Authors: Courtney C. Stevens
We both say, “One,” and I can’t tell my voice from his.
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.” We are a chorus as sweet as any I’ve heard.
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
My eyes start to burn, but I stretch them wide, straining my muscles to keep them open.
“Ten.”
“Eleven,” we whisper together.
There is a satisfaction in my voice, because I know Bodee and I are staring at the same little sliver of dark in the middle of the vent. “We made it,” I say.
“And
twelve,”
he adds. “Twenty-three.”
He is counting me past the dark. “It’s not impossible,” I say.
“Nothing is, Lex.”
“Not even the deposition?” I ask.
“This is your twenty-three, not mine,” he says. “We can tackle my demons another time.”
Peace is a quirky thing. I feel it on Christmas Eve when my family takes communion at midnight. And when I get caught at the fort in a summer rain. Or on the rare occasions when Mom still calls me Boo-Boo. Peace invades me now at Bodee’s twenty-three and fills me with calm exhaustion.
“Go to sleep. I’ll be here,” Bodee says.
In the moonlight that slips between the curtains at my window, I get a final look at Bodee before my eyes close.
His thumb is in the air.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SOMETHING
is different Tuesday morning as I head to the shower. For the first time in eighty-one days I am not tired from a restless, dream-filled night. But I have to wonder: ten years from now, will I still measure time by the number of days since it happened or will I think in years?
“Morning,” Bodee says as I enter the kitchen.
“Morning,” I say to Bodee and Mom.
“You look cute,” Mom says, and tugs on the tails of the brown scarf I’ve tied around my neck.
“It’s supposed to be cool today.”
“Hmm. I love October.” Mom sniffs the air as if the smell of fall has invaded our kitchen.
“Me too,” I say.
Heather honks and Mom says, “Have a good one, kiddos.”
I wave bye since my mouth is full of toast.
In Heather’s car, the music is up and the vanilla tree is on. Way on. Too bad it doesn’t smell like fall in here.
“Back to red,” Heather says to Bodee.
He runs a hand through his cherry hair, which he has a habit of doing if one of us says something about the color. There’s still a touch of orange at the tips, and it reminds me of a rainbow.
Heather turns down the music a second before Liz stops singing, and we all laugh at her off-key note.
“So Bodee,” Heather says. “You have any classes in East Wing?”
“Drama,” he says.
“You’re in
drama
?” How could I not know this about him? Come to think of it, I don’t know much of anything he does at school that doesn’t happen at the locker or in homeroom. After school I plan to find out more.
“I paint sets,” he explains.
“Oh,” I say. Even though this surprises me, it’s nothing like imagining Bodee on a stage. Talk about an oyster in the desert.
“No classes with Mrs. Tindell?” Heather asks.
“Nope.”
Liz and I roll our eyes at the same time, but before Heather can call “bitch-staring,” Liz grins at her and says, “You didn’t
think it’d be that easy, did you?”
Bodee looks at me for a clue. “Captain search,” I say.
“Had to start somewhere.” Heather shrugs. “One down. I was pulling for you, Kool-Aid. I was pulling for you.”
Liz wrinkles her nose and rips the dangling little vanilla tree off the rearview and shoves it into the glove box. “Last night she had a list of about twenty guys. Starting with—”
“Hey, hey. Don’t tell Lex my possibles. She’s not ready to know who her Romeo is yet. But I’m going to find him. You wanna help me, Kool-Aid?”
“Whatever,” Bodee says without a hint of sarcasm.
“Careful, Lex, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.” Liz rotates in her seat and reaches back to give Bodee a little pat on the knee.
My friends have officially adopted Bodee, and from the sweet smile on his face, he doesn’t seem to mind.
“See you in fourth,” Heather tells me as she and Liz split off from Bodee and me.
Fourth period arrives, but Heather doesn’t. I take my seat and find the Captain’s neat handwriting like a Happy Tuesday card written just for me.
THIS IS GONNA TAKE SOME THINKIN’
SOME MENTAL REARRANGIN’
I WANT YOU NOW, WITHOUT THE WAIT AND SEE
Giggling to myself, I write,
’Cause he’s not right for you, so please choose me?
