“Follow me.”
I led him to the end of the hall, past a bronze bust of the president of the college the building used to house, then turned around. The other wrapped toys were in my pocket, and I brought out the two mini Frisbees I had found. Each had a plastic launcher.
“So you put the Frisbee in the launcher and you squeeze the end. Whichever one goes farthest wins.”
“Is there a secret to make it go farther?”
“I don’t know. You seem to be the one with all the secrets.” When I realized how that sounded I quickly added, “I mean, pennies, gum—maybe you have some modification for this as well.”
“I don’t,” he said.
“Well, I haven’t used one of these since I was little, so I have no idea. You want a few practice rounds?” I thought he’d say no, but as he opened the package and stared at the blue disc he held, he nodded his head. I stifled a laugh. He was taking this more seriously than I thought he would.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something. What?”
“You’re competitive.”
He smirked. “I’m not the one who pouted every time I lost a hand of poker.”
“I did not pout.”
“What do you call it, then?”
I launched my disc. “I call it showing emotions. You should try it.”
“What are emotions?” He sent his disc flying down the hall as well. His landed several feet past mine. How had he done that? “So, I won?”
“No! That was a practice round. You wanted a practice round.”
“Who’s competitive again?”
I shoved his shoulder. “I’m not. I just like to follow the pre-established rules.”
He laughed and collected our discs. “Whatever you want to call it.”
When he held up his hand readying his launcher, I pushed on his arm, sending the disc flying into the wall.
He gave me a grunt, but his eyes were smiling.
I held mine up and I hadn’t noticed that he’d moved around behind me until he picked me up by the waist and swung me to face the wrong direction.
“Cheater!” I called out as my disc ricocheted off the window behind us.
“I thought distractions were in the pre-established rules.”
“Okay, fine, no interference this time. We launch them together.”
As we held them up I kept looking at him, waiting for him to push me off balance or something. He didn’t, but I felt off balance and sent my mini Frisbee a little too high. His was aimed perfectly by a steady, unaffected hand. He won the round.
“Is it time for rule number two to go into effect yet?” Dax asked after totally dominating several rounds of the Frisbee game.
“Rule number two?”
“Reading.”
“Oh.” I laughed.
“Or rule number three would work fine too.”
“I vetoed rule number three. Last game.” I pulled him by his arm into the glass-enclosed walkway. The stained-glass window, the focal point of the hall, sparkled even brighter from the light reflecting off the snow-covered scenery outside. I handed him a sticky hand. “We need a tiebreaker.”
“What’s the game?”
“Whichever one stays stuck to the glass the longest is the winner.”
“The winner of what?” he asked.
“Did you want to play for something? Another truth?”
He pinched the hand between his fingers as if testing its sticking power, then nodded. “Sure.”
I counted to three and launched my hand over the rail. My red hand stuck a little higher on the curving arch of the window. His green one had a piece of the long string arm that hadn’t quite stuck. I was going to win. We just had to wait it out.
“How long do they stick for?” he asked.
“My brother once threw one on the ceiling and it stayed up there for two days.”
“Two days?”
“That’s not the norm, though. Didn’t you ever play with these as a kid?”
“No. I did not.”
I sat down and leaned against the railing. I stretched my legs out in front of me.
“Nice socks,” he said.
I smiled. I had pulled his socks over my jeans, and even though I knew it looked ridiculous, it was keeping me a little warmer. “Thanks. Everyone should wear them this way.”
He sat down next to me, our shoulders almost touching. An electric energy seemed to radiate between us. We were probably just the only heat sources to be found in this hallway, making that energy seem like a tangible force.
“How old is your brother?” he asked.
“He’s a sophomore in college. Nineteen. That makes me the youngest, with all those fun character traits.”
“What traits are those?”
“Agreeable, motivated, perceptive.”
“You let traits define you?”
“No. There are a lot of characteristics of youngest children that I don’t relate to at all. What about you? Do you have any siblings?” Too late I realized that might’ve been a sore subject for him. He was in foster care. I wasn’t sure how that worked if there was more than one child.
“No. Guess that gives me all the only-child traits.”