought was: licorice—long, skinny, weird-tasting black licorice. But in the end, I settled on Johnny Cash because he reminded me more of the guys on my band posters above my bed than food.
Another screeching halt, and my hand is yet again pressing into the seatback in front of me.
“I think this is our stop,” he says.
I look out the window and notice Angel’s—his—house across the street, and it startles me. We’re already here? That was the fastest bus ride ever.
I look over at him, and he’s already standing.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the aisle. “I’ve had enough of this spaceship for one day.”
I look at him and smile to myself, right before I slide out of the seat and follow him off the bus.
I walked right to my front door, once I got off the bus. He said he would see me tomorrow. I said: Yep. And that was it.
It’s been five hours since then, and I’m now in my room working on a drawing of the yellow roses that line the little, iron fence out front.
My momma planted the roses all around the house when I was little. They’re her favorite. She never said exactly why she likes them so much, but I’m pretty sure I know why. She told me a bedtime story once when I was really young. She probably doesn’t even think that I remember it. But I do. It was about a boy who liked a girl. And every day, that boy would give her a yellow rose because, to that boy, the girl was the color of happy. The story ended there, and when I looked up at my momma, there were tears in her eyes. I didn’t know why, and I was too afraid to ask. It wasn’t until years later that I reasoned that the girl in the story was my momma. Though, I never did find out who the boy was. I know it’s not my daddy. He has an aversion to flowers.
Suddenly, a noise pulls my attention from the roses on my sketch pad to the window.
Across the street and in his room is Berlin. His hair, which is a little shorter than shoulder-length, is pulled back into a ponytail now. And I can see, as clear as day through the glass, that he’s holding up a piece of paper.
In big, black letters is my name, IVA SCOTT, sprawling across the page.
I look down at the sketch pad in front of me and tear off a page near the back. And with my charcoal pencil, I write in big letters: How? And then I hold it up in front of the window.
I watch him. He goes to his desk and hovers over it for a few seconds before returning to the window. And then he holds up another piece of paper. This time, it simply says: tree house.
Tree house?
And then I remember. Years ago, Angel and I had carved our names into the old tree house in her backyard.
I go back to my sketch pad and pull out another piece of paper.
I write: How do you know it’s not Angel?
Then, I hold it up in the window.
He squints, as if he’s trying to read all the letters. Then he goes back to his desk.
I wait a couple seconds, and then he holds up a piece of paper that reads: I figured you weren’t an angel.
I let go of a sideways smirk. And then he goes back to the paper and scribbles something else down. After a moment, he holds it up, and I read: Plus, your mailbox says Scott.
He’s a crafty, little one.
He bends down and writes something else. I wait until he holds it up, and then I read: You can’t trust anybody with two first names, Iva Scott.
I roll my eyes after I finish reading his chicken-scratch words. And I hope he sees me doing it, too.
Before I can do anything else, he goes
back to his desk, hovers over it and then comes back to the window and holds up another page. And this time, it only says one word: Extraordinary.
I try really hard not to smile.
He scribbles something else under the word. I squint to read it: Goodnight, Iva.
I shake my head and mouth the words: Goodnight, Berlin. And for a moment after that, we just stand there. It would be weird if I said I felt good to stand there with him, who’s practically a stranger, smiling back at me. So, I won’t. I won’t say there were butterflies in my stomach. I won’t say that I liked how my heart raced. I won’t say that I liked his smile or his stupid, leather jacket or his seat-colored brown eyes. And no one—especially him—will ever know that for a tiny, little flash of a second, I thought of him as Johnny Cash—and me as June.
Chapter Six
Does She Know?
Present
Iva
“How have you been?” I ask him.
His eyes travel over the old, wood two-by-fours of the little tree house. Then slowly, they rake their way up my body and to my gaze.
“Okay,” he says. His voice is barely over a raspy whisper. “And you?”
I nod once. “Okay.”
Silence immediately sneaks into our conversation. It’s almost as if we’re both afraid of saying too much.
I study him. I watch his eyes drift from mine to the place where my hand rests on the floorboards. I wonder what he’s thinking. I feel as if I’m in a different world. This is all so strange, and yet, so familiar. It doesn’t feel as if any time has passed, but then again, it also feels as if a thousand years have come and gone. I want to know everything. I want to know what led him here and how long he’s been here and how the last seven years of his life have been. But it’s just too much for the moment; it’s just too heavy. Right now, all I really want to do is feel what it’s like to simply breathe in and breathe out in his presence.
“So, here we are,” I say.
He nods. “Here we are.”
I lower my head and try to fight back a smile.
“Sooo,” he says, drawing out the word. “Natalie’s your cousin?”
“Yeah.” My eyes gradually wander back up to his.
“Does she ...” He stops and starts over. “Does she know about us?”
I shake my head. “She knows about a boy I used to know back in Sweet Home. She doesn’t know that boy is you.”
“You told her about me?” He peeks up at me through his long eyelashes. I smile, remembering briefly the effect his eyes used to have on me. Some things never change. “In hindsight, it would have been nice if I had mentioned your name.”
He gives me a curt nod. “In hindsight ... that might have been nice.”
And with that, my smile grows a little wider. “I’m guessing your friend has no idea, either?”
“Isaac?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum.
He moves his head back and forth. “No.”
I watch him slide his foot against the boards so that one knee is bent.
“It was hard to talk about you ...”
He stops, and silence fills every crevasse and crack in the wood surrounding us. On some level, I understand. On another, I don’t. I’m not the reason we haven’t seen each other in seven years.
I watch his gaze wander off into the distance—somewhere opposite the barn.