Whoever he is, the Captain has a way of choosing the right style of song to fit my mood. I don’t know how he does it, but this one’s subtle little message makes me laugh. He might as well have said, “Leave Hayden.”
Mrs. Tindell babbles on about Axis I disorders as I try to think of new lyrics I might leave for him. He went old; I should bring it up a decade or two.
Hotwire a car, hijack a train
Get a map, steal a plane
Fly me to a lost little place
Where the water’s not safe to drink
and all the people think
He gets that one right, and I’m going to be super impressed.
Mrs. Tindell is passing out homework by the time Heather steps through our open classroom door. She makes some excuse that causes Mrs. Tindell to pat her on the shoulder. But when Heather sits down next to me, she mutters, “Nobody we know is in the hallway for the first thirty minutes of class.” She scowls at the worksheet before she adds, “There was some freshman who looked desperate for a bathroom, but I’m sure it’s not him. He practically wet himself when
I asked where room 142 was.”
“You cut class to spy on the Captain?”
“Seriously, you’re worried I’m missing something?” She looks at our substitute, who is already settled back into her desk with a book. “But my conclusion: if the Captain’s gauging your reaction, he’s not doing it in the first thirty minutes.”
“So you gonna skip the second half of class tomorrow?”
“I just might hang out in the hall all day if that’s what it takes,” she says, sliding my worksheet to her desk so she can read my first answer. “Or I could ask Mrs. Tindell who sits there the rest of the day.”
“Heather, this is all crazy. Please don’t talk to her.” I nod toward Mrs. Tindell. “I’d rather not be the talk of the lounge.”
“Okay. Told you I need a boyfriend,” she whispers. “I’m reduced to working on your love life instead of mine.”
“You know you can have your pick of boyfriends if you want one. Even Collie,” I say, hoping to shift the focus off me.
“You think I should?” When I hesitate, she adds, “You know, forgive his ass?”
“It’s your choice.”
“Come
on,
tell me what you really think, Lex. Is he a terrible guy?”
Milking my scarf until the silk presses against the scabs on my neck, I say, “Good guys and terrible guys seem to be stupid at the same ratio.”
“Bodee’s not.”
“Bodee doesn’t count. He was raised by wolves on Neptune or something,” I argue.
“Yeah. Back to Collie. Do I forgive him?” she tries again.
My handwriting on the worksheet is nearly illegible, so I take the time to rewrite the words before I fashion an answer I can live with. “Forgiving him and taking him back are two totally different things.”
“What would you do?”
“Why are you asking me instead of Liz?” I say.
“I did already.”
“And?”
Heather stares at Mrs. Tindell, who’s grading worksheets, instead of me. “Liz doesn’t trust Collie.”
“There you have it,” I say, as if this matter is now settled.
No matter what, I still have this soft place inside me for good guys who do stupid things, so I can’t just say, “Don’t date him; he’s a dick.” There’s more to me than most guys understand, and I know there’s more to him. Collie’s not a devil. He’s selfish. And stupid.
But so am I.
“You know what I need?” Heather whispers.
Parents who love you. An A in psych. Boys who don’t cheat with friends. “No,” I say.
“A campout.”
“A what?” Unfortunately, I say this loud enough for the whole class to hear.
“Sorry, folks.” Heather covers my startled question. “Back
to your worksheets. Just a little psychotic break.”
Mrs. Tindell cracks a smile at Heather’s joke, and everyone goes back to their page flips and pen scribbles.
“A campout,” Heather says again. “And you need one too. At least, you need
something
to take your mind off whatever crap it’s been fixated on.”
“I doubt that,” I say.
“Come on,” Heather pleads. “It’ll be fun. We can stay up all night and scare ourselves to death while we gorge on Sour Patch Kids and Dr. Pepper.”
Uh, minus the Sour Patch Kids and Dr. Pepper, she’s describing a typical night at my house. I’m about to say,
Absolutely not,
when she adds, “Please.”
The brokenness behind that single word makes me say, “I’ll think about it.”
