A few steps into the walk, I see the kid from the roof, leaning against a tree, the same grin, the same dark green hat spinning now on his hand. His hair’s a bonfire of white light.
I blink because sometimes I see things.
Blinking still. Then to further confirm his existence, he speaks.
“How was class?” he says like it’s not the strangest thing in the world that he’s here, not the strangest thing that I take drawing outside rather than inside a classroom, not the strangest thing that we don’t know each other, and yet, he’s smiling at me like we do, and mostly, not the strangest thing that he followed me, because there’s no other explanation for him standing here in front of me. As if he heard me thinking, he says, “Yeah, dude, I followed you, wanted to check out the woods, but I’ve been busy with my own stuff.” He points to an open suitcase full of rocks. He collects rocks? And carries them around in a suitcase? “My meteorite bag’s still packed,” he says, and I nod like this explains something. Aren’t meteors in the sky, not on the ground? I look at him more closely. He’s a bit older than me, taller and bigger anyway. I realize I have no idea what color I’d use for his eyes. None at all. Today is definitely the day of the supremely excellent-eyed people. His are such a light brown, practically yellow, or copper maybe, and all splintered with green. But you can only see flashes of the color because he squints, which is cool on a face. Maybe not a Bengal tiger after all . . .
“Stare much?” he says.
I drop my gaze, embarrassed, a total whale dick dork, my neck prickling and hot. I start shuffling some pine needles into a pyramid with the toe of my shoe.
He says, “Well, you’re probably just used to it from staring at that drunk guy for so long today.” I look up. Was he spying on me the whole time? He’s eyeing my pad curiously. “He was naked?” He breathes in as he says it and it makes my stomach drop to the ground floor. I try to keep my face calm. I think about him watching me watch the movers, about him following me down here. He glances at my pad again. Does he want me to show him the naked drawings of the English guy? I think he does. And I want to. Bad. A heat storm, way more intense than the one before, is whipping through me. I’m pretty sure I’ve been hijacked and am no longer at the brain controls. It’s his weird squinting copper-colored eyes. They’re hypnotizing me. Then he smiles but only with half his mouth, and I notice he has a space between his front teeth, also supremely cool on a face. He says with a laugh in his voice, “Look, dude, I have no idea how to get home. I tried and ended up back here. I’ve been waiting for you to lead the way.” He puts on his hat.
I point in the direction we need to go and make my hijacked body start walking. He latches the suitcase full of rocks (hello?), picks it up by the handle, and follows. I try not to look at him as we walk. I want to be rid of him. I think. I keep my eyes on the trees. Trees are safe.
And quiet.
And don’t want me to show them the naked pictures in my pad!
It’s a long way, mostly uphill, and more daylight’s seeping out of the woods every minute. Next to me, even with the suitcase of rocks, which must be heavy, because he keeps switching it from arm to arm, the guy bounces along under his hat, like his legs have springs in them.
After a while, the trees settle me back into my skin.
Or maybe he has.
Because it’s actually not awful or anything walking with him.
He might even have some kind of Realm of Calm thing going on around him—maybe he emits it from a finger—because yeah, I feel relaxed now, I mean supernaturally relaxed, like I’m left-out butter. This is highly weird.
He keeps stopping to pick up rocks, examining them, and then either tossing them back or stuffing them in his sweatshirt pocket, which is starting to sag with the weight. I stand by when he does this, wanting to ask what he’s searching for. Wanting to ask why he followed me. Wanting to ask about the telescope and if he can see the stars during the daytime. Wanting to ask where he’s from and what his name is and if he surfs and how old he is and what school he’s going to next fall. A few times I try to form a question so it sounds casual and normal, but each time the words get caught somewhere in my throat and never make it out. Finally, I give up and take out my invisible brushes and just start painting in my head. That’s when it occurs to me that maybe the rocks are weighing him down so he doesn’t rise into the air . . .
We walk and walk through the gray ashy dusk and the forest starts to fall asleep: The trees lie down side by side by side, the creek halts, the plants sink back into the earth, the animals switch places with their shadows, and then, so do we.
When we break out of the woods onto our road, he spins around. “Holy hella shit! That’s the longest I’ve gone without talking. Like in my life! It was like holding my breath! I was having a contest with myself. Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” I say, my voice hoarse.
“Dude!” he cries. “Do you know those are the first words you’ve said?” I didn’t. “Man. You’re like the Buddha or something. My mom’s a Buddhist. She goes to these silent retreats. She should just hang out with you instead. Oh, oh, not counting, of course, ‘I’m a bloody artist, a bloody mess, mate.’” He says this last part with a heavy English accent, then cracks up.
He heard me! Talking to the trees! So much blood’s rushing and gushing to my head it might blow straight off my neck. All the silence of our walk is gurgling madly out of him now and I can tell he’s someone who laughs a lot, the way it’s taking him over so easily and lighting him all up, and even though he’s laughing at me, it’s making me feel okay, accepted, and making me feel a little bubble-headed as laughter starts to fizz up in me too. I mean, it was supremely funny, me yammering away in an English accent all alone like that, and then he says it again, his accent super-thick, “I’m a bloody artist,” and then I say, “A bloody mess, mate,” and something gives way and I’m laughing outright, and he says it again, and I do, and then we’re both really laughing, then the doubled-over kind, and it’s ages before we calm down, because each time one of us does, the other says, “I’m a bloody mess, mate,” and the whole thing starts all over again.
When we finally get it back together, I realize I have no idea what just happened to me. Nothing like that has ever happened before. I feel like I just flew or something.
He points to my pad. “So I guess you just talk in there, is that it?”
“Pretty much,” I say. We’re under a streetlamp and I’m trying not to stare but it’s hard. I wish the world would stick like a clock so I could look at him for as long as I want. There’s something going on in his face right now, something very bright trying to get out—a dam keeping back a wall of light. His soul might be a sun. I’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul.
I want to say more so he doesn’t leave. I feel so good, the freaking green leafy kind of good. “I paint in my head,” I tell him. “I was the whole time.” I’ve never told anyone I do this, not even Jude, and I have no idea why I’m telling him. I’ve never let anyone into the invisible museum before.
“What were you painting?”
“You.”
The surprise opens his eyes wide. I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean to, it just popped out. The air feels all crackly now and his smile’s vanished. Just yards away, my house is a lighthouse. Before I even realize, I’m darting across the street, a queasy feeling in my stomach like I ruined everything—that last brushstroke that always destroys the painting. He’ll probably try to throw me off Devil’s Drop tomorrow with Fry. He’ll probably take those rocks and—
As I reach the front step, I hear, “How’d I come out?” Curiosity in his voice, not a smidge of asshat.
I turn around. He’s moved out of the light. I can only see a shadowy shape in the road. This is how he came out: He floated into the air high above the sleeping forest, his green hat spinning a few feet above his head. In his hand was the open suitcase and out of it spilled a whole sky of stars.
I can’t tell him, though—how could I?—so I turn back around, jump the steps, open the door, and go inside without looking back.