So until our DNA worked a little harder, we weren’t going anywhere.
Cole and I and some other kids from our valley made the three-hour drive together to the Woodbury Prep competition. We competed a few times a year because it was our best shot at college scholarships. Cole sat in the back with the other boys and slept and listened to his headphones, but once I felt him touch my hair and once he caught me staring at him in the rearview mirror. I remembered our days at the creek, and sheltering in his barn, and got moony all over again because I don’t know when to quit.
In a city like Woodbury, it wasn’t just our clothes that were wrong (everyone there wore disposable stuff they could trade for the latest fashion). We carried old wireless devices while all the other kids had flexi-screens molded around their arms that chirped with constant notifications. I would stare at the ones decorated with images of teenage boys and wonder why anyone would want to wear a face on their arm.
Cole had tanned skin and a strong body, something you can’t easily find in the city, where all the boys are espresso-steamed and pale. The girls at Woodbury Prep loved it when he mentioned anything rustic like collecting eggs from a chicken coop. They had no idea how gross fresh eggs are—usually completely covered in chicken crap. Cole was a fascinating artifact, with his cotton shirts and his farm chores back home. I guess I was fascinating too. It was fascinating how I pined for Cole across so short a distance as a coffee shop table.
The Woodbury concerts are about as famous as prep school competitions get, so the coffee shop was crowded. Cole was leaning on the table, striking this strong-arm pose as if he’d studied online clothing catalogs. Really, he was trying to hide the hole in his shirt and that’s the real reason he was clutching his elbow. I was trying to get a good look at the flexi-screens stuck on the arms of some nearby girls. One frowning boy seemed to dominate the displays. His shaded cheekbones and blown-back hair made me wonder if he was from the Other Place, but you only ever heard it said that aliens looked just like everyone else.
I’d only ever met one, so I couldn’t say if that was a fact.
What I could say is that I wouldn’t prefer to meet another one, unless he had more apologies to offer than the last one did.
I kept staring at the face on the flexi-screens until Cole told me, “He’s in a band. Stop gawking.”
“Why is he so upset?” The boy was scowling but still prettier than I had ever seen a boy.
Cole smirked. “All of his songs are about how he and his girlfriend got relocated to different townships. It’s high-concept.”
I’d heard of high-concept groups. My friend Willer had a poster of one called Warehouse Burn, a group of boys who supposedly couldn’t stop themselves from setting things on fire and then singing about it.
“Or he’s suffering an allergic reaction to all that hair gel,” Cole said.
I glanced again at the frowning face, the hair standing practically on end. “Could be he regrets signing his contract without reading that clause about eyeliner.” Cole smiled, a rare sight these days. I thought about reaching for his hand, which was toying with the handle of his coffee cup. Did he still want to do things like that with me—hold hands? Kiss?
It’d been a long time. I kept my hands to myself.
The girls saw us looking at their screens and came over to ask Cole if black coffee was considered a food group back home. He shrugged because we couldn’t tell them that we didn’t have money to order anything fancier. The girls leaned on his chair and talked up the choir competition and asked Cole if he was nervous about his solo. They started touching Cole’s collar, pulling at the sleeve they didn’t realize had a hidden hole. They marveled at how thick the cotton was. One girl said, “Are you like those boys in Warehouse Burn? Can’t wear anything too flammable?” and winked at him. But he got all bothered because he couldn’t stand to feel like anyone was making fun of him, especially when he didn’t have the money to stop it, which was always. He said, “Would you please stop touching me.”
“Geez, Colburn,” I said once they’d hurried away, “they were just trying to flirt with you.” Though really, I was glad his glower had scared them off, considering girls back home collected Cole’s moods like kids collect trading cards. (I had them all, from Charmingly Blunt to Lost In Self-Pity.)
“They can’t see me sitting here with a girl already?” Cole said.
I again considered reaching for his hand, but he had it wrapped firmly around his coffee cup. And he wasn’t even looking at me. He was watching the girls walk out of the shop, a defeated look in his eye.