The girl follows me to the grass behind the church, and we sit, hiding in the darkness where streetlights won’t find us. We lean against the brick wall, and the cool masonry feels good against the heat of my back.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even know this girl’s name.
The dog flops in the grass beside me, and I bury my fingers in her fur. She shifts closer to me, laying her head in my lap. I’ve always wanted a dog, but Geoff and Kristin worry about small children being afraid or having an allergy, so we’ve never gotten one.
I peek over at the girl. Auburn hair hangs over one shoulder in a long, loose braid, and she fiddles with the end, twisting the strands between her fingers. Soft features, though her eyes are guarded, framed by dark glasses. Freckles are everywhere. She’s used a metallic marker to create constellations out of them on the back of her hand. She’s relaxed against the wall, looking out at the street.
It’s some kind of miracle she agreed to sit and talk. I’m such a freak. Declan would never let me hear the end of this.
So you finally asked a girl to talk to you … and you chose the grass beside a church? Dude.
Then again, this is probably exactly what he’d expect.
I glance over again. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Shoot.”
“What’s your name?”
“Emma Blue. That’s not really a personal question.”
“You knew mine. I felt bad for not knowing yours.”
“I only know yours because I asked a friend—” Emma blushes and breaks off, but she must know there’s no point in backpedaling. “We saw you in the cafeteria this morning. She’s in your Sociology class.”
“I saw you, too.”
She winces and glances over. “Sorry for staring. Again.”
“I’m used to people staring.” A pause. “I wondered if it was a sign I should talk to you.”
She turns her head and looks at me in the dark. “You could have talked to me.”
“You could have talked to me, too.” I pause. “I thought maybe I weirded you out last night.”
“I think I’ve got a different standard on what’s considered weird.” Her blush deepens. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the kind of girl who walks up to boys and starts talking.”
“We have that in common.”
“You get nervous talking to boys, too?”
“I lose sleep over it.”
She smiles. I don’t know if this is teasing or flirting but I do know it’s the first time in two days that I haven’t been on the verge of a panic attack.
Then she says, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
I hesitate. I know what it’s going to be. “Sure.”
“What’s with the hoodies?”
I have to resist the urge to curl in on myself. To hide. “That … has a long and complicated answer.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then makes a guess. “Are you super hairy?”
It’s so unexpected that I laugh. “No.”
She thinks for another moment. “Cyborg?”
I like that she’s keeping this light. “Now that you know, I might have to kill you.”
She smiles, but her voice turns serious. “Scars?”
I hesitate. That’s closer to the mark. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“Well.” I pause as tension latches into my shoulders again. Thinking about my scars makes me think about my father. I draw my knees up and rest one arm on them. The other hand stays buried in the dog’s fur. “Some scars. I had … a rough childhood. But that’s not why I wear them.”
I brace myself for her to push, because she knows about the letter—but she doesn’t. She crosses her legs and leans back. “Okay. Your turn.”
I frown. “My turn?”
“Personal question.”
She reminds me of Declan. A little. In a good way. “Why were you crying?”
She hesitates. “That … has a long and complicated answer.”
I deserve that. I sigh and look out at the night.
Beside me, she does the same thing.
“Your turn,” I say quietly.
She’s quiet for a few beats. “Is your father the reason for the rough childhood?”
“Yes.”
“Did he send you another letter?”
I swallow. “An e-mail.”
“An e-mail?”
“I wrote to him.” I pause. “I told him to leave me alone. He wrote back.”
“Is he the reason for the hoodies?”
“Yes.” My tension dials one notch higher, my fingers gripping tight on my knees.
But then she says, “Aren’t you hot all the time?”
I let out a breath. “Sometimes.”
“Are you hot now?”
“A little.” I was running before her dog found me, and that was after an hour of attacking the heavy bag.
“You can take it off,” she says. “Your father’s not here now.”
Her voice is so pragmatic. This isn’t a challenge. It only feels like one inside my head.
I’m wearing a long-sleeved athletic shirt under the sweatshirt, so it wouldn’t be a big deal. She wouldn’t see anything.
I think of that feeling in the basement, when I was so certain Matthew was watching me.
Right now, wearing this sweatshirt makes me feel like a coward. Makes me feel like I’m hiding.
Your silence speaks volumes, Son.
I am hiding.
“I didn’t mean to throw you into a crisis,” Emma says quietly.
“You didn’t.” But she did. Sort of.
And that’s ridiculous. We’re talking about a sweatshirt.
I grab the hem and yank it over my head.
“Whoa.” All the breath leaves her in a rush.
I freeze. The sweatshirt is a crumpled ball on the ground beside me.
She’s staring at me. Her eyes might as well be laser beams, the weight of them so potent. “Rev … I didn’t …”
“Stop,” I say. My shirt must have pulled free with the sweatshirt. She must have seen some of the marks my father left. This was such a mistake. I’m so stupid.
I tug at my sleeves, but the shirt is snug and they’re already at my wrists. “Please. Stop.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is hushed, and she turns to look at the street. “I’m sorry.”
Tension has buried claws in my shoulders. “What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“You saw something.” My voice is tight and angry and afraid, and none of that has anything to do with her, but she’s here and I feel exposed and none of this is going the way I thought it would. “You said whoa.”
“Hey,” she says quietly. “Rev. I didn’t see anything.”
Memories of my father flash in my brain, so quickly I can’t pin any of them down. It doesn’t matter—none of them are good. My fingers clench around my abdomen. I’m deathly afraid she’s going to touch me and I’m going to lash out and hurt her.
