2096

What the hell is going on?

Forgive my ignorance of girl stuff, but I’m dead certain that it’s not supposed to last this long. It never has before.

Is something wrong? Wouldn’t she tell me if something had happened? But how could she? It’s not like she knows my phone number. I can’t believe this. We’ve got to figure out a way for her to reach me as soon as possible, because this is just ridiculous. 

“Evan? Hey Evan, what’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

I blink and look up, focusing on my surroundings once again.

Victoria and I are sitting outside, on a small bench; she’s eating her lunch, and she was talking to me, but now I can’t remember what she was saying.

“What’s wrong?” she repeats, giving me an odd look.

“Um, nothing,” I reply, bewildered. “I was just thinking…about, um�"”

“No, I meant your arm,” she cuts across me, pointing to my left arm, which I’ve been keeping tucked against my side all day.

“Nothing,” I reiterate, more firmly this time. And it’s not a lie: nothing’s wrong with my arm. It’s my side that hurts like hell. Dad kicked me about three days ago, but I still have a dark, blotchy, foot-shaped bruise there, and it still throbs, especially when I’m in transition between sitting, standing, and laying down. He didn’t need to kick that hard.

Victoria’s eyes narrow suspiciously; one hand reaches out to touch my face, though I try to lean away. “There’s something here, too�"”

“Hey, quit that, I�"don’t touch me,” I mutter, but I only half-mean it. I can’t even imagine her touching me….

She does it anyway, her warm fingers brushing against one side of my jaw. I freeze in place, holding very still, surprised. It shouldn’t feel this way�"it doesn’t hurt, but it feels like my stomach just did a backflip�"I can’t decide if I like it, but I want her to stop, it’s too confusing�"

She finds a tender spot and pokes it; I flinch away again, and this time she lets me go. “Ow!” I complain, my temper flaring up. “What was that for?”

“You had a bruise or something,” she says, biting her lip and looking concerned. “What happened?”

“Damn it, Victoria,” I sigh, exasperated, as I cover the mark with my wrist. “Why would you poke it? That hurt!”

“Sorry,” she says with a shrug. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say angrily. “I don’t know.”

“Do you not know, or is it nothing?”

“I don’t remember how it happened, okay? I must’ve bumped into something�"”

“How do you bump into something with your face?”

“I said I didn’t remember! Jesus, Victoria�"”

“If it’s something like that, why’re you so mad?” she says shrewdly.

“Because you made it hurt,” I retort, getting madder every second. “And if it’s any of your business, I just bruise really easily, that’s all�"”

“Why? Like, how easily?”

“Like if I bump into something�"it’s some blood disease�"”

“Hemophilia?”

S**t. She’s a lot smarter than Kylie�"a lot harder to fool. Or at least, more stubborn. “No,” I correct her. “It’s named after some German guy.”

“Von Willebrand,” she offers helpfully, and I glare at her.

“Yeah. That,” I spit at her.

“How did you get that?”

“Obviously I didn’t get it, I was born with it,” I snap. “Just forget it.”

She has no reply to this, thank God; but she watches me carefully, obviously thinking something over.

Then she says, bluntly, “You get hurt a lot.”

I sigh heavily, rolling my eyes. “Thank you for that gem of wisdom. So insightful.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she says calmly, but she’s frowning. “Is everything okay?”

No, everything is not okay. I would truly love to stab, several times in several painful places, whoever had the bright idea that saying “Are you okay?” is the default thing to say to someone. I mean, it’s got to be the stupidest question in the entire universe. If they don’t look okay, why bother asking? It’s just a waste of time. And if they do, just leave them alone, let them hide it if they want to, or tell you if they don’t. And what if they’re not okay? Most people expect to hear “Yes, I’m fine,” and most people will answer that because they know no one cares�"people that care say, “Can I help?”, not “Are you okay?” Because they know it’s the dumbest question ever. God.

But I hold all this behind clenched teeth for Victoria, saying only, “Yeah. It’s fine,” as calmly as I can. I’m such a God-awful liar, I hope she doesn’t catch on….

“At home, too?” she shoots back at me.

God d****t. What’s her problem? Why can’t she just leave it alone? “Yeah, why?” I ask her, feigning innocence, or at least ignorance. I have no idea what innocence would even look like anymore. One of the signs of child abuse, according to the internet, is knowing more about abuse�"about getting bullied, or yelled at, or molested�"than you should; so how am I supposed to know what I should know and what I shouldn’t? It’s so confusing. And it feels like a trap.

