‘No. It’s not that at all.’ This is not an absurd assumption for him to make, but I raise my voice and respond like it is. Relief flashes across his face, and I lift my chin a little higher. ‘It’s just . . . I still have this cold . . .’ But that’s not enough. A slight case of the sniffles doesn’t stop normal teenagers from having a good time. ‘Then there’s this important French assignment I have to finish . . .’
‘I didn’t think they were still teaching French at Cardinal.’
Double crap. They’re not. Cardinal is the third school in the state to swap French for Chinese. It happened the summer after I left. There was a ceremony. Police Chief Zhang Yong gave a speech about diversity that made Vice Principal Turner ugly-cry. I know all this because someone took her picture, posted it on The Hub, and the thing was circulated for what felt like half a century.
What a dumb mistake to make. I’m not thinking straight. The space outside seems to be swelling. My head is begging me to kill this conversation, slip back inside, and close the door. Like a toddler tugging on my apron strings, it’s demanding, forcing me to think about everything. It wants me to slink back, seamlessly, into our routine. It’s getting twitchy at the idea of human conversation or, worse, human contact. In complete contrast, the only thing my heart’s wondering right now is: How well do you have to know someone before you can call them a friend?
‘It’s this extracurricular after-school thingy,’ I reply. Eventually.
‘Ah. Well, in that case, bonne chance.’ He speaks French? It’s boxy, and clunky, and butchered by his American accent, but I’m pretty sure it was French.
‘Parlez-vous Fran?ais?’
His eyes narrow. He clears his throat and snorts a nervous laugh. ‘This is kind of awkward.’
‘Oh. You don’t speak French?’
‘Busted.’ He grimaces and I giggle. Then he does something I’m not expecting and hops over the boxwood.
No. Don’t come over. Please don’t come over.
Yes. Come over. Please come over.
He’s coming over.
I slide back a little on my butt so I can be more inside without shutting him out. I don’t know. I feel safer this way. I sit up straighter, suddenly wishing I’d slept in pyjama bottoms instead of board shorts. My legs look atrocious, too skinny, too pale, too covered in purple scabs from all the scratching.
Before Luke gets too close, I tug the duvet from my shoulders and throw it across the parts of my body that I don’t want him to see.
‘You caught me,’ he continues, perching on the porch steps. ‘I can’t speak French, but I’ve been there, so it still counts as cultured, right?’
‘You’ve been to France?’
‘Yeah. A couple of times. You?’
No. Never. Not once.
I hate him. I mean, I don’t hate him, but jealousy squirms like a nest of snakes in the pit of my stomach. The fake smile I throw his way makes my cheeks sting.
I thought for sure I’d reached my inadequacy limit when he didn’t introduce me to his dad. I was wrong. Feeling intimidated is nothing new to me, but this overwhelming urge to fudge my skill set just so I can impress him is all new. It makes me feel cold, uncomfortable, like I’m two-feet tall standing in front of a skyscraper. I’m not going to lie. Lying just trips me up, but I can’t say no either.
‘I’m going to study architecture over there.’ That was the plan. That had been the plan since middle school. Since Mom bought me plastic bricks one Christmas and Gran helped me build a castle with them.
‘Wow. Impressive.’ His eyes widen; he leans back, looks at me like I just invented time travel. And for the briefest second I feel substantial, more than medical terms and mental health. Made of blood and bone, instead of just head-brain-mind. Then I remember that France is a world away and I can’t even step beyond my front door.
I swallow back a lump of sorrow. ‘What about you? What do you want to do after you graduate?’
‘Hmm.’ He looks at his dad’s camper and contemplates. ‘I’m still undecided. As long as it doesn’t involve travel.’
‘Really? Why?’ Maybe that’s too personal a question, but I’m having trouble understanding why anybody who can travel wouldn’t want to.
He hesitates. ‘My mom’s a flight attendant. We used to take a lot of trips. I guess years of jumping on and off planes has me craving something solid.’
‘What does your dad do?’
He glances at the camper again, grimaces, and I wonder what it is he sees beyond the ageing paint job and souvenir stickers. What is it he sees in his memories that makes his face crumple in painful contemplation?
‘He disappears,’ Luke mumbles. He startles at the sound of his own voice, the depth of his honesty, the revelation in his response. Something. The only thing I’m certain of is he’s wishing he hadn’t said it.
‘Luke?’ his dad calls from the front door. ‘Your mom says, isn’t there somewhere you’re supposed to be?’
‘Right!’ Luke leaps up, relieved, I think, that he has an excuse to escape further scrutiny. ‘I gotta get to school,’ he tells me, already sprinting back towards his truck. ‘But you’ll give the party some more thought, right?’
I nod. He can’t see me, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing he’s focused on now is getting the hell out of here. If Luke knew me better, he’d realize that it doesn’t matter how far or how fast he runs away from his comment; he said it, and my brain needs to know more like the body needs blood.