surprises. She walks to the fl oor- to- ceiling windows, the point farthest from the escorts, and gives me a beckoning look. I folow, coming to stand with her at the windows. And now, far removed from the escorts, it’s just the two of us, bathed in the silver glaze of moonlight pouring in. Our chests less constricted, the air lighter.
“I tel them what I know,” she says, looking out the window and then back at me. Her eyes, awash in the moonlight, radiate out, her irises delineated and clear. “Which isn’t a lot. I tel them that you’re a bit of an enigma, a loner, that you keep to yourself. That you’re THE HUNT 77
crazy smart even though you try to hide it. That even though al the girls whisper about you, you’ve never so much as dated a single one.
They ask if we’ve ever been together, and I tel them no.”
My eyes fl ick to hers. She holds my stare with a kind of quiet desperation, as if afraid I might break away too quickly. The air between us changes drasticaly. I can’t explain it, other than it feels like both a hot quickening and a calming softness.
“I wish I had more to tel them,” she whispers. “I wish I knew you better.” She sags her body against the window as if suddenly fatigued by an invisible weight.
It is this leaning— it looks like a surrender — that cracks something in me, like ice splintering on the fi rst day of spring. Pale in the moonlight, her skin is a glowing alabaster; I have a sudden strong urge to run my hands down her arms, to feel its cool clay smooth-ness.
For a few minutes, we gaze outside. Nothing moves. A rind of moonlight fals on the distant Dome, bejeweling it in a glint of sparkles.
“Why is it that this is the fi rst time we’ve realy talked?” She reaches up, tucks some loose hair strands behind her ear. “I’ve always wanted something like this with you, you must have known that. I think a hundred of these moments have passed us by.”
that. I think a hundred of these moments have passed us by.”
I stare outside, unable to meet her eyes. But my heart is beating faster and hotter than it has in a long time.
“I waited for you that rainy night,” she says, her voice barely audible. “For almost an hour at the front gate. I got completely drenched. What, did you sneak out the back entrance after school?
It was a few years ago, I know, but . . . have you forgotten?”
I fi x my eyes on the eastern mountains, not daring to meet her eyes. What I want to tel her is that I have never forgotten; that not a week goes by that I don’t imagine I made a different decision.
78 ANDREW FUKUDA
That I’d walked out of the classroom as the bel rang and met her at the front gates and walked her home, rain slicking down the sides of my pants, our shoes sloshing through puddles, hands together holding the umbrela above our heads, useless against the down-pour, but the wetness not minded in the least.
But instead of speaking to her, I hear my father’s voice. Never forget who you are. And for the fi rst time, I realize what he meant by that. It was just another way of saying, Never forget who they are.
I don’t say anything, only stare out at the night stars, their lights blinking down with abject loneliness. So close together, these clustered stars, their lights brushing, overlapping; but their proximity is only ilusory, because in reality they are impassably far apart, separated by a thousand milion light- years of emptiness between them.
“I don’t think I . . . know what you’re talking about. Sorry.”
She doesn’t respond at fi rst. Then she suddenly jerks her head to the side, her auburn hair veiling her face. “Light’s too bright tonight,” she says, her voice brittle as she slides on a pair of large oval moonglasses. “Hate it when there’s a ful moon.”
“Let’s step away from the windows,” I say, and we move back to the rug, back within earshot of the watching escorts.
We stand awkwardly in front of each other. My escort
“I tel them what I know,” she says, looking out the window and then back at me. Her eyes, awash in the moonlight, radiate out, her irises delineated and clear. “Which isn’t a lot. I tel them that you’re a bit of an enigma, a loner, that you keep to yourself. That you’re THE HUNT 77
crazy smart even though you try to hide it. That even though al the girls whisper about you, you’ve never so much as dated a single one.
They ask if we’ve ever been together, and I tel them no.”
My eyes fl ick to hers. She holds my stare with a kind of quiet desperation, as if afraid I might break away too quickly. The air between us changes drasticaly. I can’t explain it, other than it feels like both a hot quickening and a calming softness.
“I wish I had more to tel them,” she whispers. “I wish I knew you better.” She sags her body against the window as if suddenly fatigued by an invisible weight.
It is this leaning— it looks like a surrender — that cracks something in me, like ice splintering on the fi rst day of spring. Pale in the moonlight, her skin is a glowing alabaster; I have a sudden strong urge to run my hands down her arms, to feel its cool clay smooth-ness.
For a few minutes, we gaze outside. Nothing moves. A rind of moonlight fals on the distant Dome, bejeweling it in a glint of sparkles.
“Why is it that this is the fi rst time we’ve realy talked?” She reaches up, tucks some loose hair strands behind her ear. “I’ve always wanted something like this with you, you must have known that. I think a hundred of these moments have passed us by.”
that. I think a hundred of these moments have passed us by.”
I stare outside, unable to meet her eyes. But my heart is beating faster and hotter than it has in a long time.
“I waited for you that rainy night,” she says, her voice barely audible. “For almost an hour at the front gate. I got completely drenched. What, did you sneak out the back entrance after school?
It was a few years ago, I know, but . . . have you forgotten?”
I fi x my eyes on the eastern mountains, not daring to meet her eyes. What I want to tel her is that I have never forgotten; that not a week goes by that I don’t imagine I made a different decision.
78 ANDREW FUKUDA
That I’d walked out of the classroom as the bel rang and met her at the front gates and walked her home, rain slicking down the sides of my pants, our shoes sloshing through puddles, hands together holding the umbrela above our heads, useless against the down-pour, but the wetness not minded in the least.
But instead of speaking to her, I hear my father’s voice. Never forget who you are. And for the fi rst time, I realize what he meant by that. It was just another way of saying, Never forget who they are.
I don’t say anything, only stare out at the night stars, their lights blinking down with abject loneliness. So close together, these clustered stars, their lights brushing, overlapping; but their proximity is only ilusory, because in reality they are impassably far apart, separated by a thousand milion light- years of emptiness between them.
“I don’t think I . . . know what you’re talking about. Sorry.”
She doesn’t respond at fi rst. Then she suddenly jerks her head to the side, her auburn hair veiling her face. “Light’s too bright tonight,” she says, her voice brittle as she slides on a pair of large oval moonglasses. “Hate it when there’s a ful moon.”
“Let’s step away from the windows,” I say, and we move back to the rug, back within earshot of the watching escorts.
We stand awkwardly in front of each other. My escort
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