“Well, ‘cause…’cause you keep getting hurt, that’s all. And I know you and your dad don’t get along so well, and I just worried that�"”

“Yeah we do,” I protest. “I didn’t say we don’t get along!”

“Well, you said he’s strict, and he doesn’t let you do stuff, and you don’t�"”

But I cut her off�"I’ve heard enough. “Yeah, he’s strict, so what? He’s not that strict. Jeez.” I try to make it seem like the very thought of him hitting me is both astonishing and horrifying, but I have no way of knowing how successful I am. After all, it’s not. It is not at all surprising. “He’d never do something like that,” I add, for good measure, trying to make it sound like I mean it. “I told you it was a disease, Victoria, seriously�"”

“You don’t just get random bruises with Von Willebrand,” she says doubtfully. How the hell does she know so much about it? Maybe she’s the one getting hit. But no�"I’d be able to tell…. “You just bruise really easily. And you said you didn’t know where it came from.”

“Well, I don’t�"I don’t know what I ran into. Usually I bump into someone, or something, and the bruise’ll show up way later, and I won’t remember where it’s from.” This is what the internet said happens to people who bruise easily. That’s what it said. She can’t doubt that, right?

But she looks like she does. “I just�"I mean, you never talk about your mom and dad. And he sounds really�"like you never talk to him. I just�"”

“Because he works all day, and because we�"well, look at me, Victoria,” I snap at her, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice as I gesture to myself. “I’m not exactly social, am I? My dad’s the same way. We’re just quiet people, that’s all, we�"”

“What’s that?” Victoria cuts me off, pointing to my side. I quickly lower my arms, realizing, too late, that this shirt is a bit too short, and I just allowed her to see a square inch or so of skin.

“What?” I feign confusion, peering down my collar at my chest. “I don’t see anything….”

“A bruise, there was another one. It looked really bad.”

“Another one?” How much did she see? Son of a b***h…. “Um….” I peek through my collar again�"a natural-looking way to see without her seeing, too. “Wow,” I mutter, trying to make it sound like it’s not a big deal, but that it is a slightly bigger deal than the one on my face. “I don’t remember getting that at all.”

“How big is it?” she demands. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s like�"” I make a vague circle with my fingers to show her. “I can’t even feel it, though, not now anyway. I didn’t even notice it.” Am I trying too hard? Does it show? Because I don’t like the look on her face….

Thankfully, the bell decides to ring at that point; I jump up and grab my stuff, praying with silent fervor that I convinced her to forget about it, or at least to keep her mouth shut. I’ve got enough to worry about…and if she tells….

But she won’t. Of course she won’t. If you give people a reason to forget about things that will cause them discomfort or trouble, they will forget about it. It’s like taxes or something: if you convince someone that they will not, in fact, get arrested if they don’t pay, they will not pay. That’s what people are like: they care about their own little bubbles, and only want to mingle into other people’s when it’s pleasant and easy to do so. No one is going to bend over backwards just to help out someone else, especially a stranger.

Victoria and I go our separate ways without a word, and she is relatively quiet all throughout math class. It makes me nervous, even though it’s a relief not to have to deal with more questions, so while we’re waiting for the class to catch up with us, I try to distract myself with a book. But my thoughts drift, first to Victoria, and then to Kylie.

I’m just as worried about her as Victoria seemed to be about me�"no, far, far more so, because Victoria’s just acting. Like most people, it makes her feel better if she can convince others that she’s more virtuous than she is, but she herself isn’t fooled, and neither am I.

But Kylie. My best friend. She’s not really sick, is she? Like, sick? Because if she is�"I mean, she has a pretty kickass immune system from what I’ve seen, but it could be something else�"not a virus, a real illness�"and if she couldn’t resist it, that makes it even worse�"

Or what if something bad happened to her? Like, something really bad? She could’ve headed home to rest and been hit by a car�"or attacked by�"by anyone�"and�"but they couldn’t have! It was only a couple of blocks, and she’s tough, and�"

Anything could have happened to her. I can feel myself shaking; there’s no subtle way to bite my arm like I usually do, so I settle for wringing my hands in my lap, twisting and tangling them, pinching my skin until it hurts enough to distract me. And when the new problems come, I throw myself at them, wishing they were harder, so they would take up all my concentration�"

I’ve got to go check on her…I don’t know what I’ll do if�"

Something smacks into my arm�"a fist.

