behind her, and I follow her gaze to Samantha Phillips, who stands twirling her keys. When she sees me looking, her face goes slack and she turns to face the other way.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods.
“Okay, I’ll see you at home.”
I watch her return to the group of cheerleaders. It seems strange—of all the people saying goodbye to Sophie today, I’m the only one who knows how she truly left this world. The knowledge settles at the bottom of my stomach and weighs me down like cement.
Rollins squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
L ong after Rollins drops me off, I sit on the swing on our front porch. I don’t want to go inside. The house is so empty. So silent. I don’t want to be alone with my memory of Sophie’s death. I don’t want to risk falling asleep and having to face her accusations again. Outside, the wind keeps me awake. That, and the caffeine pills.
I shake some more into my hand, pop them into my mouth, and crunch them into powder.
A breeze blows through the large oak tree, coaxing even more leaves to fall. Down the street, a movement catches my eye. A tall boy with a cobalt sweatshirt and blond hair is making his way toward me on a skateboard. As he gets closer, I see that it’s Zane Huxley. And he’s looking in my direction. My stomach does a little somersault.
He coasts to a stop in front of my house, flips up his skateboard, and takes a few steps toward the porch. “Hey,” he says, an unmistakable look of pleasure crossing his face.
I nod at him, swallowing the caffeine powder so I can speak. “Hey. Enjoying your afternoon off from school?”
“Yeah. Did you go to the funeral?”
“Yeah. It was . . . unfathomable,” I say, unable to find a more fitting word for the funeral of a teenager. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
I feel dumb and want to take back the question. It sounds like I don’t want him here, when I do. I want someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t know Sophie, someone who doesn’t know about me and my narcolepsy and how messed up everything is.
Luckily, he just laughs. “Good to see you, too. We live over on Arbor Lane, at the end of the street.”
“The blue one with the picket fence? That’s been for sale forever.”
An awkward silence passes between us. I try to think of something funny or clever or anything to say. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts anymore.
Another gust of wind rips through the yard, sending a chill through me. I shiver.
“Hey, do you want to come in? I could make some coffee or something.”
“Sure. Little chilly outside.”
I get up and open the door, and he props up his skate-board outside and follows me into the house. In the kitchen, he pulls out a stool and sits with his elbows on the counter. I whisk two coffee mugs—one from the University of Iowa and one that says “Bestest Dad in the World”—out of the cupboard and set them between us. He’s quiet as I make the coffee, and it reminds me of sitting in the bathroom of the funeral home, giving Amber the time to put herself back together.
I fill each mug with steaming black liquid. In the refrigerator, I find half a gallon of skimmed milk. I dump some in my cup and then spoon in some sugar. After stirring it for a few seconds, I take a sip.
Over the rim of my cup, I watch Zane stirring some milk into his coffee with his finger. I can’t believe he’s here, in my kitchen. It’s almost enough to make me forget about the murder, about the way Sophie’s mouth was slightly open, a trickle of blood escaping it. Almost.
Zane winks at me. “You look cute in pigtails.”
“Thanks,” I say, braving a smile.
His eyes are so deep and blue, I could get lost in them.
An hour later, I’m sprawled on the couch, clutching my coffee, and Zane is lazily sipping his own drink only inches away. I can see his knee through a large rip in his jeans. The hair on his legs is fine and blond, just like the hair on his head. I fight the urge to
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods.
“Okay, I’ll see you at home.”
I watch her return to the group of cheerleaders. It seems strange—of all the people saying goodbye to Sophie today, I’m the only one who knows how she truly left this world. The knowledge settles at the bottom of my stomach and weighs me down like cement.
Rollins squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
L ong after Rollins drops me off, I sit on the swing on our front porch. I don’t want to go inside. The house is so empty. So silent. I don’t want to be alone with my memory of Sophie’s death. I don’t want to risk falling asleep and having to face her accusations again. Outside, the wind keeps me awake. That, and the caffeine pills.
I shake some more into my hand, pop them into my mouth, and crunch them into powder.
A breeze blows through the large oak tree, coaxing even more leaves to fall. Down the street, a movement catches my eye. A tall boy with a cobalt sweatshirt and blond hair is making his way toward me on a skateboard. As he gets closer, I see that it’s Zane Huxley. And he’s looking in my direction. My stomach does a little somersault.
He coasts to a stop in front of my house, flips up his skateboard, and takes a few steps toward the porch. “Hey,” he says, an unmistakable look of pleasure crossing his face.
I nod at him, swallowing the caffeine powder so I can speak. “Hey. Enjoying your afternoon off from school?”
“Yeah. Did you go to the funeral?”
“Yeah. It was . . . unfathomable,” I say, unable to find a more fitting word for the funeral of a teenager. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
I feel dumb and want to take back the question. It sounds like I don’t want him here, when I do. I want someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t know Sophie, someone who doesn’t know about me and my narcolepsy and how messed up everything is.
Luckily, he just laughs. “Good to see you, too. We live over on Arbor Lane, at the end of the street.”
“The blue one with the picket fence? That’s been for sale forever.”
An awkward silence passes between us. I try to think of something funny or clever or anything to say. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts anymore.
Another gust of wind rips through the yard, sending a chill through me. I shiver.
“Hey, do you want to come in? I could make some coffee or something.”
“Sure. Little chilly outside.”
I get up and open the door, and he props up his skate-board outside and follows me into the house. In the kitchen, he pulls out a stool and sits with his elbows on the counter. I whisk two coffee mugs—one from the University of Iowa and one that says “Bestest Dad in the World”—out of the cupboard and set them between us. He’s quiet as I make the coffee, and it reminds me of sitting in the bathroom of the funeral home, giving Amber the time to put herself back together.
I fill each mug with steaming black liquid. In the refrigerator, I find half a gallon of skimmed milk. I dump some in my cup and then spoon in some sugar. After stirring it for a few seconds, I take a sip.
Over the rim of my cup, I watch Zane stirring some milk into his coffee with his finger. I can’t believe he’s here, in my kitchen. It’s almost enough to make me forget about the murder, about the way Sophie’s mouth was slightly open, a trickle of blood escaping it. Almost.
Zane winks at me. “You look cute in pigtails.”
“Thanks,” I say, braving a smile.
His eyes are so deep and blue, I could get lost in them.
An hour later, I’m sprawled on the couch, clutching my coffee, and Zane is lazily sipping his own drink only inches away. I can see his knee through a large rip in his jeans. The hair on his legs is fine and blond, just like the hair on his head. I fight the urge to
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