“You can talk to me, you know,” I said. He frowned, not saying anything. There were things in the world that really sucked, and watching your best friend be sad had to be one of the worst. “Simon.”
“It didn’t work,” he said, still staring out of the window. His fingers tapped against his jeans over and over again. “Mom said they were going to stop trying.”
I knew he was talking about his parents trying to get pregnant. They’d had trouble for the past years, and Simon always blamed himself due to a past accident he and his mom were in. My hands fell to my stomach, and I stared at Simon, unsure of what to say. “I’m so sorry, Si.”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s just sucks, that’s all. They get one kid and he turns out to be a freak. They deserve better and it’s my fault that they can’t get another kid.”
“That’s not true. None of it is your fault.”
He didn’t say anything else, but I knew his mind was blaming himself more and more each day.
It wasn’t fair the way life picked and chose who received what they wanted and who didn’t.
* * *
After going home and falling asleep for almost two hours, I woke up startled and late. Tossing on flip-flops, I headed for the library. Levi was sitting at the top step of the library. His hands flew up when he saw me, and he gave me the biggest grin. “You know how lame it makes a guy feel to be sittin’ on the steps of a library waitin’ for a girl who might not show? And then she shows up forty-five minutes late?”
I gave him a tight smile. “Sorry.”
He lowered his brows. “Are you okay?”
No.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Simon. And one thing I learned about being pregnant was sometimes you felt like crying because the sun was shining, or because the pizza delivery guy forgot the cheesy bread. Other times you felt like crying because Simba was so sad during The Lion King and you just wanted to hug the little lion cub. My emotions were all over the place, and I didn’t know how to find the off switch.
“Yeah, let’s dive into some books,” I said, giving him a small smile.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Levi…”
“‘Remember this, that very little is needed to make a happy life.’ Marcus Aurelius said that.”
“You Google searched Marcus Aurelius?” I asked, pulling on the bottom of my shirt.
“Yeah, on my cell phone while I waited for you. I figured if people during the Renaissance could play instruments and fight the black plague, I could perform a Google search.”
“I see. Anyway, let’s get inside and get this over with.”
“Aria, do you need a hug?”
“No, Levi. I don’t need a hug.” Mostly because a hug from him would’ve made me cry. He closed his eyes tight and placed his fingers on his temples. “What are you doing?”
“Can’t you feel it? I’m pulling you closer to me for a hug with my Jedi mind skills.”
“Well, it’s not working,” I said. I hadn’t been touched by a boy since James over the summer, and I liked it that way. After everything that happened, I’d learned that I liked my space. Of course, no one noticed that fact, because no guy ever tried to touch me. Until oxymoron Levi came to town. “No offense, but I don’t really like to be touched.”
“Oh,” he said, dropping his hands and frowning. “Sorry.”
“It’s nothing personal.”
He walked up the steps of the library and held the door open for me. “Trust me. That’s personal.”
16 Levi
I wanted to know more about Aria, the girl who hardly smiled, the girl whose eyes remained sad when she did smile. She wasn’t really one to open up to people. I couldn’t blame her, really, seeing how everyone treated her at school. I wouldn’t have opened up either.
“Okay, tell me what I’m staring at,” I whispered, edging my chair closer to her, but still giving her enough space to feel comfortable.
“I can’t tell you. You have to figure it out for yourself. That’s the whole point of abstract art, it’s different for everyone.”
I nodded, staring back at the blues, yellows, and greens in front of me. To be honest, it looked messy to me, as if a two-year-old had broken into a room filled with paint and poured it all over the place.
But maybe that was artwork to some people.
I just couldn’t see it.
“How long do we stare at it?” I asked.
“As long as it takes for you to see it,” she replied.
“What’s ‘it’?”
“Everything.”
My eyes started seeing doubles of the painting as I went cross-eyed from the overall experience of intense staring. “Okay, well, your turn,” I said, pushing the book in her direction. “You tell me what you see.”
She took a breath of relief as if she’d been waiting for me to ask. The hair tie on her wrist was removed as she tossed her hair into a ponytail. She loosened and stretched out before crossing her legs on the chair and flipping the pages in the book.
She was searching and searching.
Searching for something familiar.
Something that she normally only allowed herself to see.