“Ow! What was that for?” I snarl at whoever it was, but it’s only Victoria, looking startled. Class is already over; it’s time to go to the next one.

“I�"um�"I was just trying to�"sorry,” she murmurs, and I feel a rush of vicious pleasure at the expression on her face: something between guilt and fear. Well, she should feel guilty. “I didn’t m�"”

“Don’t hit me,” I snap at her. “What do you want?”

“I wondered if�"if you wanted to meet after school�"” she stammers.

It’s weird that she has to ask�"normally she just takes it for granted that I’ll be waiting by the front doors after school, to walk her home. It’s more or less on the way home; it’s in the same general direction, at least.

I hadn’t even thought about that; I was too distracted with worrying about Kylie. And it doesn’t take me long to realize which I’d rather do.

“Sorry,” I say curtly, but I make it clear that I’m not: let her feelings be hurt. Let her think she did something wrong. I don’t f*****g care. “I’ve got something to do.”

“Oh�"what?” she asks me, frowning.

“None of your business,” I tell her sharply, pushing past her out of the classroom. Once I’ve turned the corner, and I’m out of sight of the math room, I duck into the boy’s restroom, throwing my backpack down and heading for the sink. No one’s in here, it’s just me and the stench, so I lift my shirt and dampen a paper towel, pressing it to the bruise on my side. It feels nice, though a warm towel would feel much better.

I wish Kylie were here. She knows what to do for these things. She also asks a lot of questions, just like Victoria does, but it’s a lot easier to persuade her that it’s nothing to worry about, or to lie to her. And she’d make me feel so much better in, like, five minutes….

The bathroom door opens; I jump and quickly toss the towel aside, getting another one to make it look like I just finished washing my hands. I duck out before the boy even reaches the urinals; it’s too weird to be in the bathroom when someone else is there. I don’t understand why they’re even built that way, like guys really want to watch each other pee.

I make it through my next class without absorbing a word of what the teacher says and start running when the last bell rings, ready to get the hell out of there. I grab the books I’ll need for homework and hurry outside, down the street, barely noticing what I’m doing until I finally stumble into Kylie’s front yard.

I run up the stairs and drop my backpack, knocking firmly on the door, then pausing to catch my breath. Damn, I feel dizzy…I’m so horrible at anything athletic, it’s sad. I should work on that, maybe.

After a minute of waiting, Kylie’s mom opens the door, looking confused�"they don’t get visitors very often, but even so, she looks irrationally surprised to see me.

“Oh�"hello, Evan,” she says slowly, glancing over her shoulder for a moment, back into the hallway.

“Hi,” I pant, taking no time to wonder about her strange behavior. “Can I see Kylie? Is she okay?”

“Um�"yes, she’s�"stay there,” she tells me, sounding confused. And then she shuts the door in my face.

I blink, surprised. Surely this isn’t the first time I’ve come over on my own? I’m always over here. And she always welcomes me like family, lets me in right away, acts glad to see me…. Both of them do. Maybe something really did happen….

On the other side of the door, I hear Kylie’s mom call something, walking down the hall; and with overwhelming relief, I hear Kylie’s reply, loud and strong and, actually, sounding kind of pissed off. But I must be imagining it�"Kylie never gets mad. Like, ever. The closest I’ve seen to her losing her temper is when she was protesting something from a Disney movie, some grave injustice; she seemed furious, ranting to me like I could control it, looking ready to punch someone�"and then she started to cry. So…not angry. Maybe. I couldn’t tell.

The door opens again, and Kylie’s mom steps aside to let me in, but she tells me, carefully, “Ah, Evan�"you should…you should be nice. Okay?”

I look up at her and nod slowly, but I have no idea what she’s talking about, and she doesn’t elaborate, so I hurry inside right away, heading for Kylie’s room. Be nice? What’s that supposed to mean? Maybe she means that Kylie’s sick or something, so I shouldn’t upset her�"but she didn’t sound sick�"

Kylie’s door is open, so even though I call, “Kylie?” I slip in anyway, looking around for her, feeling a strange tension mounting in my chest.

But she’s okay�"she’s sitting at her desk, holding a tiny paintbrush over a piece of thick drawing paper. She looks up at me, first in surprise, and then�"to my bewilderment�"in anger.

