I tighten my ponytail elastic. “Highlights. Laila made me.”
Like on my birthday, guilt piggybacks my lies. I quickly lean over the counter and call hello to his parents, a distraction tactic I regret when I hear the pain in their voices as they wish me a happy belated birthday. They politely ask about my mother before heading for the parking lot. Lisa stays behind. She’s waiting for Henry.
“See you tomorrow?” Henry asks.
“I’m off tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Brief disappointment passes over his face. “Well, in that case, the pool’s open if you want to stop by. You know, if you’re hot.” He raises an eyebrow before crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Come on? Nothing? You’re supposed to say, ‘I’m always hot.’”
I bite my lip. “But I’m not. Actually I tend to be on the chilly side.”
Henry throws back his head, laughing, and I finally get his joke. My cheeks burn, contradicting my statement.
Taking Lisa’s hand, Henry says, “Try to stay cool, then, Azra.”
“Oh, it’s not that I like to be cold, it’s just…”
Henry closes his eyes and shakes his head. I wait for my body to shrink in embarrassment. But it doesn’t.
It must be wrong to be this jealous of a six-year-old. Henry’s playful teasing lets me know what it’d be like to have a brother. What I missed out on. Yes, because of the Afrit’s rules. But also because of mine. Because over the years, each time Henry came knocking, I refused to answer, literally and figuratively.
Which is why, when I’m walking to the bike rack later on, trying to conjure the key to go with the lock, and hear Chelsea’s voice, my fists clench.
In the center of her little clique, she’s dropping fake bits of bread on the ground. “Here, b-b-b-birdies.” Chelsea cracks herself up. “Did you see her brother? The kid with the messy hair and glasses? Following her around like a puppy. Poor s-s-s-sap.”
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe HITs are worse than GITs. I want to knock the shine off Chelsea’s stupid red lips for mocking Lisa’s stutter but don’t want to lose my job. Or be punched back.
I’m wondering if my powers allow me to control the bowel movements of seagulls when Nate closes in on Chelsea from the other side. I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and arrive just in time to see Nate plant himself in front of her.
He folds his arms across his chest. “That’s enough, Chels.”
Chelsea clutches her throat and laughs. “Oh, Nate, are you doing an impression of Mr. Florio?”
Mr. Florio is our vice principal. He’s half Nate’s size with a voice twice as deep. If Nate is doing an impression of Mr. Florio, Nate sucks at impressions.
The hinge on Nate’s jaw protrudes as the muscles on his face tighten. “No. But you know what you’re doing an impression of?”
Chelsea steps back.
“A mean girl, a freakin’ walking cliché,” he says. “Oh, wait, you aren’t doing an impression. That’s just you.”
The gesture Chelsea makes with her fingers is not a sign of affection. She then seizes the arm of the girl next to her and storms off. No one else follows. Instead, before they disperse, they actually mumble apologizes to Nate.
“That was really nice,” I say to Nate, whose cheeks seem to flush in response. Momentarily taken aback, I conceal my ancient bike lock with my hand and use my powers to open it. “Pretty sure the kid Chelsea was making fun of is my neighbor. She’s just a little girl.”
Nate nods. “Yeah, I know. I helped her brother find her missing pail. I could see it from up on my chair.”
Nate, chief of the beautiful bods, helped Henry?
“If someone was mocking my little sister,” Nate says, “I bet he’d do the same.”
He would. This I know from past—and present—experience.
My helmet dangles from my handlebar. Not wanting to look like a dork, I wait until Nate covers his (presumably) soft hair with his own helmet before sticking mine on my head.
As I fasten the buckle under my chin, Nate eyes the infinity symbol around my neck. My body turns to stone as he reaches out, lifts it off my skin, and rests it in his palm.
“Pretty,” he says. “But I think I like your old necklace better.”
“Old necklace?” His fingertips tickle my throat. Did he feel how hard I just swallowed?
“Yeah.” He gently eases the figure eight back onto my prickling skin. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you without it. I thought it was cool that you always wore your initial. It was like your signature.” He gives a sheepish smile. “But, hey, what do I know about fashion?”
My A necklace? Talk about being rendered speechless. Nate knowing my name is one thing, but the idea that he noticed me before today—not only noticed me, but noticed me enough to know I always wore my A necklace—stuns me. In a good way.
His brown eyes, the color of the icing on my birthday cake, try to penetrate the tint on my sunglasses. Though his fingers are nowhere near my skin, goose bumps spread like wildfire.
“All I know,” Nate says, because I’ve still not managed to make a sound, “is it suited you. You seem … different without it.”
Right, that’s what’s different.
He throws one leg over his bike frame and pauses, studying me again. “Nope, sorry, but I still miss the old one. Then again, I don’t handle change particularly well.”
That makes two of us. Nate missing any part of the old me, even if, consciously at least, it’s just a necklace, binds us more than he’ll ever know and unties my tongue.