“That’s lucky,” I say, and I mean it’s lucky that the insurance covers it, because ever since Marcus’s accident I’ve learned that there are all sorts of things insurance doesn’t cover.
We’ve been sitting in the track parking lot for the past few minutes, but neither of us makes a move to get out of the car.
“It’s hereditary,” he says, not looking at me, not looking at anything.
“What is?”
“All her shit. The depression. The drinking. Sure she’s passed down some other treats that haven’t shown their ugly faces yet.”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking antidepress—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I know that. But there is something wrong with not paying attention to how many you’re supposed to take. And chasing them with vodka.”
“Maybe she should talk to somebody,” I say.
“She’s got nothing to say to anybody.”
The air in the car is warm; we’ve heated it with our words. I wonder if Aaron used to talk to Marcus about this. I knew … I knew a little bit about his mom, but I didn’t know it was like this.
He lets out a big whoosh, like a whale blowing air out its blowhole.
“That isn’t what I had for you,” he says, gesturing at the now closed glove compartment. He leans toward me, making me go still in anticipation. In the small, hot car I’m very aware of his smell, part boy musk and part clean clothes and part deodorant. It’s a smell I like very much, and the closer he leans the more I can smell it. He reaches under the seat, his arm brushing against my legs as he does and his head is practically in my lap and I sit as still as I can, staring straight ahead. Does he realize how close his face is to my thighs?
“Ah, here we go. They were stuck.”
He tugs on something and his arm comes up and out, between my legs (I feel like I might pass out from how close and almost tangled our limbs are), followed by a pair of gray-and-blue running shoes.
Women’s running shoes.
The laces are a bit frayed and the heels a little worn down, but they aren’t in bad shape.
“My mom got these at a sale a couple years ago and doesn’t use them, so I thought you could. I think you guys have the same size feet.”
The shoes grin up at me, begging me to try them on. I pull back their tongues to look at the label underneath and see that he’s right, I do wear the same size shoe as his mom. For the first time, I’m grateful to have feet that are the size they are.
“You don’t have to take them. I know they’re just a ratty pair of old shoes. But I thought they might be more comfortable than those.” He nods at my worn-out Converse. They’ve done just fine for now, but the thought of wearing real running shoes…
“Does this make you my fairy godmother?” I ask as I take off my Converse and slide my feet into the cushiony comfort of the new old shoes.
“What?”
“You know … in Cinderella? The fairy godmother gives her glass slippers? Not that you look like a fairy … or a godmother…”
Aaron grins. “I can be a fairy godmother,” he says, his voice rumbling through me. “But maybe I’m more like that cricket in Pinocchio.”
I laugh, my feather giggles filling up the car. First time I’ve laughed like this since we went to Gladys’s. “You mean Jiminy Cricket? The one that shows him right from wrong? His conscience?”
Aaron shrugs, a feather giggle falling off his shoulder. “He’s got a dope hat. And what are you saying? That I don’t know right from wrong?”
“Jiminy Cricket never gave Pinocchio any shoes.”
“All right, all right. I’m not the cricket. I don’t know how I feel about being the fairy godmother either.”
“Yeah, you’re much more of a Prince Charming,” I say, and then snap my mouth shut. Stupid. I’m stupid.
“You think I’m charming?” He’s grinning at me, grinning his grin that I can’t help but beam back at.
“You know what? You can be the cricket,” I say as I open the door and step into the night. My feet are so cushioned in my new shoes that I don’t walk so much as bounce, like I’m walking on clouds.
CHAPTER 22