I settle against the stiff upholstery, which scratches against my bare skin. It’s still hot in our apartment, so my uniform has been a tank top and shorts every day. I hope he has a better setup in his room because this couch would suck for movie watching.
I catch my own thought; my stomach clenches. I’m already imagining movie hangouts with a boy I don’t even know, who obviously didn’t want to invite me in but felt he had to. I squeeze my eyelids tight, hating how desperate I feel to have someone to spend time with. When did I get this pathetic?
“Are you okay?” He’s standing in front of me, holding out a glass. Ice clinks against the rim, floating in the pastel translucence of the lemonade.
“Yeah.” I take the glass. “Just a headache.”
“Aspirin?”
“No.” I allow myself a big gulp of lemonade. It’s the store-bought kind, but it’s still cold, tart, and good. “I’ll be fine. Lemonade is the universal elixir.”
He sits down beside me, close but not close enough for his leg to brush mine or our shoulders to touch. I notice that everything he does, he does carefully. He sits up straight, not lounging against the back of the couch like I do. I wonder if he thinks I’m a sweaty slob and I straighten, crossing my legs at the ankles in a way I imagine Queen Victoria would have approved of. It is really uncomfortable. Soon I give up and go back to lounging.
Neither of us speaks. The only sound is the sloshing of our lemonade as we take sips at irregular intervals. I can’t decide if he is weird or if he really hates me, but God, I need someone to talk to. I have been sitting in my apartment for days, not unpacking, not decorating.
“Are you a ghost?”
He turns slowly, looking at me as if he’s seriously considering the question. I assume he must be considering how crazy I am, so I keep talking.
“Or a magician?”
I breathe a little easier. He looks intrigued. I have intrigued my potential friend. All my anger at his bolting out of my apartment fizzles as I hurry on, wanting to keep this thread of interest alive.
“Not that my little brother thinks I’m anything but crazy, but your disappearing act the other day definitely reinforced his opinion.”
When I say disappearing, he flinches.
“Why didn’t you stay?” I asked. “I know shirtless Laurie can be a shocking sight, but I swear he’s harmless.”
He doesn’t answer; he’s just watching me.
I twist my fingers nervously. “If Laurie thinks I’m crazy, I figured maybe I should just accept it. This is an old building, right? You could just be a helpful spirit who welcomes new residents.”
He laughs and his eyes light up.
I’m grinning. “I also thought you could be a mirage.”
“A mirage?”
“It was really hot that day, and you know how they say you see mirages in the desert when you’re about to die of thirst.”
He nods.
“I was definitely dying of thirst and then you appeared.”
“I am a mirage,” he says, pausing. Then he frowns at me. “And you are?”
“I’m the girl next door,” I say. “Well, the girl next door to next door.”
“Elizabeth who is Jo. The girl next door to next door.” He laughs again. I like it when he laughs. It seems like he gets warmer when it happens, like he’s used to being stiff just like this apartment and laughing stretches him out, puts him at ease. I also like it that he remembers I want to be called Jo. This is a recent development, as I was always Liz to my “friends” in Minnesota, my mother calls me Elizabeth, and Laurie is constantly inventing permutations of my given name.
“And that boy was your brother?” he asks.
Now I go stiff. There’s no reason for it, but it’s a reflex I’ve developed. Whenever the phrase “your brother” came up back home, it ended in a screaming match or, that one time, a fistfight. I’d discovered I have a mean uppercut. Jennifer Norris was still sporting bandages at prom from her emergency nose job. Not that I’d been at prom, but word had gotten back to me.
I breathe through the tightness in my chest. “Yes. Laurie’s my brother. He’s fifteen.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Me too.” He breathes in and out, staring at his fingers curled around the glass of lemonade. “You didn’t bring him with you, though.”
“He’s doing summer school,” I say. “So I’m on my own most of the time.”
I worry that I’ve been too obvious. Or careless. You’re not supposed to tell strangers that you’re home alone. Am I that desperate for a friend? Uh. Yes, I am.
He sits up a little straighter, looking right at me. His eyes, that intriguing blue shade capturing my gaze, are more penetrating and less evasive. “And your parents?”
“My mom is a hospital administrator,” I say. “I guess her predecessor was a disaster, so she’s spending all hours trying to convince her staff that she’s not the devil incarnate. She’s not home a lot.”
He nods.
“How about yours?”
He doesn’t answer at first and then just says, “Not around.”
I quickly say, “Cool.” I don’t know what not around really means, but I don’t want to pry. Parents are tricky. It’s not like I’m looking to be friends with his mom or dad anyway.
I bite my lip, wanting to seal the deal before we head anywhere near deep, painful conversation. I’m looking for companionship; I don’t want to go mucking around in the past. I want the past dead and buried in Minnesota.
“So I came over because I have a favor to ask.” I’m ad-libbing now. I came over to chew him out, but now I’m back to wanting a friend. He’s my best and only candidate.
“What kind of favor?”
“You know the neighborhood pretty well?”
“Yes.”
Excellent. That’s exactly what I’d hoped for.
“I need your help,” I say.
He looks at me, suspicion dawning in his eyes.
“I swear it doesn’t involve hauling boxes.”
The doorbell rings. I tense up.
“Just leave them!” he yells.
“Who is it?” I whisper, as if robbers are waiting on the other side of the door.