Liz is all about the idea when Heather approaches her on the ride home, but Liz is a sucker for Sour Patch Kids. And I have a sneaking suspicion she’s worried how Heather is managing without Collie.
“There’s no home football game Friday night. No cute boys to watch. What are we going to do if we don’t do this?” Heather asks as she turns into my driveway.
“Whatever the two of you usually do on the weekend,” I say.
“Bodee, tell her she needs to hang with us,” Heather says.
“Um—,” Bodee starts.
My hand grips his denim kneecap as if it’s a lifeline. He lifts
my hand, curls his around it, and presses his thumb against mine. It’s my new universal sign for
You’re safe.
I’m glad neither Liz nor Heather notices.
“Convince me tomorrow,” I say as I climb from the car and shut the door on the faint scent of Vanilla Paradise.
Bodee and I dump our books and head through the woods. After climbing to the top level, we don’t talk about anything; instead, we relax and share the window view and just listen to the woods. The rain from last night, which I didn’t hear because I
slept
through it, babbles over stones in the creek. And the drying leaves twirl upward in the breeze, rustling across our clearing and crackling under the feet of some out-of-sight creature. A couple of birds share a branch on the tree across from ours.
“Tika-tika-tika,”
they warble, as if to remind us it’s time to fly south.
Sometimes when he watches the clearing and I look as if I’m watching the clearing, I am watching him. He’s still but leaning forward, like whatever is out there is better than what is behind him.
We squeeze out every moment of daylight in the fort. And arrive back at the house before anybody else gets home.
Bodee shoulders his pack and says, “Homework,” as he disappears into the bonus room.
I prop my feet on the rails of the front porch and think how similar our porch is to the one at Bodee’s house. Every time he climbs these steps, does it make him think of his house? Does he hurt for his mom? Or fear his dad? I wonder
if he feels that our house is his sanctuary, or whether it is just another place that reminds him his mom is dead. I’m still trying to rid my mind of Mrs. Lennox’s medicine cabinet, the disorder of the kitchen, and the pictures hanging crooked on the hallway wall, when Mom gets home with groceries.
Dinner is another opportunity to ignore Kayla and Craig. A side of resentment with my green beans and potatoes. I retreat at the first opportunity to sit at my desk and pretend I’m doing homework. The closet is just out of my vision. Teasing me with comfort; begging me to seek security. I delay the urge and finish the homework.
By ten thirty I turn off my light, finally obedient to the nagging inner voice telling me I have to climb in bed and at least try to sleep. I go through the ritual motions: the elaborate arranging of covers, turning my face into the pillow, Binky, closing my eyes. As usual, I end up flat on my back, tense, and miles from sleep. The ceiling draws my eyes like a powerful magnet.
I blink.
Squinting, eyes adjusting to the darkness, I don’t
see
it. I fumble for the light beside my bed.
The vent is
gone.
A cover from
Hatchet
conceals the vent’s twenty-two lines and twenty-three spaces.
And I am smiling and wiping at sudden tears. Because he has stuck his one precious possession, using four pieces of tape, over the place I want to avoid.
A little while after I turn off the light, my door swings open on silent hinges, and Bodee takes his protective place in the chair at the window.
“I love it,” I tell him.
“Figured Gary Paulsen wouldn’t mind,” he says.
“No, don’t think he would. Thank you,” I whisper, and wonder how many times I’ll say those words to Bodee.
“Sleep, Lex.”
“You’ll stay?”
“For a little while.”
Bodee is a dark silhouette against the window. He holds his thumb in the air, and for the second night in a row, I roll over, muscles relaxed and eyes heavy. And let sleep over-take me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
HEATHER
is already chirping about the campout when Bodee and I join them in the car. “You check with your mom?” she says before I can buckle my seat belt.
“Not yet. Are you in on this?” I ask Liz.
“I wasn’t as crazy about the idea, but . . .”
Liz leaves it hanging, and I know this means she has already given Heather a firm yes. The invite is tempting; a year ago this might have been something they’d have done without me. It’s the lies (in bulk) I will have to tell during “Boy Talk,” not the outdoor conditions, that drive me to say no.