‘Yeah?’ He looks . . . excited.
I solidify, can feel butterflies beating their wings against my ribcage.
It’s not too late to take it back.
But I don’t want to.
This is new.
And a little unnerving.
Over his shoulder I see a yellow taxi pull up. Mom is sitting in the back, her eyes stretched wide open, trying to swallow the sight of a boy standing on our porch. I can’t decide if what I smell is exhaust fumes or her burning curiosity. It’s a wonder her face isn’t pressed against the glass.
‘Talk later, Neighbour.’ Luke sprints off down the driveway, hops over the boxwood bush as Mom climbs out of the cab. The slam of the car door echoes around Triangle Crescent.
Rachael Dean, aka Mom, is about as subtle as the Titanic. Not even a car accident can shake her spirit. Her bright red hair has been pulled into space buns on the sides of her head, and she’s dressed like science fiction threw up on her. Cosmic print everywhere. She eyeballs me, scurries towards the house like she’s being dragged by a Great Dane, her jaw trailing on the ground behind her. She looks well. Really well. The giant knot that’s been in my shoulders for over a week unravels and my arms suddenly feel ten feet too long.
‘Norah Jane Dean.’ Mom is so excited. I’m really looking forward to showing her his phone number, just as soon as my muscles come unstuck. ‘Is that Party Boy?’ Mom asks. I nod. ‘He’s cute,’ she exclaims, turning around to wave at Luke as he pulls his car out on to the road. He waves back, then drives away.
‘You okay?’ Mom asks, nudging my shoulder. ‘You’re looking a little pale.’
‘I’m okay,’ I reply, falling into her chest and wrapping her in a bear hug. I think.
Dear Luke . . .
I hit the delete button for the eleventy-billionth time. What is he, my lawyer? Nobody writes ‘Dear Anybody’ in a message unless they’re paying a ton for a Mr Somebody to read it.
Luke . . .
And that’s about as good as it gets for almost five hours.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to balance Luke’s phone number on the tip of my nose. Every time I exhale, it floats away, and turns trying to catch it into a game.
‘Knock, knock.’ Mom pops her head around my door and I snatch the piece of paper out of sight. Mostly because I’m embarrassed by the meal I’m making out of this. ‘I think I’m going to call it a night,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait to be in my own bed.’ She’s all kinds of dreamy, imagining her fluffy duvet and soft sheets as she says this.
‘It’s good to have you back.’ I mean it. Listening to her potter around downstairs has been music to my ears. ‘Goodnight.’
She looks at me, uncertain for a second, and then her bloodshot eyes spot my phone on the floor. It slipped off the bed about an hour ago, and I’ve yet to pick it up, a what’s-the-point attitude oozing out of my pores.
‘Uh-oh.’ Mom steps into my room. ‘Did he not text back?’
‘No.’ I sit up, clear my throat, and braid my fingers together. ‘But then, he has nothing to text back to. I didn’t send anything yet.’
‘I see,’ Mom replies. She scoops up my phone and perches on the bed. The faint scent of industrial-strength disinfectant and antiseptic still clings to her clothes.
‘TV didn’t adequately prepare me for talking to boys in real life.’
‘Is there maybe something I should have done?’ Mom winces.
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Not at all.’ What’s she supposed to do? Tag on some boy advice after she’s done convincing me there isn’t about to be an apocalypse? Talk me through dating etiquette once she’s finished assuring me I won’t choke on my food? ‘You’ve done everything.’
Also, let’s be honest, two weeks ago, the likelihood of me ever talking to another human being beyond her, Dr Reeves, and the staff over at Helping Hands was slim to none. At least for the foreseeable future. Two weeks ago there was still an infinite amount of time to talk to me about boys.
‘Maybe I can help now. What are you thinking?’
My face crumples and I give her that look, the one that says Have you got a spare sixty years while I take you through the list?
‘Right,’ she replies, reading my mind. ‘So what’s your biggest fear?’
‘I have two.’
‘Hit me.’
I count them out with my fingers. ‘I don’t know when the right time to text is. Like, I’m thinking today is too soon?’
‘Not at all. Did you not see the size of that boy’s grin as he left? Any time would be a good time.’ When she smiles her nose scrunches. I like the way her long-since-dead Southern accent wakes up when she says ‘boy’.
‘You lie.’
‘Hand to God. That boy wants you to text him as soon as poss, I guarantee it.’
‘Huh.’ My eyes go glassy and I get lost in thoughts of Luke and his smile, his eyes, his arms, the way his shirt grabs his body. Click. Mom snaps her fingers in front of my face.
‘You need me to get you a cold compress to go with that swoon?’
‘Ha ha.’ But in all seriousness, that might not be a bad idea. It’s hot in here; I have to shed my sweater.