“Don’t touch me,” I force out, keeping my voice as low as possible. “Don’t—you should just go home.”
She shifts in the grass, like she’s moving away. Good. I can inhale.
Then she speaks, right in front of me. “Hey. Open your eyes. Look at me.”
I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I must have. I obey.
She’s kneeling in the grass, holding out my sweatshirt. “I didn’t see anything,” she says again. “Really.”
I swallow. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” It’s not. And I’m not. I still can’t move.
“Okay. Look. I don’t know what you think I saw.” Emma speaks fast. “And I can’t believe I’m going to admit this out loud. But I said whoa because you have an amazing body.”
My thoughts freeze.
The world stops spinning.
She keeps babbling. “I’ve only ever seen you in big hoodies. I was unprepared for …” She gestures. “This.”
I frown. “Are you messing with me?”
“Are you kidding? Looking like that, I would be an absolute idiot to mess with you. Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror?”
I flinch. “Stop it.”
“It’s like watching Clark Kent turn into Superman.”
“Hey.” My jaw is tight, making my voice turn sharp. “Stop it.”
She sits back on her heels. A few strands have come loose from the braid to hang across her face. She impatiently blows them out of the way. “I’m not making fun of you, Rev.”
I feel like such a fool. I look down at the crumpled mess of my sweatshirt. I don’t know what to say.
Your silence speaks volumes, Son.
My eyes burn, and I have to hold my breath. My fingers dig into the jersey fabric.
Emma shifts until she’s sitting with her legs crisscrossed. “My turn.”
It brings me back to earth. My voice is barely a rasp. “Your turn.”
“I’m getting e-mails, too,” she says quietly. “Not from my father. From some jerk in a computer game. He’s not threatening me but—but they’re not good.”
I go still.
“I don’t know him,” Emma continues, her voice soft and heavy. “And I know that sounds crazy. But it’s common in online gaming. Girls always seem to be a target. So he thinks he can send me e-mails that say things like—”
Her voice breaks off. The night is so quiet, I can hear distant cars in the neighborhood.
“Like what?” I say.
“I can’t.” Her voice breaks, and I jerk my head up.
Her eyes glitter with tears, but she’s not crying.
“You can tell me,” I say carefully. I borrow her own words. “He’s not here now.”
For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to answer, but then she fishes her phone out of her jeans pocket, and swipes her finger across the screen.
Then she turns it around to show me.
I can do this all day, baby. Tell me, do you charge for sucking?
The words hit me like a fist to the gut, so I can’t imagine what they must be doing to her. It chases any concern for myself right out of the air. “Emma—this is from someone in a game?”
“There’s more.” She reaches over and swipes the screen. “This was yesterday.”
You suck. And that’s what I’m going to say when I shove it in your mouth hole.
Anger chases my own fears away. “How many of these are there?”
“It’s not a big deal. It’s just some loser with too much time on his hands.”
“Emma—these are threats—”
“But they’re not. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything about me. It’s just some douchebag with an e-mail account.” Despite her cavalier words, tears are bright on her cheeks. “Stupid, right?”
“It’s not stupid.” I wish I had a tissue to give her. “It’s—horrible.”
“No.” A big sniff. “It’s common. It happens all the time. He’s just a troll. I shouldn’t be this upset.”
“Emma—this is a big deal.”
“It’s not.” She swipes at her face. “Really. It’s not. You’re dealing with PTSD or something, and I’m crying over a dumb troll.”
I flinch. “It’s not a competition.”
“No! That’s not what I meant.” She straightens. “I didn’t realize asking you about the sweatshirt would turn into … into that.”
“I think you can cry over a dumb troll if I can lose my mind over a stupid sweatshirt.” I drag a hand through my hair. I feel wrung out.
She levels me with her eyes. “It’s about more than the sweatshirt.”
“Well.” I pull the sweatshirt over my head and force my hands through the sleeves. “I think it’s about more than the game.”
She swallows. “You’re right.”
“So are you.”
We sit in the dark facing each other. Challenging each other, without risking anything.
My cell phone chimes, and I fish it out of my pocket. Kristin.
Mom: Just checking on you.
I shove it back in my pocket. “My mom.”
“She doesn’t know about the messages from your dad?”
I shake my head. “No—not my mom that way. She doesn’t know him. She’s—I’m adopted.”
She frowns like she wants to push for more information, but then her cell phone chimes, and she yanks it out of her pocket.
“My mom.” She sighs.
I hesitate, then get to my feet. “We should probably get back before they send out search parties. I was pretty messed up when I walked out of the house.”
“Me too.” She gets to her feet, wrapping the dog’s leash around her wrist.
Then we stand there, not moving, sharing the same air.
“Do you—” I begin, then stop short. I have no practice with this. I’m not even sure what I’m asking.
She waits.
I take a breath and try again. “Would it be weird if I asked if you wanted to do this again?”
“You mean, meet behind the church to freak out together?”
I let out that breath. “Yeah?”
“Probably. Would it be weird if I said yes?”
I smile. “Probably. Tomorrow night? Eight o’clock?”
“Sure.” She turns to go.
I watch her walk across the grass, the dog trotting lazily by her side.
“Hey, Emma!” I call.
She whirls. “Yeah?”
“That’s not okay,” I say. “What he said to you. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.” She turns and keeps walking.
Then she turns around, but continues walking backward. “Hey, Rev.”
I haven’t moved, but it makes me smile. “Yeah?”
“Whatever your father did to you. That’s not okay either. You know that, right?”
The words hit me hard. I can’t speak. I nod.
“Good.” Then she turns around, breaks into a run, and she’s gone.