“What do you want?” she snaps at me.

I have to stop my mouth from falling open; I’ve never heard her snap at anyone.

“I just�"what’s your deal?” I shoot back at her.

“Just leave me alone,” she says impatiently, turning back to her painting. I’m shocked�"I’ve never seen her scowl like that before. It doesn’t look right on her usually sweet and childish face; it’s the first time that she’s ever looked ugly to me.

She doesn’t want me here. She’s never not wanted me. I hesitate in her doorway, with no clue at all what to do; it feels like I just stepped through a hole, unprepared, where I was absolutely 100% certain that there would be some support.

It feels horrible�"unbearably so. I automatically make to lift my wrist to my mouth, catching myself just in time; my arm drops, swinging uselessly. I don’t know what to do�"she’s just sitting there, like it’s nothing, like it will make perfect sense to me why I should leave, and I’ll do it right away, of course�"

I want to crumple myself up into a little ball and vanish. And on any other day, maybe I would have. But not today. I’ve dealt with enough today.

“What is your problem?” I say angrily, realizing too late that my voice is a lot louder than it needs to be. Kylie jumps, looking up at me with wide, scared eyes. “What did I do to you? I thought you’d been�"I thought you got hurt, or you were sick or something�"”

“Yeah?” she challenges, jumping to her feet, the fear in her expression having flit away as quickly as it came. “So you came to check on me after a week?”

“Yeah,” I shoot back, but with less energy, and more guilt. I shouldn’t feel guilty. I’m not supposed to visit her when she’s�"whatever. With the tainting of the energy, and all. But I didn’t even think about visiting her…I missed her, but I didn’t really think about that, either…. And she’s supposed to be my best friend…. “Because you�"you said you were�"that it was girl stuff, and I’m not allowed over, and�"”

“I never said that’s what it was!” she shrieks at me, so violently that I recoil from her. “That’s ages away, you knew that, you knew it wasn’t the right time! I said I felt bad, but you didn’t even care, you made me be all by myself all this time�"”

“Don’t yell at me!” I shout back, but pathetically; she’s scaring me, even though I know she won’t hurt me, even though I know I shouldn’t be afraid of her at all…but she’s making me feel guilty, and stupid, and that’s even worse, I wish she’d just hit me, and get it over with�"“I did care, I missed you, but if you didn’t want to be by yourself you could have just come over! I thought you weren’t allowed to!”

“Why would I want to go over to your house?” she retorts, trying to make it sound scathing and cruel, but her voice shakes. “You don’t even want me over there! It was like I wasn’t even there last time�"”

“Stop yelling at me,” I say, but my voice is too weak, my protest too feeble, so she ignores it.

“�"just you talking about some stupid girl, why should I care about her, it’s not�"”

“Stop yelling at me!” I explode at her, this time sounding downright hysterical. And, miraculously, she stops, looking stunned. “Is this about Victoria?” I ask hoarsely, feeling utterly lost. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“She’s your new best friend, that’s all,” Kylie snaps at me. “And you like her better.”

“I never said that!” I say desperately, but suddenly I feel sick.

As if she knows what I’m feeling, she retorts, “Then what were you doing while I was gone? Huh? Bet you talked to her every day�"”

“B-…but…” I try to tell her, but I honestly don’t know what to say. “But why…?” Why would it make her so angry, if I talked to her? “What’s…wrong with her?”

“Well, I guess nothing is,” she hisses, turning her back to me. “Just leave me alone�"I don’t want to talk to you,” she mutters.

In that instant, I know she’s lying�"I know that I’m missing something, missing the real reason she’s so upset. Upset, not mad…at least, that’s what my instincts are saying, but how does that make sense? She said she was mad. But she’s….

“Kylie, I…I’m sorry…” I say pathetically.

“Just go away,” she yells back�"but her voice breaks.

She sounds like she’s about to cry.

Oh, no…what did I do?

After a moment’s thought, in which I cast out desperately for something, anything to say that might help, I realize that there’s only one thing to say. I knew this was going to happen, at some point, for some reason. I knew she would get tired of me eventually. And it’s not like I really blame her. In fact, I feel like I should be thanking her for sticking around as long as she did.

