As it happens, the boys’ and girls’ soccer teams practice at the same time, on the same days, due to overlap of assistant coaches who work part-time on both teams. So Landon signs up for soccer.
We continue riding home from school together, just at six o’clock instead of three, on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. Those nights are the weirdest times I’ve ever had, when Landon’s wearing sweat-drenched exercise shorts, grass-covered cleats, and his very own, damp, sticky undershirt, and I’m in my version of that.
We squabble and jest the whole way home; the whole way home, my heart hammers. I think there’s really something to pheromone-based attraction.
Sometimes when I’m feeling too restless to settle down, I go into the kitchen to get some food or a drink, and I find Landon in his dinner seat, reading a book.
I’m not sure why, but when I see him late at night, he’s always more cool and short with me, as if he’s mad that I intruded on his one-man reading party.
I don’t get it, but whatever. Most days, I’m so pleased to have him underneath my roof and in my car that it’s enough for me.
Eventually, even Pax welcomes Landon into the fold. They become friends, all based on Pax’s respect of Landon’s successful shirt theft.
Two weeks turn to three, to four, and he’s been here a month, eating at our table, light-saber fighting Emmaline, fixing my mother’s printer, talking politics with Dad. One night I let him drive around a parking lot after soccer practice. He’s slow and methodical. I call him an old man, and he gives me a funny smile.
“Just trying to keep you safe, Evie.”
When he gets out of the car and we cross paths behind the Focus’s trunk, he nudges my arm with his. “Thanks, friend.”
I replay his words that night when I’m in my dark bedroom, falling asleep to the fantasy of my hand in his.
Four
Evie
I wake up in the night, sweaty and panicked. What time is it? My attic bedroom has slanted ceilings, striped by three skylights. I see moonglow through one of them, and blink around my bedroom, which is bathed in pale light.
A quick glance at my alarm clock reveals it’s 3:18 a.m.
I wiggle my half-asleep fingers. Rub my eyes. I feel…dread. The reason hits me like a lightning bolt: I have a take-home test! Oh my God—in calculus!
I throw my covers off, slide off my bed, and make a grab for my backpack, stashed in a chair in one of my room’s corners. How did I forget this test? Do I even have it in my bag?
A quick peek through my folder reveals yes—I have the test. Thank God it’s only one page long. Mr. Fry is merciful, and really gave this as a bonus opportunity. I look through all my backpack’s pockets, but I can’t find a pen. Probably because they’re all in my purse, which I usually drop into my backpack when I leave home in the mornings, but which right now is downstairs. Ugh.
The full-length mirror mounted on my lilac wall tells me I look pretty good in my soft red camisole and cotton sleep shorts. The camisole has a built-in bra, which is successfully hiding my nipples. I run a hand over my hair, because—Landon. Then I slip into the hall, past the bathroom that adjoins my room and Em’s, past her bedroom door, and down the carpeted stairs that lead to the hallway of the second floor, where the house’s master suite is.
Since the attic rooms were an addition my parents made after they bought the home, the attic staircase is different than the flight of stairs that leads from the second floor to the first. I pause at the top of those stairs—the curving stairs that lead into the vast front entry hall—listening for…nothing, I guess.
The house at night has always seemed more creepy than I’d like, with all its curtainless windows.
My heart is in my throat as I tip-toe into the kitchen. There’s a small lamp on the counter, casting a dim light. Otherwise, it’s quiet and dark. I don’t see my purse right off, so I walk further back, toward the family living area.
And shriek.
All I see at first is a shadow, but when I blink, it congeals into Landon—standing on the opposite side of the island, staring at me with wide eyes, holding a… cup?
“Oh my God!” I laugh, because adrenaline. “What are you doing?”
I step closer, and he moves his hand behind his back.
“What is that?”
“What is what?” His face is calm.
“Behind your back.”
“Nothing,” he says.
But he steps away from me.
“What is it?”
I walk around behind him, and I’m right: his hand is curled into a fist.
“What’s in your hand?”
He draws his hand up to his chest. “Why are you down here?”
“I forgot about the cal take-home text. I’m not going to be distracted, Landon. Open up your paw.”
His eyes are boring into mine. There’s something on his face, something that makes my stomach tighten.
“Please?” I whisper.
He opens his hand. In the milky moonlight streaming through a nearby window, I can see the blue plastic of a pill bottle, and my heart rolls over.
“Relax,” he says, his face a mask of calm. He sets the bottle on the island. “Just an Ambien.”
But I have sharp eyes. I’m used to babysitting Emmaline, whom I once found munching vitamins from the Flintstone bottle.
“What’s in your other hand?” That one is hanging suspiciously down by his thigh.
“An Ambien.” His voice is so steady, his face so calm, I’m not sure how I know he’s lying.
“Let me see.”
“Look at the bottle, Evie.”
“Open up your hand,” I challenge.
“What are you, my mother?”
“Open up your hand.”
Landon’s shrewd, gray eyes bore into mine.
“Do it—or I’ll get my parents.”
Anger twists his features, but he opens his hand, revealing several small, white ovals.
“Five! You took five of my dad’s Ambien?”
“Shhh.” He grabs the bottle, tosses it into its drawer, and grabs me by the hand, pulling me toward the basement stairs, as I cry, “Landon, what the—”
“Shhhh! Evie—”
“You have to—” put them back, I’m going to say, but Landon’s hands seize my waist. I’m lifted up and set down on the third stair.
“Quiet! Evie, please,” he hisses.
“You can’t just take them! Five’s too many!”
“Shhh.” He holds a finger over his lips, like we’re in first grade. “Evie, please be quiet and listen. Come downstairs with me.” His face has lost all of its calm. His eyes are burning.
“No. Why?” I look over my shoulder.
“Why do you think? To talk.”
“Give me the Ambien, and then we will.”
His jaw tightens. In the dim stairwell, his gray eyes look flat and hard—but when he speaks, his voice is soft. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Just come downstairs.” His tone is pleading.