My hand is shaking. I can barely keep Luke’s coffee in the cup as I take it over to the table. ‘You’re so nervous,’ he says when I set it down on the mat in front of him.
I shrink back inside my sweater. If he sees me squirm, he doesn’t mention it – doesn’t rush to rescind this line of conversation either. He still has those eyes, narrow and inquisitive, fixed on me. I wonder for a second if he’s been taking how-to-study-your-subject lessons from Dr Reeves.
I sit opposite him, feet on the chair, knees up to my neck, trying to shrink myself down as much as possible.
‘I’m sorry I lied to you,’ I say, desperately seeking to squash the suffocating silence.
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’
I think maybe I want to tell him something, but I’m not sure what. There’s a pulse in my tongue. It feels kind of eager and unpredictable, like if I start speaking I won’t know when to stop.
I peek over my knee, look him in the eye, and he smiles a smile that could wipe winter out of existence.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask.
He keeps me speared with his stare, but in my peripheral vision I see his fingers twitch and dance around on the tabletop. He’s bouncing a leg too. The vibration races through the floor. Nerves. Panic. Neon pink. I’d recognize it from a thousand light years away. Not on the same scale as mine, not even close, but I’m startled by it for a second. Sometimes I get so focused on how abnormal my reactions are, I forget a little panic is okay in certain situations.
‘Honestly?’ he says.
I nod.
‘At first I thought you were cute . . .’ He grins. I duck back behind my knees, but not from fear. I’m blushing, heating up the Earth’s atmosphere by a thousand degrees and trying to stifle a giggle with the sleeve of my sweater.
‘At first?’ I question, lift my gaze enough to watch his mouth move. It’ll be a while before I can look him in the eye again.
‘I mean, I still think you’re cute, obviously, but . . . I don’t know. I’m intrigued. Curious about you. And . . .’
‘And?’
‘I wasn’t lying when I said I was awkward.’
‘You threw a party and a hundred people showed up.’ I don’t know a huge amount about high school parties or, as the kids on The Hub call them, partays. They’re another one of those things that didn’t happen until after I got sick. Still, I’m pretty sure a full house means you’re one of the popular kids. And I don’t suppose there’s much call for awkward among the elite.
‘Yeah . . . and I ended up over here, talking to you.’ As if on cue, the fresh slit on my thigh smarts. ‘I guess I have a tendency to gravitate towards people on a different wavelength,’ he says with a shrug.
‘You think I’m weird,’ I reply, because my special skills include sweeping away the words of a sentence and finding a brand-new meaning buried beneath them.
‘That’s not what I said.’ He’s adamant. And now I’m curious.
‘But what if . . . what if I am weird?’
He thinks about the possibility, and I scratch, scratch, scratch the nape of my neck.
‘Have you ever eaten a cream-cheese-and-apple-sauce sandwich with mayonnaise?’
I throw up a little bit in my mouth before shaking my head. I’m not sure where this is going, but I find myself leaning forward. ‘Have you?’
‘All the time. It’s, like, my favourite kind of sandwich in the world. Everyone who knows about it tells me it’s weird.’
‘It’s not,’ I say, defending him. The thought of him feeling even a little like me makes my heart hurt. Turns out, he doesn’t need any reassurance from me.
‘I totally agree. And you know what I realized?’
‘What?’
‘When people say “weird”, what they really mean is “different”. And difference has never been a bad thing.’
He’s smart. I like smart almost as much as I like funny.
‘I think you’ll be disappointed when you figure out what’s going on with me.’ It’s not that I want to rain all over his friendship parade. I don’t. I just have this overwhelming urge to warn him that I can be hella frustrating to be around. It’s not meant to sound maudlin. I’m not interested in him tuning up the world’s smallest violin to play me a sad song. Fact of the matter is, people who depend on the level of perfection that I do are tiring. It takes some getting used to, and it won’t ease up until I do.
He shakes his head at me and laughs lightly. ‘Are you always this pessimistic?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
My words hang in the air like smog, so thick it’s a wonder we’re both still breathing.
‘Norah, I just want to be your friend. Will you let me be that?’
‘Yes.’
His smile sets my kitchen on fire.
‘Okay.’ He stands, slaps his thighs and fishes a tangled wad of keys from his pocket. ‘I gotta get back to school. My free period is almost over, but can I leave you my number?’ he asks, already heading for the notepad on the fridge.
I can see what’s happening, but I don’t believe it.
A boy is writing down his number on my fridge. I swallow down girlish squeals and wait for him to finish. The first boy’s phone number I’ve ever been given is being written, on my fridge, right now. And there is no one around to tell. I kind of want to open the door and scream it to the street. But I won’t. Who would have thought a bunch of digits could bring this much excitement?
We stroll towards the door in silence. ‘Chat later?’ Luke says, stepping out on to the porch. He holds out his hand. ‘Are we still not shaking?’
I stare at his outstretched palm. I want to take hold of it, feel his skin against mine, but I’m already wondering when he last washed his hands. It’s not fair of me to make assumptions, but I can’t stop it. OCD destroys any romantic notions pressed flesh has to offer.
Deep breath. ‘Maybe . . . maybe next time you come by, I can tell you why?’ Wait . . . what? Was that me? Did I just say that? It sounded like me, but that’s not something I would say. I touch my throat. I’ve no idea why – checking to see if it’s still warm, maybe.
‘Yeah?’ He looks . . . excited.
I solidify, can feel butterflies beating their wings against my ribcage.
It’s not too late to take it back.
But I don’t want to.
This is new.
And a little unnerving.
Over his shoulder I see a yellow taxi pull up. Mom is sitting in the back, her eyes stretched wide open, trying to swallow the sight of a boy standing on our porch. I can’t decide if what I smell is exhaust fumes or her burning curiosity. It’s a wonder her face isn’t pressed against the glass.
‘Talk later, Neighbour.’ Luke sprints off down the driveway, hops over the boxwood bush as Mom climbs out of the cab. The slam of the car door echoes around Triangle Crescent.
Rachael Dean, aka Mom, is about as subtle as the Titanic. Not even a car accident can shake her spirit. Her bright red hair has been pulled into space buns on the sides of her head, and she’s dressed like science fiction threw up on her. Cosmic print everywhere. She eyeballs me, scurries towards the house like she’s being dragged by a Great Dane, her jaw trailing on the ground behind her. She looks well. Really well. The giant knot that’s been in my shoulders for over a week unravels and my arms suddenly feel ten feet too long.
‘Norah Jane Dean.’ Mom is so excited. I’m really looking forward to showing her his phone number, just as soon as my muscles come unstuck. ‘Is that Party Boy?’ Mom asks. I nod. ‘He’s cute,’ she exclaims, turning around to wave at Luke as he pulls his car out on to the road. He waves back, then drives away.
‘You okay?’ Mom asks, nudging my shoulder. ‘You’re looking a little pale.’
‘I’m okay,’ I reply, falling into her chest and wrapping her in a bear hug. I think.