“Well…if you want me to leave, I will,” I tell her, very quietly. To be honest, I think if I raise my voice higher than this, it’ll break, and I’ll lose control. “It’s okay, I understand….” But it’s not okay. I’m numb all over, but I can predict, easily, what will happen when this sinks in…what it’ll feel like…no, it won’t be okay. Not at all. “But I…I’m sorry I upset you. And…and I’ll miss you. A lot.”

She doesn’t say anything�"doesn’t move. But it feels like I’m the one who’s moving�"away from her, on the other side of that thick, bulletproof glass wall between me and all the other girls I know�"and something inside me feels like it’s falling, gaining speed, with nothing there to slow it down….

What am I going to do without her?

“I’m sorry,” I tell her again, but the sob that I was trying to repress broke through; it’s no good, I can’t fight it back, not here, not in front of her….

I turn blindly, wanting only to run away from her.

But then her hand catches my wrist.

“Let go�"don’t touch me�"” I gasp, jerking free without thinking about it, repulsed by the odd feeling it gave me, like something moving, almost like fear, but not quite�"

“But Evan…” she mumbles, and her arms lock around my chest from behind; I stiffen with surprise, my eyes open but blinded, unfocused, my mind utterly distracted by the way her cheek is pressing against my back.

She’s hurting the bruises, and the place where I had to get stitches once. But I don’t even feel the pain. It’s like it’s a world away.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she tells me, and the words sound like a plea. “I was just…I don’t want you to go away anymore.” I can feel her breath through my shirt.

I try to pull away again, but more gently, and this time she lets me go�"but she reaches for my hand instead. Mine mimics hers automatically, our fingers locking together.

Her expression is like a mirror for how I feel�"I can see she’s about to cry, but she also looks surprised, and…scared, almost….

“You mean it?” I ask her slowly�"warily. She nods, her gaze falling to somewhere behind me, her posture relaxing like a sigh. “I�"I just�"” I stammer, to fill in the silence. “I’m sorry I�"I mean�"I didn’t want to make you upset�"”

“It’s okay,” she says softly, still refusing to look up at me. “It’s not…I mean, you should be friends with whoever you want, you know….”

But it doesn’t sound like she means it. “I just�"I don’t get it�"why don’t you like Victoria?” I ask her. I can’t think of a good reason for it, but maybe it’s something I wouldn’t understand unless she explained it to me…and if there is a good reason, I don’t have to be friends with her, it would suck, but I’d rather lose her than Kylie, I haven’t known her as long….

She sighs, shaking her head. “Nothing. I just…if you wanted to…to hang out with her, instead,” she says haltingly, “I’d…I’d miss you. That’s all.”

“But I�"I wouldn’t do that,” I protest. “You’re my best friend�"and I�"I can’t hang out with her anyway, remember? I’m not allowed to have friends over�"or go over to her�"”

But I trail off, confused, because Kylie’s giving me this look that I’ve never seen on her face before, just on other people’s: The wow-you-really-ARE-stupid look. What did I say?

After a moment, though, her expression clears, and she leans forward and hugs me. I hug her back, completely bewildered now.

I wait for Kylie to speak, but for a long time, she doesn’t. She just hugs me, really tightly, in the way she has that I know means she needs the comfort, not me. Finally, though, she murmurs, “Do you like her better than me?”

And, because she sounds so sad, and so lost, I can’t help but reply, right away, “No�"of course not…you’re my best friend. Just because…I mean…it doesn’t change anything.”

She sighs again, but very quietly. I tighten my grip on her, awkwardly, but firmly, because even though I don’t know why, I can tell she needs it.

She’s gotten a bit taller…but our height difference is a lot more than it used to be. I can see her window, the sash swaying gently from the breeze, over her head. And I can feel her eyelashes brush against my neck. This is…

…a little uncomfortable. We shouldn’t really be like this. It’s wrong.

But….

“D’you want to kiss her?” Kylie asks me. For a moment my stomach lurches, doing a clumsy backflip, not unpleasantly, though…. “That girl?” she clarifies, and the feeling dissolves at once.

“Um…I mean…sort of,” I reply, cringing slightly. “I don’t really….”

“Do you? You have to pick yes or no,” she say severely, breaking away from me, her hands rising to her hips.

What’s it matter? But that’s stupid�"it does matter. Of course I want to. I’d gladly go as far as is rationally possible with her. I mean. Look at her. But I don’t know how. I don’t know the first thing about kissing, not the romantic kind at least, and anything after that is just…intimidating. Double intimidating, for someone like me….

