He shrugged, a very human gesture. He must have picked it up from Owen. Then he shook his head. His back curved into a C and his chin jutted over his waist. He turned his head. His dark eyes reflected tiny glints of light. “Can I stay here with you?”
I glanced at the door. The thunder drowned out the sound of Mom’s wine-fueled snores. I pressed my lips together. “Okay. Fine.” I let out a long breath. “But you have to be quiet. And leave before it gets light out, deal?”
“Deal.”
I flipped off the covers and let him shimmy in next to me, where he pulled the sheets up to his chin. This time, Einstein lifted her head. The tags around her neck jangled, and her throat emitted a rough, uneven growl. She pawed her way closer to me, stuffed a cold nose beneath my arm, and whined.
Adam folded his hands one over the other across his chest. I wormed my way back horizontal, wedged in between him and the dog. The space between the sheets instantly grew warmer. Einstein’s breaths quickly evened out into soft puffs on my skin. It was hardly like having a dead body in my bed at all. Adam smelled clean—like rainwater. The indentation made in the mattress by his form rolled me into him. I turned on my side and tugged the comforter underneath my armpit and tried to close my eyes and breathe normally.
I’d never slept in a bed with a boy, but it wasn’t as if I was a total prude, either. Last year at the State Youth Science Summit, I’d made out with Daniel Berkovich, a senior from Southlake with an astrophysics project that didn’t place. I let him feel under my bra and take down my e-mail address, even though I never returned either of his messages, mainly because I didn’t see a point.
Adam was different, though. Adam was mine.
“Are you asleep?” I asked, low enough so that if he was I wouldn’t wake him.
“No.”
I twisted my chin over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
There was a pause. “Thinking.”
“About…?”
“I don’t like the rain.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed, then tried to cover it up with the pillow. “Yes, I think we’ve established that.”
“But I do like pizza,” he continued, which was the least disgusting item he’d devoured off his lunch tray today.
I nudged Einstein away and turned over to face him. Our heads were on the pillows, my hands tucked beneath my cheek.
“I don’t want to be blank, Victoria.”
“You’re not blank,” I said. “You like pizza and … have full functionality of your motor skills. It’s actually a huge stride forward in the human condition.” Sometimes when I said things like that, I had a little voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Owen and it warned me that not everything was an experiment. I hated that voice.
“I like the color orange, too, because it’s the color of your hair. I like your hair.”
I grabbed a handful and held it out from my head. “Again! My hair’s not orange! It’s—I don’t know—amber or something.”
“Then my favorite color is amber.” He had the air of a schoolboy who’d just answered a very difficult question correctly.
I relaxed into the mattress and we lulled into silence. The invisible weight of sleep began to tug me under like an ocean tide. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t like storms,” I said. “Sometimes, anyway.” I wasn’t even sure whether I’d said this out loud.
Half dreaming, I pictured my father wearing his yellow galoshes and yellow rain slicker while I watched from inside his pickup truck. He stared up at the sky holding an anemometer kit over his head. The gold cups spun like spokes on a wheel, measuring the wind. Soon, Victoria, soon, he’d said. But soon never came.
My eyelashes fluttered. I tried to focus on his face, but my eyelids fell shut. “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “Okay? Just don’t. Because the truth is … well … we … shouldn’t fear what…” And here sleep tried to tow me under to where my father waited in his yellow galoshes. “What we don’t understand, Adam. That’s what my dad used to say.” I sighed.
I couldn’t keep track of how many moments passed as my thoughts drifted into that tiny crawl space between dozing and waking. Only that it was enough for the sensation of falling to set in. I found my father again, gazing up at the clouds, watching lightning crack open the heavens like he was watching fireworks.
“Why doesn’t he say it anymore?” Adam asked. The sound of his voice pulled me back.
“Because he doesn’t say anything,” I whispered. “Because he’s dead.”
“Then you should bring him back.” Adam mimicked the quiet tenor of my voice.