Everything in the world suddenly distilled down to that word and this truth: he wanted me to come. Why didn’t matter. The wanting was enough.
“Fine,” I said. “But since you’ve already planned our escape route, I get to pick the destination.”
That’s how we ended up at a diner by the interstate. It wasn’t exotic or hip or filled with zippy roller-coaster rides or anything fun like that, but it was close enough to Lakebrook High that we’d easily make it back in time for English class.
As we slid into a booth, I said, “Did you get kicked out of your last school?”
He blinked, clearly surprised. “No.”
“Reform school,” I guessed again.
“What?”
“You used to go to a reform school.”
He laughed. “Of course not. What makes you say that?”
“Those pink slips from the nurse’s office. You must have stolen them. Plus, you knew Door 6 was unlocked from the outside, which I didn’t know after more than a year at Lakebrook High. There are at least thirty doors in that godforsaken school. Did you check every one? Did you transfer here to case the joint?” I began to tease. “Are you planning some big heist? There are diamonds in the principal’s office, aren’t there?”
He shook his head. “You couldn’t be farther from the truth. I attended a kind of … military academy. And I was an excellent student.”
That explained a few things. Conn’s clean-cut look. The athletic build. A certain amount of fearlessness.
The waitress came to take our order, and after we handed back our vinyl menus, Conn repeated, “Reform school. You really thought I was some kind of criminal?”
“Don’t take it personally. I’m the one with a DCFS file that says I’m violent, disobedient, and impertinent. Oh, and strange.”
His brows lifted. “Strange?”
“‘Eerie’ was the exact word.”
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
“Oh?” I asked while my courage was high. “And what’s that?”
He murmured it. “Ethereal.”
Such a beautiful word. It thrilled through my veins. Yet he had sounded so bitter. He fell silent, and seemed to regret having spoken.
“To be honest,” I said lightly, “I am kind of strange.” Somehow I began telling him exactly what I had been trying to forget for more than two weeks: that I thought I’d seen my hand vanish. What a ridiculous thing to imagine, right? I told it all as one big joke. I’d meant to make him laugh, because he laughed so rarely and when he did it could become a deep and free music that I couldn’t help longing to hear. But he stayed serious. Pensive. His gaze wavered over me.
The waitress came, plunked down pancakes and a carafe of coffee, and slouched away. I filled my cup and took a sip. The silence stretched. It occurred to me that Jims must have a heart of steel, to always try so hard to be funny. I cast around for some way out of the awkward silence. “Doesn’t your mom worry about you riding a motorcycle? I mean, it seems like something a mother would do.”
He seemed to consider his answer carefully. “No. She doesn’t. She’s … used to that sort of thing. My dad and I tinker around in the garage, rebuilding engines. Sometimes … sometimes my little sister sneaks in and plays with the parts.” Conn’s voice took on a dreamy quality, and I could hear, in every syllable, how much he loved his family. “We live in a big house—old, beautiful—and my mom always complains that we get grease everywhere. But part of her likes it, too, because it’s a reminder that we’re there.”
“That sounds … perfect.”
He looked at me. I hadn’t been able to keep the wistfulness out of my voice. “It is,” he said softly, and the sudden certainty that sharing this with me meant something to him pressed a finger right on my heart.
Then he asked, “What’s your foster mother like? The one you have now.”
I described my first meeting with Marsha, how I’d turned up at the DCFS-organized “date” at McDonalds to find that she had already ordered for both of us: two quarter pounders, large fries, and shakes. In my snottiest tone, I informed her I was a vegetarian. She chirped back that she’d eat both burgers then, and I could have the fries. And the shake, she added. I must love shakes. Everyone does.
Conn said, “You like Marsha, don’t you?”
I’d always thought that what you saw was what you got with her: someone cheerful and a bit goofy. Her hidden wad of cash did make me wonder, though, if she really was so simple, and if I knew her as well as I’d believed. But one thing was sure. “She’s got a good heart.”
He paused. “I think you do, too.”
I let that sink in like heat from the first sip of hot chocolate on a snowy day. And since I was thinking about sweet things, I asked, “Why does J. Alfred say, ‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’ The poem’s supposed to be about whether he’ll tell a girl he loves her, right? Not about fruit.”
Conn laid his hands on the table, and I noticed that his nails were cut to the quick, his knuckles nicked with tiny white scars. He folded his fingers, hiding them behind each other. “Peaches are messy,” he said. “Sticky. I suppose all his questions boil down to the same thing. ‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’ and ‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’ are the same as ‘Do I dare to tell her the truth?’ Because that question will change his world, and the consequences…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. I got it.
The consequences would be messy.
* * *
WE MADE IT back in time for English class. After English, I was kidnapped.
Conn and I were walking down the hall, side by side, when I heard heavy footsteps racing behind us, coming closer. Conn glanced back in alarm. He almost reached for me, then checked himself. I had enough time to see his face melt into amused resignation before a pair of hands seized and scooped me up.
“Sinner!” Jims took off down the hall with me in his arms.
“Hey!” I thumped his shoulder. “I’m not a sack of potatoes!”
