“I sort of stayed. You seemed . . . off. And I was worried. Apparently I’m worrying about you a lot.” Devon shrugs. “If I’m being weird, tell me, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. I can’t decipher what the hell I feel. I went to a therapist once, with Cate and Paul when they were in a phase when they thought everyone should be in therapy. There was a chart of cartoon people making different faces. They were labeled with emotions. This is what angry looks like; this is what surprised looks like; this is what happy looks like.
I try to think through the faces and see if any of them match.
There is no corresponding face for the way I’m feeling. It is unrecognizable and jumbled. It is maybe all the faces combined.
“It’s nice. To have you . . . thinking about me,” I say at last. Because I can’t figure out how I feel.
I can feel drops of sweat prickling to the surface, one bead for each vertebra on my spine. It’s a slow build at first, but then just a wash of humiliating wet all up and down my back. I ignore it so that I can stay sexy.
This is what scared looks like.
“Want tea?” I say. I touch my phone in my pocket. They’re all here with me, pushing me along, helping me. Star, @sshole, Roxie, Zed, Agnes.
“I love tea,” Devon says. It’s a lie. No teenage boys love tea. “You know, I really am sorry,” he says when I’m walking away from him to get started on the tea. People always say the big things when your back is turned to them. It’s easier to say stuff when you can’t see the other person’s reaction.
“I hate your sister,” I say, which isn’t in any way an acceptance of the apology, but it’s the truth, and I’m getting really, really good at telling the truth.
“That’s cool,” he says.
“Green tea okay?” I say from the back.
“Sounds disgusting.”
“It kind of is.” I smile, putting the tea bag in, letting it steep before I go back to Devon.
“You’re gonna hate this,” I say, and hand the steaming mug to him. It smells like hot seaweed and cut grass, and his nose wrinkles but he chokes down a sip anyway.
“So, what are we reading?” he says.
I make a gesture like he should look through the bag of books from my bookstore outing earlier, but he goes right for The Secret Garden, which I’ve left on the table. Not one of the new-old copies I bought today, but the copy. The red pen one.
“I like your thoughts on this,” he says, tapping the page. He’s going to do great at college—he’s a natural at academic-looking frowns. I’m eyeing my laptop, wondering if I can log in, type out some updates about Devon and Joe, and log back out before he sees anything.
“Oh, those aren’t my thoughts,” I say. I don’t say more and he doesn’t ask more, but I don’t pull the book away from him either. It makes me nervous—it’s very much mine—but I like that he likes it. I watch him read for a moment, then turn my focus to my computer. Pull up LBC.
I know I shouldn’t, in front of him, but I can’t help myself. I feel too untethered to be here alone with Devon.
“You’re a mystery, Lady Tabitha,” Devon says. He moves his hand, like it might touch my face or my back or close my computer so that I focus more wholly on him. His hand lingers in the air, undecided. I watch it until it drops to his side, and he takes a step back, as if to give me and my computer some space.
There’s only one new comment for me.
ZED: What’s next?
Next.
Because I only have a week in which to post another secret, complete another Assignment.
Next time. Something bigger, badder, scarier.
Next. Time.
“What’s that?” Devon’s voice interrupts the loop of next next next spiraling in my head. He has snuck around behind me. His elbows are on the back of the armchair, and he is bent over so far that I can feel his breath as it hits the top of my head. It’s warm and blows around the little stray hairs that have escaped from my ponytail.
“Hey!” I say, the noise popping out, the sound version of a jack-in-the-box. I close the computer and hug it to my chest, but when I turn around, the look on his face says he’s seen too much.
“Who are those people?” he says, drawing his words out slowly. I don’t say anything, because I don’t really know. “Assignment completed?” he keeps going.
“Could I get a ride home?” I say.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure no one is reporting my parents to the police for, like, a domestic disturbance,” I try to joke. He doesn’t laugh.
“No, what was that site?”
“Is this what having a sibling is like? Spying and butting in and stuff?” There’s a shake in my voice that I have to hope he misses.
Devon clears his throat, puts his hands up to surrender, doesn’t say anything else.
Outside the window, it starts to snow.
Seventeen.