‘Above the microwave,’ I reply.
‘Gotcha. Is it okay if I pour myself one?’
‘Sure.’ I smile because this must mean he’s staying a while.
Luke starts singing. Not lyrics, notes. A string of las and dees and das as he strolls around my kitchen. I’m imagining him juggling tumblers like a bartender in LA, shaking the carton of orange to the left and then to the right.
A couple of seconds later he falls silent and strolls back into the hall.
‘For Madame,’ he says, overenunciating. His fake French accent is adorable, almost as cute as his fake British. He hands me one of the two drinks he’s carrying, studying the exchange carefully so we don’t connect.
‘Dinner and a show,’ I tease. ‘Now I’m impressed.’ Maybe I’m not teasing as much as I am flirting. Talking while I glance up at him through my lashes and flashing a coy smile. I’ve definitely seen Mom work this face on Dave the delivery guy before. She makes eyes at him every time he drops off a box of sample rocks.
Luke throws me a one-shouldered shrug. ‘What can I say? It was only going to be a matter of time.’ He makes his way up the stairs, pressing his chest tight against the wall so he doesn’t graze me. I flush when I realize I’m checking out his butt. Luke takes a seat on the third step, leans forward on his knees, and smiles at me.
‘Shouldn’t you be heading to school?’ I ask, a little reluctantly.
‘Nah. I can cut. I’ll just tell them I had a medical emergency.’
‘You’re going to use my medical emergency as an excuse to cut class?’
He shrugs again. ‘Cut class, maybe . . . but I’m kind of hoping I can use it to hang around with you for a little bit. Do you mind?’
Moral dilemma. Do I argue and tell him he should get to class, or do I keep my mouth shut and sit here drinking orange juice with him?
No contest. I bite my lip, trying to hold back the grin that’s threatening to expand and swallow my face.
‘So, have you ever met the Great and Powerful Amy Cavanaugh before?’ Luke asks.
‘No. Today was the first time.’
‘And how was it?’
I swish the orange juice around in my glass. The box claims it’s pulp-free, but you can never be too careful. ‘Most people scare and/or intimidate me. She was no exception.’
He gets lost for a second, staring vacantly at the swirling pattern on our wallpaper.
‘How does it work?’ he asks. ‘I mean, have you always been afraid?’ I look at his face and see a bubbling stew of kindness and sincerity with just a dash of curiosity.
‘You don’t want to hear all this.’ I’m not sure if I’m saying that for him or me.
‘Yes, I do. I want to know who you are.’
I want to make progress. I want to, should do some explaining. It’s not like it’s a secret any more. He’s already seen me melt down a handful of times in our brief friendship, and he’s still coming over, asking questions, sitting next to me on a staircase drinking orange juice. That has to count for something. Plus, once I know how he feels, I’ll know. Constantly trying to guess what he’ll make of my so-called life seems to be destroying my brain cells. Literally. Mom and I were doing the crossword at breakfast this morning and I couldn’t answer a single clue. That never happens, but I started sketching cartoon hearts and my mind went totally blank.
The buttons in my brain that control the crazy must think it’s time to open up too – at least, they can’t seem to find a counterargument strong enough to make my mouth stay shut.
‘I wasn’t always afraid. I mean, sometimes I might have closed down a little, or preferred my own company to anyone else’s. I wasn’t scared, but maybe I was shy.’
‘Did something happen?’ The one question I wish I could answer in the affirmative. Not that I want some tragic story to tell. I just mean, it would make it easier to explain to everyone else. There are no sceptical questions for the guy who developed a fear of reptiles after he was bitten by a snake.
‘No. Nothing.’
‘So, you just woke up one day and were afraid to leave the house?’
The fingers of my free hand curl around the lip of the step. I hold on tight, worried the force of his question will blow me away.
‘Wait . . .’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That came out wrong. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound so . . . dismissive.’ Regret streaks his forehead, and a nervous hand, fidgeting around like it’s forgotten what it’s used for, slaps his knee. He’s being sincere. I can recover.