He doesn’t answer me. He pulls away a few inches and says, “Of course it’s even prettier at sunset. Around eight thirty the sky looks like it’s on fire, especially at Back Cove. You should really see it.” He pauses, and though his voice is low and casual I get the feeling he’s trying to tell me something important. “Tonight it will probably be amazing.”
My brain grinds into action, slowly processing his words, the way he’s emphasizing certain details. Then it clicks: He has given me a time and a place. He’s telling me to meet him. “Are you asking me to—?” I start to say, but just then Hana runs back up to me, grabbing my arm.
“God,” she says, laughing. “Can you believe it’s after five already? We’ve got to go.” She’s dragging me backward before I can respond or protest, and by the time I think to look over my shoulder to see if Alex is watching or giving me any kind of sign, he has disappeared from view.
Chapter Six
Mama, Mama, help me get home
I’m out in the woods, I am out on my own.
I found me a werewolf, a nasty old mutt
It showed me its teeth and went straight for my gut.
Mama, Mama, help me get home
I’m out in the woods, I am out on my own.
I was stopped by a vampire, a rotting old wreck
It showed me its teeth, and went straight for my neck.
Mama, Mama, put me to bed
I won’t make it home, I’m already half-dead.
I met an Invalid, and fell for his art
He showed me his smile, and went straight for my heart.
—From “A Child’s Walk Home,” Nursery Rhymes
and Folk Tales, edited by Cory Levinson
That evening I can’t concentrate. When I’m setting the table for dinner, I accidentally pour wine in Gracie’s juice cup and orange juice in my uncle’s wineglass, and while I’m grating cheese I catch my knuckles so many times in the teeth of the grater my aunt finally sends me out of the kitchen, saying she’d prefer not to have a topping of skin for her ravioli. I can’t stop thinking about the last thing Alex said to me, the endlessly shifting pattern of his eyes, the strange expression on his face—like he was inviting me. Around eight thirty the sky looks like it’s on fire, especially at Back Cove. You should really see it. . . .
Is it even remotely, conceivably possible he was sending me a message? Is it possible he was asking me to meet him?
The idea makes me dizzy.
I keep thinking, too, about the single word, directed low and quietly straight into my ear: Gray. He was there; he saw me; he remembered me. So many questions crowd my brain at once, it’s like one of the famous Portland fogs has swept up from the ocean and settled there, making it impossible to think normal, functional thoughts.
My aunt finally notices something’s wrong. Just before dinner I’m helping Jenny with her homework, as always, testing her on her multiplication tables. We’re sitting on the floor of the living room, which is squashed up right next to the “dining room” (an alcove that barely holds a table and six chairs), and I’m holding her workbook on my knees, reciting the problems to her, but my mind is on autopilot and my thoughts are a million miles away. Or rather, they’re exactly 3.4 miles away, down at the marshy edge of Back Cove. I know the distance exactly because it’s a nice run from my house. Now I’m calculating how quickly I could get down there on my bike, and then beating myself up for even considering the idea.
“Seven times eight?”
Jenny pinches her lips together. “Fifty-six.”
“Nine times six?”
“Fifty-two.”
On the other hand, there’s no law that says you can’t speak to a cured. Cureds are safe. They can be mentors or guides to the uncureds. Even though Alex is only a year older than I am, we’re separated, irreparably and totally, by the procedure. He might as well be my grandfather.
“Seven times eleven?”
“Seventy-seven.”
“Lena.” My aunt has squeezed out of the kitchen, past the dining room table, and is standing behind Jenny. I blink twice, trying to focus. Carol’s face is tight with concern. “Is something the matter?”
“No.” I drop my eyes quickly. I hate it when my aunt looks at me like that, like she’s reading all the bad parts from my soul. I feel guilty just for thinking about a boy, even a cured one. If she knew, she would say, Oh, Lena. Careful. Remember what happened to your mother. She would say, These diseases tend to run in the blood. “Why?”
I keep my eyes trained on the worn carpet underneath me. Carol bends forward, swoops up Jenny’s workbook from my knees, and says loudly in her clear, high voice, “Nine times six is fifty-four.” She snaps the workbook closed. “Not fifty-two, Lena. I assume you know your multiplication tables?”
Jenny sticks her tongue out at me.
My cheeks start heating up as I realize my mistake. “Sorry. I guess I’m just kind of . . . distracted.”
There’s a momentary pause. Carol’s eyes never leave the back of my neck. I can sense them burning there. I feel like I’ll scream, or cry, or confess, if she keeps staring at me.
Finally she sighs. “You’re still thinking about the evaluations, aren’t you?”