He runs his hand through his hair, exasperated. “You’re beautiful, okay?”
Beautiful. I have never been labeled as such. The tourists use words like this to talk of the sunset, and the water, and the sky. I’m so used to being unseen, much less complimented. For some reason, it makes my stomach growl, in a good way.
Hector goes on. “It’s just…really distracting. And I don’t know what to do. You’re not quite…normal.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
He splays his hand in protest. “Oh, no. Take it as a compliment. Really. It’s kind of a relief.”
“I see.” I let his words untangle themselves in my mind. So this is politeness. “Well, then. You’re the most abnormal boy I’ve ever met.”
He laughs so loudly, it’s like bells chiming. The walls of the house smile. It’s not used to this much mirth in a whole season. Hector’s eyes go to mine, and his teeth gleam prettily in the dimmed light of the house. I’ve never seen him smile before. “I like you, Anda. You’re so uncomplicated.”
I nod, but inside, I’m frowning.
You have no idea, Hector.
Chapter Nineteen
HECTOR
When Anda and I leave the little house, we set off on the mile toward Windigo.
A few times, we have to duck underneath the fir trees to escape the helicopter that flies a little too close. I keep stealing peeks at her, because she looks so ordinary. With her jacket, jeans, boots, and backpack, she could be just any other hiker around here. Except there are none, of course. But even with the trappings of normalcy, something will always poke its way out to remind me—she isn’t. She’ll stoop to pick up an interesting rock, but instead of looking at it, she’ll taste it. Or she’ll pick up a nugget of soil and smear it between her palms for a sniff.
The thing is, I’m so damn curious to know why she’s here. Why she left herself isolated. Where her father is, and why she’s so freaking odd about…about everything. She eats food like she’s never eaten anything but rocks and dirt her whole life. Sometimes she seems so innocent and clueless, and other times she’s almost unhinged and dangerous. I haven’t even had a chance to ask her about where she’s gone to school, or what grade she’s in, even. Assuming she’s a teenager, which I think she is.
She’s a huge mess of inconsistencies and conflicting pieces. Just when I get a good view of her, like a kaleidoscope, she turns and the image transforms into something completely different.
I open my mouth to ask one question. One piece of truth, or history. She tips her head toward me, eyebrows up. There is fear behind her wintry eyes. Somehow I know, if I ask, I’m going to lose anything we’ve gained in the last few days. Is it worth it? Should I try?
In a low voice, she asks, “What is it, Hector?”
I want to know, but I don’t, because everything is so much easier this way. Ignorance wins out, at least for now. But I know we can’t pretend for much longer.
“Oh, nothing.” I smile. I can wait a little longer.
And Anda smiles back—so brightly that you’d think the sun just rose on Isle Royale for the first time ever. She reaches out to my face but pulls her hand back before she touches me.
“I like your mouth,” she says. It’s such an odd comment that I smile wider. “That,” she says, pointing for a split second. “I mean, your smile.”
Then I grin even harder. Never got a compliment like that before. “Well, I like yours, too. A lot.”
Anda touches her lips and looks down. I think I actually made her blush.
When we get to Windigo, we head straight to the camp store up the hill. It doesn’t take long to break into the building. With a big rock, I bash the old doorknob over and over until the screws loosen, then force the door open. It’s dark inside, but my eyes adjust quickly. The whole store is small. A cash register greets me, sitting on a table along with bowls of Isle Royale magnets. To the right, there’s an empty refrigerator that probably held sandwiches and cold pop.
On the left of the cash register is…heaven. A whole display of Snickers bars, Crunch bars, Almond Joys. The boxes aren’t full, but luckily they’re not all empty. Past the rows of sweatshirts and tees are a wall with cans of soup and crackers, along with some freeze-dried meal packets and MREs. My brain gathers the inventory and I frown. There’s no way these will last me until May, much less the both of us. I explore a back storeroom, but it’s only got empty boxes. I don’t care for the Isle Royale knickknacks, but my heart races over the few camping items still lining the walls. But before I touch the camping gear, my hand shoots out for the candy.
I immediately grab a slim, flat Hershey’s bar and tear off the wrapper, cramming bite after bite into my mouth. The chocolate collapses between my teeth and melts into gooey syrup on my taste buds. I wolf it down in thirty seconds flat.
“God, this is the best chocolate bar I’ve ever had in my whole life,” I say through the last mouthful. Anda’s watching me, as if waiting for her turn, so I hand her one. She carefully peels back a corner of the bar, the plastic wrapper crinkling in her fingers. She takes a large bite.
Her eyes roam all over as she rolls the bite around in her mouth. She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it at all. Her eyebrows pinch together, her jaw shifting from left to right, and finally she swallows. For almost a minute, she just stands there and stares at her bitten bar, like there’s something wrong with it.
“You don’t have to eat it,” I say, reaching to take it away. Anda immediately pulls it close to her chest.
“Oh. It’s fine,” she says, her eyes wide. She turns from me and walks toward the back of the small store, but I can tell she’s cramming down bites like I just did. Maybe she didn’t want to look like a pig. I want to laugh but stifle it.
I’m stuffing the few granola bars and soup packets into our bags when she returns to my side. The Hershey’s wrapper is empty in her hands, and telltale smears of chocolate decorate the corners of her mouth.
“I think I should try this one. Just to see if it’s okay,” she says, reaching for an Almond Joy.
“Suit yourself.”
She does this three times, taking a bar and walking around the tiny store, returning with an empty wrapper and a nonchalance over the fact that she’s inhaling candy bars faster than a kid on Halloween. At this rate, she’ll outeat the entire candy supply on all of Isle Royale in no time.
“I guess your dad never let you have candy?” I ask.
“No. Well, I never wanted it.”
“Oh. And now?”
She eyeballs our bags, which I’ve stuffed full with a small portable stove with a cooking can, several containers of white fuel, a handheld water purifier with extra cartridges, plus extra-large water bottles with an Isle Royale logo stamped on the side. Eyeing the wealth with a critical eye, she grabs a few more Hershey bars and tries to hand them to me.