“No, you’re a sinner.” He jogged down the stairs and ran up to Lily and Raphael, who were waiting with folded arms.
“I told you so,” Lily said to the others. To me, she said, “I can’t believe you walked out of Art without mentioning you were going to ditch.”
“With McCrea.” Jims set me down onto my feet.
“It was just a little ditch,” I said. “What do you care, Jims? You’ve been trying to talk me into cutting class for as long as I’ve known you.”
“Exactly. Yet you have always denied me. Then along comes a boy who crooks his sexy finger at you, and you ditch at the drop of a hat.”
“Leaving me alone in Pre-Calc,” Raphael added.
I winced, but defended myself. “You’re making a big deal over nothing.”
“What if you’d been caught?” Lily demanded.
I told them about the excuse slips. “Conn had a plan.”
“Screw Conn’s plan,” said Lily. “You still could have gotten into trouble.”
Jims fell to his knees and lifted his hands in prayer. “I’m begging you, Darcy: don’t become a cliché.”
“Which cliché?”
“The one who abandons her friends for some guy,” said Lily.
12
After that day, Conn sought me out at school. He would walk with me in the halls and wait outside my classroom doors as if he had no place else to be except at my side. Meanwhile, Jims inquired when I was moving to Connland. “Are you boning up on your Connish?” he asked. “Because I hear that language is a hard tongue to master.”
Lily went quiet on the whole subject, but her silence had a determined edge to it, as if she’d taken a personal oath Never to Speak His Name. As for Raphael, he looked gloomier and doomier. My friends probably would have liked Conn better if I’d told them about the attack outside the café, but I kept that to myself. They’d pester me to report it to the police, and insist on being my personal bodyguards. The last thing I needed was a f
uss over something I wanted to forget.
I knew that my friends were beginning to see Conn as an unhealthy addiction, and that at some point one of them was going to try to stage an intervention. But I didn’t expect it to be Raphael. At least, I didn’t think that Taylor Allen would be with him when it happened.
Taylor sailed ahead of him through the coffeehouse door and zeroed in on the best seat: a paisley sofa that still had most of its stuffing, tucked in a far corner. She dropped a snakeskin purse on the table in front of her, gave Raphael a meaningful look, and got comfy.
Raphael approached the counter with an expression so sheepish that a sheep would be jealous. “Hey, Darcy. Can I have the usual and, um, a mocha latte with extra whipped cream and sprinkled cocoa on top?”
I stared. “Are you on a date with Taylor Allen?”
“Are you on crack?” He pitched his voice low, to match mine. “No, I’m not on a date with her.”
Here’s what I haven’t mentioned about Taylor. She was gorgeous. Not even in a plastic doll kind of way. She was a long-limbed brunette who looked ready to drink down your soul like a shot of tequila, with a bite of lemon and an extra lick of salt.
“We’re studying our lines for the play,” Raphael said. “She’s really serious about giving a good performance.”
“I bet.” I poured beans into the grinder. “Taylor puts on quite the act.”
Raphael gave me a narrow look. “She’s not that bad, actually. And, speaking of putting on acts, how’s Mr. I Wear a Cologne and It’s Called Mysterious?”
“Mysterious?” I ground the beans into dust. “Jims thinks Conn’s the most boring thing since baked potato chips.”
“I’m not Jims. My head’s not buried in sci-fi craziness where humans grow superpowers and extra robotic limbs. I see things for what they are. I see people for who they are. Have you ever seen McCrea angry? Happy? No. He never shares what he’s thinking. There’s something about him that’s … I don’t know. Calculating.”
“Maybe I know him better than you do.”
“Then what do you know about him?”
I wanted to tell Raphael that his first impressions of Conn were wrong, as mine had been. That Conn was kind, thoughtful. A good listener. If he kept his feelings close to his chest, who was I, of all people, to blame him? But instead of saying any of this, I focused on preparing the drinks.
“Darcy,” Raphael said in a gentler tone. “We don’t want you to get hurt.”
I slammed down the tamper. “Well, maybe it hurts that you think I’ll get hurt.”
Raphael held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Forget I said anything. I’ll leave you alone.” He started to walk back to Taylor.
“Wait,” I called. He turned, and I saw how worried his eyes were. “I spend a lot of time with Conn because of our project.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“Also … he helps me.”
“Helps? With what?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately about who I was before the DCFS picked me up. Conn wants to get to know me. Is that so bad? I want to get to know myself. When he asks me questions, I want to know the answers. I want to remember, Raphael.”
He reached across the counter for my hand. “I know you don’t remember a lot about your childhood, but maybe that’s for the best. Maybe there’s a good reason for it.” He let go. “Will you at least tell me what this morning was all about?”
Conn had been waiting for me outside the school entrance. He had waved, beckoning for me to leave my friends and join him. His chameleon eyes had been green with sunlight and excitement.
“It was about our class assignment,” I told Raphael. “No, really,” I spoke over his sputter of disbelief. “We’re building a sculpture about the meaning of ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ Conn had an idea. In the poem, J. Alfred repeats ‘there will be time.’ So, this morning, Conn suggested that we build a sculpture that’s also a working clock. Because of phrases like ‘time for you and time for me.’”