“I…um…yes,” I tell her, but hesitantly. I mean, come on. Don’t tell me it’s not stupid to get my hopes up.

“You don’t sound very confident,” Kylie notices, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “What if you could pick any other girl in the world? Would you still pick her?”

I laugh, but it sounds really bitter, and callous. “Come on, Kylie…that’s kind of unrealistic. Have you met me?”

“Yes,” she says blankly. Rhetorical questions, like sarcasm, usually pass right over her head.

“Just…I mean…there aren’t that many girls like her, anyway,” I muse, half to myself. “Smart, I mean. And that like to read. But,” I add hastily, seeing Kylie’s crestfallen expression, “I don’t think I’d pick her. Or at least not right away. I mean…I’d want to pick someone that I…that fit me. Like, perfectly. D’you know what I mean?”

She shakes her head, frowning, obviously confused.

I sigh. “It’s like�"um�"well�"did I ever tell you about�"about soul mates?”

“No,” she says, but immediately adds, “Tell me.”

“Um…well, it’s….” I let her take my hand again and lead me to the bed, sitting beside her, absently kicking off my shoes. Kylie picks up one of her stuffed animals, a lion I gave her a long time ago, and starts making its paws move around, sort of like it’s doing the Macarena (but she doesn’t know what that is)�"but I know she’s listening closely.

“Soul mates are…are like…well, if you think about a puzzle, like that bird one we did that one time, you know…and the pieces are…they were made to fit together. And some people believe that…that people are made like that. And that if you look hard enough, you’ll meet someone perfect for you, in every way. And they don’t have to be just like you, I don’t think they are usually, they’re just…they fill in the parts of you that were missing before. Or something,” I add in a mumble, realizing how girly I sound.

“That’s just one person?” Kylie asks me, obviously finding the idea intimidating, or maybe impossible. I can relate.

“Well…some people think so. And your life and their life kind of…meet up…eventually, anyway. But if you miss them by accident, they’ll come back, because they have to. They’re, like, pulled to you. Or something. But some other people think that you have about a hundred of them, and depending on what you do, you find one of them…you could find two, maybe…but that’s only if you’re lucky.”

Kylie nods slowly, making the lion’s tail swish back and forth. “So…you believe in soul mates?” she asks me.

“Y-Yeah…I do, kind of….” Really, it’s more that I like the idea of it…and I can definitely see it happen to other people. But not for me. That would be extremely lucky, if I found someone like that…. I don’t even know what she’d be like…. “I mean…I don’t know if Cherokee’s believe in stuff like that, but….”

“I don’t know,” Kylie says quietly, pushing the lion carefully aside. “But I do.”

Surprised, I look up at her, at the same time that she looks up at me�"but then I quickly look away. Wow…this is really…gay. That’s what the guys at school would say, anyway. I think I would know if I were gay, though…I mean, my best friend is a girl, and I really don’t like all the stuff that other guys do, and I’ve never had a girlfriend, but…but I know I’m not…. Kylie and I are just friends because…because we like being friends, that’s all. Not because we….

Wait. What am I thinking? God, just how stupid can I get?

“’M sorry I yelled at you,” Kylie says.

“It’s okay,” I assure her. Even though I wish she wouldn’t. My reflex is always to run away or something, or duck, or start yelling too, and I couldn’t really explain myself if I did either of those. “I’m sorry I didn’t come visit sooner. I should’ve.”

“That’s okay…I shouldn’t’ve pretended I was sick.”

We sit in silence for a long minute, thinking our own thoughts. I wish I knew what hers were…or that I knew what to say…surely there must be something to say, something exactly right, that’s exactly what she wants to hear from me…that expectation has to be there…if only I knew what it was….

“Are you hungry?” Kylie asks me after awhile.

“Yeah,” I have to admit. I sort of missed my biggest meal of the day, so I haven’t eaten yet.

“Let’s go see what Mama is making,” she says with a warm smile for me, reaching for my hand and pulling me to my feet. I follow her into the kitchen; something smells fantastic, but her mom’s not in there, or in any of the other rooms. Kylie, unconcerned, climbs out of the open kitchen window and tumbles onto the porch; I follow at my own careful pace in time to see her dash around the corner, calling, “Etsi!” in an I-found-you sort of way, not a where-are-you sort of way. I come to stand by Kylie at the railing facing the street, not at all surprised to see her mom in their garden, working on her plants. Really, it should’ve been the second place we looked, after the kitchen, because her mom does everything she possibly can, excluding baking, outdoors. Even if it’s raining. Or snowing.

