“No problem.”
I don’t know what else to say to him. I don’t know what Aaron does or what he likes or where he hangs out. I don’t know if he has any friends. Practically everyone at school calls him “Wallpaper” because he’s something that’s there, but isn’t particularly necessary. I know he isn’t on the swim team, but I don’t know whether he’s on another sports team. I don’t know if he hangs out at Clyde’s Coffee on Friday nights like most people do. I don’t know if he can read music or even what kind of music he likes to listen to. I don’t know if he’s ever kissed a girl. Or a boy. I don’t know anything about him because I’ve never bothered to notice.
I fiddle with the radio dial because that’s easier than talking and better than wondering. I settle on a morning sports program the radio was tuned to the day after my grandpa’s funeral when my grandma handed me the keys to drive the car back to Pacific Palms.
Aaron says, “I’ve walked this same route to school for the last three years and nobody has ever stopped to give me a ride.”
His words feel like something he’s pulling from his mouth and handing over to me because he has to, not because he wants to.
“That sucks,” I say.
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter now.”
I don’t know what that means, but I’m turning into the parking lot so I don’t bother to ask. I pull into a spot in the corner by the pool.
“Sorry. The walk to campus is farther from here, but I like having my car close when swim practice is over,” I explain.
“No problem.”
I pull a tube of lip gloss out from my jacket pocket and apply it. Aaron lifts up his heavy backpack and opens the door. He sets one foot down on the slick asphalt and scoots out. He stands up. Before he closes the door, he leans his head back into the car.
“Thanks again. That was a huge help,” he says.
“No biggie. I’ll pick you up whenever I see you from now on.”
“Really? You would do that?”
“Yeah, why not? It’s not like we aren’t headed to the same place.”
“Okay.”
The rain pounds against the roof of the car. It hits the hood of Aaron’s puffy blue jacket. Rivulets of water drip down from his backpack and splat on the ground.
“Go, you’re getting soaked again.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I better get inside.” But he doesn’t pull his head out from the car right away. He wants to tell me something first. “You should wait out the rain here. I bet it’ll stop by the end of first period.”
He slams the door shut before I can tell him that I can’t skip my English quiz. I watch him run across the parking lot and into the school. He’s a flash of bright blue, the most obvious thing on campus, but not one person pays attention to him zipping past them.
chapter twenty-eight
After I finish my homework, watch two videotaped lectures for school, and mop and vacuum the floors, I sprawl out like a starfish on top of my bed to think. Yesterday, I told Brenda I gave Aaron a ride to school, and now I can’t stop thinking about the letter I wrote to him. It’s been sitting in the top drawer of my dresser for a month. I remember what I wrote, but I don’t know how I said it. Or if I still mean my words in the same way. I take out the letter and stare at the address I got from the school directory and scrawled across the middle of the envelope. I rip the letter open. I read it through and cross stuff out. I add something else. I seal it back up in a fresh envelope. Before I can stop myself, I shove my feet into flip-flops, grab my keys, and head out the door.
I stomp down the stairs. I trample through the courtyard. I stumble past the pool. I reach for the front gate. But I stop. I sway. The rusted wrought iron taunts me; its rods hang heavy, like the bars of a prison cell. My palms sweat. The bile in my stomach churns.
I count to three.
I take deep breaths and watch the real world pass by.
A guy jogs by in running shorts. I can hear the bass-heavy beat of his music throbbing through his headphones. A lady bends over in work clothes and high heels to scoop up dog poop with a plastic baggie. Her Yorkie barks maniacally at a FedEx delivery guy balancing a package as big as his torso. Cars zoom past. Zip, zip, zip. A girl who looks my age rides by on her bike. The wind whips through her hair, and her loose shirt flutters out behind her like a cape.
It’s life. All of it. Right here. Waiting for me. But it’s moving so fast that it scares me. Things don’t move this fast in my apartment, or even the courtyard of my apartment building.
Do I turn back around or keep moving?
Screw it. I’m going.