“He does take up a lot of your time,” Raphael muttered. “He’s always hanging around you. We miss you, Darcy. We were your friends first.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“Do you remember this summer, when we went to the Water Tower?”
Usually when people talk about the Water Tower, they mean Water Tower Place, the mall that’s right down the street from one of the oldest monuments in Chicago. But Raphael was referring to the nineteenth-century pumping station, which looks like a miniature cathedral surrounded by concrete pavement. In the summer, the pavement is covered with tables and chairs where sharply dressed business people take their lunch breaks. Musicians play and kids in sweatpants break-dance on cardboard.
“Your chalk art was beautiful,” Raphael continued, “swirling over that plain concrete. You signed your name and made me sign mine, too, even though I hadn’t done anything but keep you company. Darcy Jones and Raphael Amador.”
“I remember.”
“Hey!” Taylor called. “Where’s my mocha latte? How long does it take to foam milk?”
Raphael shrugged helplessly and reached for the drinks.
I raised one brow. “Do you really want to have a chat about keeping bad company?”
“Maybe not.” He smiled. “See you later, Darcy.” He headed back to Taylor, who snatched her mug from him. Brown froth sloshed onto her skirt.
I tuned out her outraged cry and Raphael’s protest of innocence. My attention was drawn to something else: the rack of tiny demitasse spoons to be served alongside espressos. J. Alfred says, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” and it struck me that they would make perfect hour and minute hands for the clock sculpture. I stuffed two of them in my pocket.
Riding around on a motorbike. Cutting class. Petty thievery. I was well on my way to becoming a juvenile delinquent.
Though that wasn’t what got me arrested the weekend before the English project was due.
13
Conn stopped me in the halls. It was Friday, and our project was due on Monday.
Rushing students flowed around him like he was a sharp rock and they were water. He started to say something, then peered at me. “Have you been sleeping all right?”
No. Pretty much as soon as I admitted to Raphael that I wanted to know more about who I was before becoming a constant headache for the DCFS, I began to have nightmares. They weren’t about anything specific, but I woke up choking back screams of terror, my heart leaping like a wild beast. I could only remember fire and a horrible smell I couldn’t quite identify.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been sleeping fine.” But I knew there were violet smudges under my eyes.
Conn’s expression turned skeptical. Then he shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear his vision. “When can I see you in private? Later this afternoon?”
“I can’t,” I said reluctantly. “I work.”
“Tonight, then?”
“The same.”
He said nothing, but bit his lip.
“Conn, everything will be okay. I promise.”
“How can you say that?” he whispered.
“Because it’s just one grade. It’s not the end of the world, whatever happens. You’ve done your part for the English project, right?”
He gave a short nod.
“I’ve done mine. We’ll put them together this weekend. Marsha works on Saturdays. Come by tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll have the house to ourselves to finish the sculpture. How does that sound?”
“Ideal, actually.” Yet he didn’t smile. “Your hair is damp,” he said abruptly. He raised a hand and I stood perfectly still, holding my breath as he touched the air an inch from my face. He let his hand fall, but my skin tingled all the same.
I forced myself to breathe. “Well, that’s what happens when you take a shower after gym class.”
“Hmm.” He gave me a long look. “I imagine so.”
Wait. Had I brought up the sub
ject of nudity? With Conn? Was I insane?
I couldn’t take any more of this conversation. It was tugging my emotions in too many different directions. “I’m going to be late for my next class.”
“One more minute. Darcy, I have to tell you something. I mean, I have to ask you something. I … I don’t really care about the project.”
“You don’t?”
“What I need to know is this: will you still want to see me after Monday?”
That was the moment I allowed myself to hope. The feeling was beautiful: a rainbow soap bubble expanding inside my chest. I thought about seeing Conn the next day, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Not because of my nightmares, but because of my dreams.
“Yes,” I told him. “I will.”
14
That night there was a cold snap, and when the dawn came the dry grass glittered with frost.
I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself up from the waterbed, which gurgled as I stood and searched for my slippers. Finally, too tired to care if my feet were cold, I gave up the hunt and was walking through my bedroom door when I stumbled over one of those sneaky slippers and whacked my wrist against the doorframe. Not a great start to the day.
Marsha was in the living room, watching Saturday morning cartoons and dusting sugar over her cereal. “You’re up early,” she said.
“Coffee,” I mumbled.
“Big plans for the day?”
“Yes. Coffee.”
“If you want some, you’ll have to make it yourself. I’m leaving in five minutes. We ran out of that fancy stuff you brought back from work, but there’s some instant coffee.”
I tried to take this news bravely.
“You’re not going to the café today, are you?” Marsha said. “We agreed you would work only part-time once the semester started. You’ve got to keep your grades up.”
“That’s what I’m going to do.” I filled a mug with water and stuck it in the microwave. “Me plus free time equals homework.” It probably wasn’t wise to mention that Conn was part of this equation. Marsha hadn’t exactly forbidden me to have boys over, but probably only because the thought of it had never entered her head.