Kylie is saying something in Cherokee; her mom answers with a question and an impish smile, and Kylie groans in a way that would make any American teenager proud. Then she switches to English. “What’s there to eat? Evan’s hungry.”

“Ah, yes, Evan’s the hungry one,” her mom laughs, making fun of both of us�"Kylie’s appetite is roughly five times more vicious than mine. She smiles at me, and I try to smile back, but I feel uncomfortable�"there’s no way she didn’t hear that shouting match. And of course she would take Kylie’s side. She would, right? Isn’t that what moms are supposed to do? “There are snacks in the kitchen,” she tells me. “Help yourself, uwetsi.” (This is a term of affection, I think, but I have no idea what it means exactly. She calls Kylie the same thing sometimes.)

“Thank you,” I call down to her as Kylie pulls me back into the house.

Once in the kitchen, Kylie peeks into a pot on the stove, then abandons it�"I guess it isn’t ready. Hope it wasn’t rice or something. Then she checks the oven, and, with a cry of delight, whips out a pan of brownies, still warm. Kylie loves brownies; we made them once, out of a box, and as soon as she tried them she insisted on bringing them to her mom, so she could learn how to make them. And incredibly enough, after about two bites (the only time I’ve ever seen her mom eat anything, by the way, except for tasting the food she makes while it’s cooking), her mom had already figured out how to do it. Even her first batch outclassed the boxed kind three times over.

We sit at the table with two glasses, a gallon of milk, and our fingers, and demolish the whole pan in about ten minutes. And they’re so good that even when they’re all gone, and my stomach’s painfully full, I can still barely stop myself from licking the pan clean. Kylie, sucking on her fingers, stares sadly at the pan as if she feels the same way.

I sigh and lean back, stretching a little, relaxed enough to take a nap, maybe. But then I remember the time. “I guess I should go home,” I sigh.

“But…you don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Kylie tells me, looking away and rubbing one of her arms. I recognize the motion, and automatically look her over for bruises or scars, but of course she doesn’t have any. She’s just doing it because she wants to. “I mean,” she adds quickly, “if you want, you can wait until the food’s ready. It’s stew. You could take some home….”

There’s a thought. I mull it over. “How long d’you think it’ll take?”

She shrugs. “Not long. Maybe twenty minutes. You should ask Mama, though.”

I nod. If she says twenty minutes, then it’ll be between ten and thirty, and that’s not too bad. Plus, it means I don’t have to cook. “Okay. This stew, though,” I add as she grins hugely, warning her not to get any ideas. “It’s not something weird, is it? ‘Cause I remember that time with the deer.”

Kylie shrugs, without guilt. “We didn’t know you weren’t supposed to,” she says sweetly. “And deer’s good for you. But I think Mama made it for you, it’s�"um�"cow, and the weird beans, and corn.”

“Oh. It’s called beef, Kylie.” Ground beef, actually, and baked beans from a can. Her mom’s right�"I love that stuff. “It sounds great.”

“Okay!” she says brightly. “Let’s go outside, so I can tell Mama you’re staying. She’ll be happy.”

Sure…. But I can’t help but smile to myself as I follow Kylie back outside. It’s not just her mom that’s happy about it, I can tell from her voice. And it’s a nice feeling, being wanted, especially after this nightmare of an afternoon….

Kylie’s mom is super-enthusiastic about me staying for dinner, of course�"though it really shouldn’t be a surprise. I do this every time I get too lazy to cook, or don’t want to go home right away. Then Kylie and I sit on the steps, and she and her mom start talking about other stuff�"some Cherokee season-changing ceremony, and the garden, because crops are what Cherokee ceremonies are all about, most of the time. They use English for my benefit, but I’m not really paying attention; my side isn’t hurting so much anymore, but I’m so tired….

Kylie notices, and, very subtly, without a single pause in her conversation with her mom, takes my hand and squeezes it gently, rubbing the back of it with her thumb. When I turn to her, she smiles up at me, and I return her smile with gratitude, so infinitely and inexpressibly glad that we’re still friends. She rests her arm across my back, rests her head against my shoulder, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.

Kylie’s mom looks up at us for a moment, then turns back to her garden, a small, knowing smile on her lips.