“How was life for you ... after you left Sweet Home?” I ask. “I mean, how was the rest of high school and ...?” I don’t finish the sentence because his eyes return. They wander slowly up my legs and eventually to my eyes and stay there. His slow, deliberate act causes me to lose my words.
“It was okay,” he says, bobbing his head. “It turned out all right, I guess.”
I take in a deep breath, mostly because I feel nervous all of a sudden, and I don’t know what else to do.
“And you?” he asks. “It looks as if life’s been treating you pretty well.”
Instantly, I feel my cheeks grow hot. I lower my head to hide them before I catch sight of a spot in the corner of the tree house. There’s a piece of wood that has something etched into it, but I can’t tell what it is.
“What?” he asks.
He looks over at the piece of wood, and then back at me.
“Nothing. It’s just ... This is kind of ...”
“Crazy,” he says, finishing my sentence.
I nod. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Our eyes meet again, and I feel it—that dark blanket of comfort his look always gave me.
I drop my gaze and try to shake off the thought.
There’s a hushed calm for a couple heartbeats, and in that time, I notice the muffled voices from the barn for the first time, and I think about Natalie. She’s probably wondering where I am. Though, she seemed pretty cozy with Berlin’s friend; it could be that she doesn’t even notice that I’m gone.
“It’s just a girl I used to date,” he says.
My eyes quickly find his. “What?”
“The name ... in the wood, it’s just an ex-girlfriend.”
“Oh, I ...” I hadn’t even realized that my eyes had meandered back to the carving in the wood.
“No, it’s fine,” he explains. “I just noticed you were looking at it.”
I smile, despite the unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“She put it there,” he adds.
I nod, but I’m strangely glad he felt the need to clarify that.
He laughs to himself and lowers his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s just ... Your smile is nice. I just remembered that; that’s all.”
I press my lips together, trying my hardest to hide my grin—though, I’m not exactly sure why.
Suddenly, someone yells in the distance, and I jump.
“They get a little rowdy sometimes,” he says. He winks at me. And if you didn’t know Berlin Elliot, you’d think he was flirting. But to the Berlin Elliot I know, he’s just having a normal conversation. See, that’s the thing with him. He’ll make you forget your own last name, and then in an effort to help, he’ll offer you his. And after the fact, he has no idea how he’s just stolen your heart.
And with that one flutter of his eye, I swear, every emotion I’ve ever felt for this boy comes rushing back to me. Happiness, pain, anger, love—it’s all there.
“How did we get here?” I ask.
“Well, I think the question is: How did we not get here sooner?”
I can’t help but smile at that, as I clear my throat and habitually tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear. “You said that’s your ex-girlfriend.” I gesture with my eyes toward the name in the wood. “Where’s the current one?”
He shakes his head. “There isn’t one. We broke up a few months ago.”
“Oh.” My eyes immediately find his. “I’m sorry.”
He watches me, as if he’s judging my sincerity, considering it carefully. “Nah,” he finally says, “it’s fine.” His eyes trail off to that corner and to her name. “After that first cut, it’s not so bad anymore.”
I would try to avoid his eyes if mine hadn’t already gone and got stuck in that light, sticky honey that swirls around his. He’s beautiful. But then, of course, I can’t remember thinking anything different—even when he was just arms and legs. On that very first day I saw him when I was just twelve years old, I was drawn to him. But he’s grown up now. His eyes are the same, but they’re filled up—as if he’s got more words behind them than he knows what to do with. And he cut his hair—that long, wild hair that probably made my daddy write him off at first sight. And gone is that shoestring-potato-straw profile, and in its place is an athlete’s body with large biceps and forearms. And on the surface of his tanned skin, it’s almost as if time itself is written. Calluses mark his hands, and scars, both new and old, carve thin lines into his arms. He’s the same boy from my past, but he’s also a very different man—who I’m not even going to pretend to know anymore.
“I just can’t believe you’re here,” he says.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip.
“And I can’t believe Natalie’s your cousin,” he adds. “Do you know I’ve known her for ...” He stops, as if to add up the time. “For nearly five years now? How have we never crossed paths?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea. I’ve been here once before in the last several years, but I stayed mostly around her and her family.” My gaze wanders off to a corner of the tree house before returning to him. “I’ve mostly been busy with school, I guess.”
“Where do you go?” he asks.
“Weston University. It’s a little fine arts school in Kansas City.”
A slow, gradual grin finds his face. “You graduate soon?”
“In May,” I say.
“You got some famous artist job lined up?”
“Minus the famous part, yes, I do.”
He nods, as if he suspected my answer.
“What about you?” I ask. “School? Job?”
“No school. But I do have a job, and it suits me.”
“What do you do?”
He smiles again but then quickly drops his gaze. “How about I show you later?”
My lips go to form a word, but I stop and softly laugh, instead. “Okay then.”
“Well, what are you doing all week?” he asks, smoothly moving the conversation away from himself.
I tilt my head back and look up into the dark sky above us. There are so many stars; it reminds me of a different time. “I don’t know, really. I think we’re just hanging out. It’s spring break, and it might be a little while before I see Natalie again, so ... Yeah,” I say, my eyes roaming back to his, “we’re just hanging out.”
“She working?”
“Natalie?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Is she working tomorrow?”
“Um, actually, she is, I think.”
He stares back at me with a little smirk playing on his face.
“Why?” I ask.
“Well, turns out, I’m not up to too much this week myself, and ... I could entertain you while she’s working.”
“Could you, now?” I ask.
“Yeah, I think I could manage.”
I keep my eyes on him for a good, couple seconds. If I say yes, I just know I’ll be jumping right down the rabbit hole. Berlin Elliot is all sorts of madness.
