“It was about our class assignment,” I told Raphael. “No, really,” I spoke over his sputter of disbelief. “We’re building a sculpture about the meaning of ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ Conn had an idea. In the poem, J. Alfred repeats ‘there will be time.’ So, this morning, Conn suggested that we build a sculpture that’s also a working clock. Because of phrases like ‘time for you and time for me.’”
“He does take up a lot of your time,” Raphael muttered. “He’s always hanging around you. We miss you, Darcy. We were your friends first.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“Do you remember this summer, when we went to the Water Tower?”
Usually when people talk about the Water Tower, they mean Water Tower Place, the mall that’s right down the street from one of the oldest monuments in Chicago. But Raphael was referring to the nineteenth-century pumping station, which looks like a miniature cathedral surrounded by concrete pavement. In the summer, the pavement is covered with tables and chairs where sharply dressed business people take their lunch breaks. Musicians play and kids in sweatpants break-dance on cardboard.
“Your chalk art was beautiful,” Raphael continued, “swirling over that plain concrete. You signed your name and made me sign mine, too, even though I hadn’t done anything but keep you company. Darcy Jones and Raphael Amador.”
“I remember.”
“Hey!” Taylor called. “Where’s my mocha latte? How long does it take to foam milk?”
Raphael shrugged helplessly and reached for the drinks.
I raised one brow. “Do you really want to have a chat about keeping bad company?”
“Maybe not.” He smiled. “See you later, Darcy.” He headed back to Taylor, who snatched her mug from him. Brown froth sloshed onto her skirt.
I tuned out her outraged cry and Raphael’s protest of innocence. My attention was drawn to something else: the rack of tiny demitasse spoons to be served alongside espressos. J. Alfred says, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” and it struck me that they would make perfect hour and minute hands for the clock sculpture. I stuffed two of them in my pocket.
Riding around on a motorbike. Cutting class. Petty thievery. I was well on my way to becoming a juvenile delinquent.
Though that wasn’t what got me arrested the weekend before the English project was due.
13
Conn stopped me in the halls. It was Friday, and our project was due on Monday.
Rushing students flowed around him like he was a sharp rock and they were water. He started to say something, then peered at me. “Have you been sleeping all right?”
No. Pretty much as soon as I admitted to Raphael that I wanted to know more about who I was before becoming a constant headache for the DCFS, I began to have nightmares. They weren’t about anything specific, but I woke up choking back screams of terror, my heart leaping like a wild beast. I could only remember fire and a horrible smell I couldn’t quite identify.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been sleeping fine.” But I knew there were violet smudges under my eyes.
Conn’s expression turned skeptical. Then he shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear his vision. “When can I see you in private? Later this afternoon?”
“I can’t,” I said reluctantly. “I work.”
“Tonight, then?”
“The same.”
He said nothing, but bit his lip.
“Conn, everything will be okay. I promise.”
“How can you say that?” he whispered.
“Because it’s just one grade. It’s not the end of the world, whatever happens. You’ve done your part for the English project, right?”
He gave a short nod.
“I’ve done mine. We’ll put them together this weekend. Marsha works on Saturdays. Come by tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll have the house to ourselves to finish the sculpture. How does that sound?”
“Ideal, actually.” Yet he didn’t smile. “Your hair is damp,” he said abruptly. He raised a hand and I stood perfectly still, holding my breath as he touched the air an inch from my face. He let his hand fall, but my skin tingled all the same.
I forced myself to breathe. “Well, that’s what happens when you take a shower after gym class.”
“Hmm.” He gave me a long look. “I imagine so.”
Wait. Had I brought up the subject of nudity? With Conn? Was I insane?
I couldn’t take any more of this conversation. It was tugging my emotions in too many different directions. “I’m going to be late for my next class.”
“One more minute. Darcy, I have to tell you something. I mean, I have to ask you something. I … I don’t really care about the project.”
“You don’t?”
“What I need to know is this: will you still want to see me after Monday?”
That was the moment I allowed myself to hope. The feeling was beautiful: a rainbow soap bubble expanding inside my chest. I thought about seeing Conn the next day, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Not because of my nightmares, but because of my dreams.
“Yes,” I told him. “I will.”
14
That night there was a cold snap, and when the dawn came the dry grass glittered with frost.
I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself up from the waterbed, which gurgled as I stood and searched for my slippers. Finally, too tired to care if my feet were cold, I gave up the hunt and was walking through my bedroom door when I stumbled over one of those sneaky slippers and whacked my wrist against the doorframe. Not a great start to the day.
Marsha was in the living room, watching Saturday morning cartoons and dusting sugar over her cereal. “You’re up early,” she said.
“Coffee,” I mumbled.
“Big plans for the day?”
“Yes. Coffee.”
“If you want some, you’ll have to make it yourself. I’m leaving in five minutes. We ran out of that fancy stuff you brought back from work, but there’s some instant coffee.”
I tried to take this news bravely.
“You’re not going to the café today, are you?” Marsha said. “We agreed you would work only part-time once the semester started. You’ve got to keep your grades up.”