“Good.” He opens up the sliding window and climbs out before I can object. Sitting himself down Indian style on the roof below, he turns and grins back at me through the opening. “You can totally see into my bedroom,” he says. “Have you been spying on me?”
I’m sure I go a deep shade of plum. “No! Why in god’s name would I do that?” I’m blustering as I climb out of the window and sit myself down next to him. Our kneecaps touch—not the sexiest of places for two bodies to meet, but I take great delight in the places we connect. Elbows. The tops of our arms occasionally. Callan places his hand on my shoulder sometimes when we’re walking through the walls of Port Royal High, and I’m sure he has absolutely no idea of the effect he has on me.
“This feels lumpy,” I say, manhandling his gift as I try to ignore the pressure between our knees and the pressure building in my lungs. “What the hell is it?”
“Are you used to people spilling the beans and telling you what they bought for you before you open your gifts, Ms. Taylor? Because where I’m from, people usually like for it to be a surprise.”
I think he’d feel sorry for me if I told him about the one utilitarian gift—underwear—I get from my aunt every Christmas, so I don’t mention that. Instead, I poke my tongue out at him.
“Careful,” he advises me. “I’ll have that one of these days.”
Oh boy. Kissing someone with tongue is a weird concept that’s always kind of repulsed me in the past. But thinking about my tongue in Callan’s mouth, and his in mine…it’s enough to make me dizzy. Dizzy enough that I can’t even look at him right now. Slowly, I slide my finger inside the lip of the wrapping paper, opening the parcel at one end. I’m methodical as I go about opening the other taped areas of paper, and even more so as I carefully fold it back.
Within, I find a book: The Artist’s Guide to Drawing Birds, Volume II. On the front cover, a beautiful color drawing of a finch is depicted captured in flight, and my ribcage feels like it’s being squeezed. On top of the book rests two more prizes—a metal tin containing fifty colored pencils that apparently turn to water color paint when wetted, and next to it a Kodak disposable camera housed in bright yellow and blue cardboard. Beneath the book, a huge, folded bundle of material. I recognize it immediately as calico.
“This…this is incredible,” I sigh.
“I couldn’t find volume one,” Callan says, pointing at the book and then scratching the back of his neck. “I looked high and low, but turns out they discontinued the print run or something. Don’t worry. The woman in the store said that it didn’t matter any if you started here or there. And I figured you were already really good at drawing birds, so…”
I feel like bursting into tears. Is that a normal reaction when someone gives you a gift? I have no idea, but I do my damnedest to prevent it from happening as I flick through the pages, growing more and more excited with each new illustration and tutorial.
“And the material. I know it’s not the best to paint on, but I figured if you stretched it onto a canvas it might look rustic or something.”
Weeks ago I told Callan that my father refused to buy me materials to work with because he considered it a waste of money. When I’d plucked up the courage and dared to ask him for some canvases, he’d elbowed me so hard in the ribs that it hurt to breathe for a week. It’s amazing that Callan has paid for all of these wonderful things for me. Amazing that he remembered.
“If you were a bird, what kind would you be?” Callan asks quietly. He seems closer all of a sudden, like he’s leaning into me. His arm brushes up against mine, sending warm, frantic pins and needles shooting up into my neck and down my back.
“I don’t know. I suppose…I suppose I would be a bluebird,” I say, staring down at the page. “They’re my favorite. We have lots of Bayou bluebirds here in South Carolina. They’re very...” My words catch in my throat when Callan rests his chin on my bare shoulder, looking over my shoulder. His breath skates down my arm, and my senses are filled with the nearness and the warmth and the smell of him.
“Beautiful?” Callan finishes for me. “You know I think you’re very beautiful, don’t you, Coralie?”
I close my eyes. “I—I didn’t—”
“Because I do. And if you say you’d be a bluebird, then I’d love it if you were my bluebird.”
The earth’s atmosphere seems somehow lacking in oxygen as I try repeatedly to fill my lungs. In, out, in, out—no matter how deeply I expand my diaphragm, I don’t seem to be able to catch a breath.
“Coralie? Ahh shit. I don’t wanna upset you. Tell me if I’m being a jerk here. God, I’m being a fucking asshole, aren’t I? I just thought…” He leans away, sitting straight, our bodies no longer touching, and fear rushes through me. I start speaking, though I have no real idea what I want to say.
“No. No, you’re not being an asshole. I just don’t…I’m not exactly…”