Cycler by Lauren McLaughlin Page A

say.
    “Shut up,” she says. “Climb down. And don’t try anything. I’m armed.”
    The blinding light casts her in silhouette, but I can just make out an arm held out to the side.
    “Mace,” she says. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”
    “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just—” “Shhh,” she says.
    I grab the branch and shinny back to the trunk, spotlit the whole way. When I get to the lowest branch, I hang for a few seconds, swinging back and forth.
    She shines the light right in my face.
    I squeeze my eyes closed and jump to the ground. The impact sends a jolt through my spine, but I stuff the reaction so she can see how tough I am. Then, recalling that, at this point, she doesn’t know my intentions, I hold my hands out, palms front.
    “I’m unarmed,” I say. “I’m totally harmless.”
    “Who are you?” she says.
    “Can you, maybe, turn that thing off?” I say. “It’s kind of blinding me.”
    “No,” she says. “Who are you?”
    At that point, I realize I have planned for the invasion but not for actual contact. Shielding my eyes from the flashlight’s glare, I decide to dodge the question. “You didn’t call the cops,” I say. “Thanks.”
    “I can take care of myself,” she says. “What do you want?”
    All I want is to see her face, but the light is too bright and shining in the wrong direction. Looking at the ground, I can almost make out her feet. She’s wearing black boots and dark pants. When my eyes stop stinging from the light, I realize she’s moving the beam down my body. She’s checking me out. Cool.
    “Why do you keep coming to my window?” she says. “Why don’t you just call me like a normal person?”
    “I’m not a normal person, Ramie.”
    “Deeply,” she says. “And how do you know my name?”
    “Is it supposed to be a secret?” I take a tiny step toward her, shielding my face from the light with my hand.
    “Stop,” she says.
    I take another small step. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
    “Stop!” she says.
    I obey.
    Ramie lowers the flashlight a bit, but I still can’t make out her face. “What do you want?” she says again.
    I sigh deeply. “I want you to let me in that window.”
    She laughs sharply.
    “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m pretty sure you will, eventually.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “Are you kidding?” I say. “A strange but weirdly familiar guy hovering outside your window? That’s like Ramie porn. Stuff like this never happens in Winterhead. Not even to you.”
    “How do you know me?” she says. “And that is so not true. I am deeply not letting you in that window.”
    “We’ll see.” I turn and walk away. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
    “I can still call the cops,” she says.
    It’s true. But if I know Ramie (and I think I do), she won’t.

    Night Four. Last night before Jilltime.
    After jogging to Ramie’s driveway, I stop and catch my breath while staring at her window, which glows a warm, inviting yellow. Then I head to the maple tree, pull myself up the swing and shinny out onto the branch.
    Ramie’s dark form appears at her window.
    I scrabble to the porch roof, then pad over to her and kneel before her window. Her face warped in the old glass, she jerks it open just a crack.
    “How do you know the cops aren’t here?” she says.
    I slip the fingers of my right hand through the crack into the warm air of her bedroom, and she pushes the window down.
    “Ow!” I pull my hand free and examine the indentation she’s made.
    Ramie closes the window all the way now, but she doesn’t close the curtains and she doesn’t move away.
    I put my hand on the window where her face appears. “Let me in,” I say.
    Ramie shrugs and gestures that she can’t hear me.
    I don’t raise my voice an iota. “Ramie, you know you’re going to open this window.”
    Ramie’s luscious mouth forms the word “what?” then “I can’t hear you.”
    I don’t raise my voice. In