“I got to dance you around and make you laugh, so I’d say I’m feeling pretty good about G-pa’s weird obsession. Who got you into Motown?”
“Cora, of course. She loved Motown. And the Rat Pack. And what she called real deal blues. I don’t think she liked anything that wasn’t recorded last century. She was pretty stuck up when it came to music.”
“You can really sing,” Tate said.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
When the silence threatened to get awkward, Tate shook himself mentally and reminded himself to do more than stare at her eyes, because for some reason he suddenly remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d looked into them—totally shell-shocked by their deep green beauty.
“Hey, that thing you were doing with the air and the trees—it was awesome.”
“Oh, thanks. I did it by accident. You heard it and saw it, too, didn’t you? The air music?”
“Yeah, I did. It was—it was incredible. Like the earth was playing music for us.”
“Not the earth—the air. It started before you joined me, but then when we were dancing and singing, and I was, well, distracted.” She paused and he saw her cheeks go very pink. “Anyway, I think I just figured something important out. The less I think about trying to get air to do what I want it to do, and just relax and let the feelings sweep through me, the easier it is. I’m realizing that it’s the feel part that’s most important.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like the time you almost maimed yourself by bailing out of the truck, and the time I smacked you with my hand air cannons—I was feeling negative things. First I was pissed. Then I was scared by the dinosaur.”
“Percheron,” Tate corrected.
“Whatever. The point is when my feelings are negative I invoke the bad qualities of air. But when I’m relaxed, or happy, I invoke good things. Like, today it was just so pretty out here, and sunny without being too hot or cold—and amazingly enough it wasn’t raining—and for a second I thought I heard music in the wind, so I started playing around with it. Then you were here, too, twirling me around and singing with me, and I was having fun—not think ing, just feeling happy—and you see what happened, my tree music.” She shrugged her shoulders, obviously struggling with whether she should be embarrassed or not. “I guess it’s not very helpful to be able to make trees accompany me like a band. I mean, it’s not like that’ll stop the next tornado or protect us from the Core Four or anything like that.”
“Don’t be so sure. It’s about control, and you were showing great control. Way more than me, that’s for sure. Foster, you’re getting better and better with air. All I’m getting better and better with is grocery shopping,” he said.
“That’s an excellent skill, and one I do not have. I hate grocery shopping. I’ve, uh, been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate you going to the store as often as you do. It’s giving me time to feel at home. So, thanks.”
Tate had to force himself not to hang his head in shame. He knew the dirty truth. He didn’t do the grocery shopping to help Foster. He did it so that he was free to call his g-pa. Feeling awful, he heard himself blurt, “Hey, I think I figured out what some of Stewart’s equations might mean.”
Foster’s happy, open look flattened and then closed off. “Riiiiight. The jock deciphered the brilliant mad scientist’s equations.”
Tate felt his cheeks flush. “That’s a real bitchy thing to say.”
“Bitchy or true? Why do men always assume when a woman tells it like it is that she’s being a bitch? Can’t she just be telling the truth?”
“Not when it’s not the truth. I’m not a dumb jock, and I’m tired of you stereotyping me. I thought we’d gotten past that.”
Foster sighed dramatically. “Not if the stereotype is true.”
“It’s not!”
“Really? Let me remind you that your answer to my question, What is your favorite book, was Sports Illustrated. Sports Illustrated, Tate. You actually said that. And that is a classic dudebro dumb jock answer.”
“I only said that because I thought you were so beautiful that I blurted stupid shit. I turn into a moron around a pretty girl,” he said, glaring at her.
“Wait. Back up. You said thought and were.” Foster’s green eyes skewered him.
“Huh?” Why were girls so damn difficult to understand, and what the hell was she talking about?
“You said it in past tense. Like you used to think I’m pretty. What? I’m not so pretty now?”
Tate grinned, finally getting it. “Hum … I guess not because I can answer you for real now.” Ignoring her frown, he rolled on. “Choosing my favorite book is tough because there are so many of them, but if you want my top five I’ll try to narrow it down for you. Gotta give a shout out to my favorite horror writer, Ray Bradbury, and Fahrenheit 451. Man, that book is like a song. Bradbury’s figurative language is unbelievable. ‘The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us,’” Tate quoted. “Fantastic, right? And then there’s Richard Preston. I love science, biology, physics, chemistry—all those things. Preston’s books are super gross, but great. I liked The Hot Zone, but Demon in the Freezer is even better.”