Ollie tried to shrug it off. “It’s not like I’m the first straight guy to do it.”
“But I’ll bet you’re the first guy, straight or gay, to do it in Osborne.” This seemed to please him, so she continued. “Any particular reason?”
“It was just . . . something to do. Chris gave me hell for it.”
She scrunched her nose. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He touched the hair at the nape of his neck, and a devilish smile broke through his inscrutable expression. “Now I’m glad I did it.”
Makani laughed, throwing back her head.
“There.” Ollie sounded so certain. “That’s how I know.”
“Know what?” she asked, amused.
“That you aren’t from around here.”
Makani’s heart pounded as she waited for him to expand on the thought. She would wait forever, if she had to.
“No one who grew up in this town has a laugh like yours.”
Her bated breath exhaled as a disbelieving snort. “There’s a line.”
But his voice didn’t change, and he didn’t grow defensive. “I’m serious. You stand out.”
“I stand out because I’m not white.” She pointed at her street. “It’s this one.”
Ollie slowed, turned onto Walnut, and shrugged. “That, too.”
He didn’t deny it. Nor did he ask the dreaded follow-up, So, what are you? Only Darby—who also innately understood the concept of otherness—had successfully avoided this pitfall. Just as it was rude and invasive to ask him about his genitalia or sexual preference, it was equally rude and invasive to ask her about her ethnicity. It was the sort of information that should only be volunteered. Never asked for.
But people always asked. It was less common back in Hawaii, where the majority of the population was multiracial, but it still happened. Makani loathed their furrowed brows as they attempted to place her inside a recognizable box: Light brown skin. Hair somewhere between loose corkscrew curls and the tight coils of a ’fro. Chin, nose, and eyes . . . something vaguely Asian.
Where are you from?
No, where are you from originally?
I mean, where are your parents from?
Sometimes, she asked why they cared. Sometimes, she lied to confuse or annoy them. Usually, she told the truth. “I’m half African American, half Native Hawaiian. Not like the forty-fourth president,” she’d be forced to add, sensing their eagerness. Obama was only born in Hawaii. His mama was a white girl from Kansas.
Ollie tapped an index finger against the steering wheel. “Which one is your house?”
“It’s a few blocks down, just past those trees. On the right-hand side.”
“All right turns.”
“Hmm?” Her mind wasn’t fully back to the present.
“To get to your house from school. That’s satisfying.”
It was true. This afternoon, at least, the short drive had been satisfying. She wanted it to continue. “Do you have to work today?”
“No. Do you?” But he quickly corrected the mistake. “I mean, do you have to take care of your grandma today?”
“Nope.” She drew out the word. Hinting.
Ollie stared ahead, index finger still tapping. “Should we . . . do something?”
A thrill spiked through Makani. Only one final and unpleasant hurdle remained. She tried to keep her voice relaxed. “Well, I’d love to . . .”
“But?”
She braced herself. “But first, you’ll have to meet my grandmother.”
“Okay,” he said.
Makani was flabbergasted. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He took in her expression as they passed beneath the oak-lined, shadow-dappled portion of the street. “Wait. Weren’t you serious?”
“Of course. But I didn’t think you’d be this okay with it.”
The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. “You’re forgetting you’re in the Midwest. This is how we do things here.” When she raised a skeptical eyebrow, he actually laughed. “It’ll be fine.”
She had a hard time believing that, but his confidence was reassuring. Somewhat.
“It figures that you live here,” he said.
Once again, she was taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He craned his neck to look at the branches overhead. “Beautiful girl. Beautiful neighborhood.”
She frowned. “For real, Ollie. I’m not into lines.”
“I’m just saying, you live on the best street in town. When I was a kid, I always wished I lived under these trees.”
“Until you discovered the rest of the world has way better streets and way better trees?” She pointed out a white two-story with a large porch. “That’s mine.”
Ollie pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. Makani waited for him to expand upon her remark—to agree about preferring anywhere else to Osborne. When he didn’t, she worried that she’d pushed him too far. He’d complimented her twice, and she’d dismissed him both times. And even though she had the impression that he was desperate to move away, it still sucked to hear someone talk shit about your hometown.
“You’re right, though,” she said. “It is the best street. I guess I’m lucky.”
It wasn’t a lie, and it felt strange to admit. It had been a while since Makani had felt lucky, or even grateful. Most of the towns around here had brick-paved streets in their oldest districts, which seemed both anachronistic and genuinely charming. Main Street and her grandmother’s neighborhood contained the only brick pavers in Osborne. The houses here were more attractive, and they also had better landscaping. This time of year, the leaves turned comforting shades of yellow and gold, cornhusk scarecrows dotted the yards, and sacrificial pumpkins sat on porch steps, waiting to be carved.
In September, Grandma Young had filled her planters with sunny round mums, and last weekend Makani had raked the fallen leaves into those orange trash bags printed with jack-o’-lantern faces. They were tacky, but Makani liked them anyway.
She cocked her head. “I’ve never asked, I’ve only assumed. Do you still live on your parents’ farm?”
Ollie nodded. “We’re not selling the house until I’m done with school, but we’ve already sold most of the land to our neighbors. They’ve incorporated it into their giant-ass corn maze. Perhaps you’ve seen the billboards?”
This last sentence was sarcastic. The fluorescent advertisements for the Martin Family Fun Corn Maze were everywhere. The Martins were a sizable clan of longtime residents. Every single family member had a different shade of red hair, and three of them—two siblings and a cousin—went to Osborne High.
“Yikes,” Makani said. “That must be weird for you.”
Ollie shrugged. She’d noticed that he was a frequent shrugger. “It’s not bad.”
“MAKANI YOUNG.”
They jump-flattened into the upholstery. Wincing, Makani looked out the window and found Grandma Young. She was standing on the steps that led to the back door, and her hands were positioned on her hips.
“Christ,” Ollie said in a low voice. “How long has she been staring at us?”