funny. Being here, up in the tree, sitting on different branches—it makes it easier to talk somehow. Is it because we can’t look directly at each other?
Battle sighs again. “I’m shy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I hadn’t.” How can she say she’s shy? She’s dated people. She’s the one who kissed me, the first time.
“If Katrina hadn’t made me come over the first day, I probably never would have talked to any of you.” She has a finger in her mouth as she says this.
“But—you’re so—” Beautiful. Brilliant. Amazing. “You seem so sure of yourself, the way you talk, just the way you are. I mean, you’re not like Katrina—you don’t talk a lot, but everything you say, it just feels . . . important.”
Battle’s finger is bleeding. “I don’t talk a lot because words don’t always work.”
Yes, they do, I want to say, but I can’t, for some reason.
Which means she’s right.
But I can’t let the silence hang, either—I ask something that’s been bothering me for a while.
“When he left, what did your parents do? I mean, did they try to find him?”
Battle says flatly, “They fought. Mom wanted to call the police, hire a private detective, the whole shebang. Dad said it was Nick’s choice to leave, and he’d get in touch with us when he was ready.”
“Who won?”
“No one.”
It’s another of her nonanswers. Doesn’t she want me to know anything about her? I try another approach.
“It’s so awful when parents fight. Mine almost divorced when I was nine. They didn’t yell, they just got cold and overly polite—like suddenly we were all living in some strange hotel. Do your parents yell?”
“No.”
All right, that didn’t work either. Third time’s the charm?
“Hey, this is totally off topic, but how long have you had Dante and Beatrice?”
Battle smiles up at me for the first time since we started talking about her brother.
“They came from the same litter—the mother belonged to one of the families from church. I got them . . .four years and thirty-seven days ago. They were eight weeks old. Mom and Dad weren’t sure I’d be able to take care of them, but I read every book in the library about dogs and took lots of notes. And I kept track of their growth. I measured them and weighed them every day—I paper-trained them and got them used to being on leashes—oh, I miss them!”
The ache in her voice makes me miss them, too, even though I’ve never seen them except in her pictures, and I’ve always hated dogs.
“Wow, you did all that? That’s really impressive. You’d make a great vet,” I say.
Battle looks so surprised it almost makes me laugh. “That’s exactly what I want to be,” she says softly.
July 14, 6:30 a.m., My Room
field notes:
last night when i was coming out of battle’s room, this girl i don’t know looked at me like i was a three-headed monster, and absolutely scuttled away from me down the hall like she thought i was going to breathe fire or something.
but on the other side, the angst crow who was so mean to me when i liked her dress saw battle and me walking around holding hands and she actually smiled—although she turned it into a scowl as soon as she saw that i had noticed.
alex and ben from class also look at me like i’m a three-headed monster, but then i look at them the same way, and have since day one.
i’ve started to keep track of the number of times i hear someone mutter the word “dyke” in my direction—five so far.
i guess i should be getting angry, or upset, but more than anything it’s just odd—what has changed about me, that makes these people now want to call me this name? do i look different? it’s not as though battle and i have been out necking constantly. not that i’d mind. or would i? i don’t know—whenever we’re outside, in public, something happens that keeps us from doing anything but holding hands. like magnets that repel each other if they get too close. i’ve
Battle sighs again. “I’m shy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I hadn’t.” How can she say she’s shy? She’s dated people. She’s the one who kissed me, the first time.
“If Katrina hadn’t made me come over the first day, I probably never would have talked to any of you.” She has a finger in her mouth as she says this.
“But—you’re so—” Beautiful. Brilliant. Amazing. “You seem so sure of yourself, the way you talk, just the way you are. I mean, you’re not like Katrina—you don’t talk a lot, but everything you say, it just feels . . . important.”
Battle’s finger is bleeding. “I don’t talk a lot because words don’t always work.”
Yes, they do, I want to say, but I can’t, for some reason.
Which means she’s right.
But I can’t let the silence hang, either—I ask something that’s been bothering me for a while.
“When he left, what did your parents do? I mean, did they try to find him?”
Battle says flatly, “They fought. Mom wanted to call the police, hire a private detective, the whole shebang. Dad said it was Nick’s choice to leave, and he’d get in touch with us when he was ready.”
“Who won?”
“No one.”
It’s another of her nonanswers. Doesn’t she want me to know anything about her? I try another approach.
“It’s so awful when parents fight. Mine almost divorced when I was nine. They didn’t yell, they just got cold and overly polite—like suddenly we were all living in some strange hotel. Do your parents yell?”
“No.”
All right, that didn’t work either. Third time’s the charm?
“Hey, this is totally off topic, but how long have you had Dante and Beatrice?”
Battle smiles up at me for the first time since we started talking about her brother.
“They came from the same litter—the mother belonged to one of the families from church. I got them . . .four years and thirty-seven days ago. They were eight weeks old. Mom and Dad weren’t sure I’d be able to take care of them, but I read every book in the library about dogs and took lots of notes. And I kept track of their growth. I measured them and weighed them every day—I paper-trained them and got them used to being on leashes—oh, I miss them!”
The ache in her voice makes me miss them, too, even though I’ve never seen them except in her pictures, and I’ve always hated dogs.
“Wow, you did all that? That’s really impressive. You’d make a great vet,” I say.
Battle looks so surprised it almost makes me laugh. “That’s exactly what I want to be,” she says softly.
July 14, 6:30 a.m., My Room
field notes:
last night when i was coming out of battle’s room, this girl i don’t know looked at me like i was a three-headed monster, and absolutely scuttled away from me down the hall like she thought i was going to breathe fire or something.
but on the other side, the angst crow who was so mean to me when i liked her dress saw battle and me walking around holding hands and she actually smiled—although she turned it into a scowl as soon as she saw that i had noticed.
alex and ben from class also look at me like i’m a three-headed monster, but then i look at them the same way, and have since day one.
i’ve started to keep track of the number of times i hear someone mutter the word “dyke” in my direction—five so far.
i guess i should be getting angry, or upset, but more than anything it’s just odd—what has changed about me, that makes these people now want to call me this name? do i look different? it’s not as though battle and i have been out necking constantly. not that i’d mind. or would i? i don’t know—whenever we’re outside, in public, something happens that keeps us from doing anything but holding hands. like magnets that repel each other if they get too close. i’ve
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