Chapter 7

The good news is that Liam says hello to me the next morning and we make plans to meet at my house after school for a study date.

The bad news is that my friends seem to be united in some sort of massive conspiracy which is apparently hilarious and top secret. Marcus purses his lips and shakes his head when I ask him point-blank what he said to Liam. Kathy just giggles and simpers. Hope intentionally avoids me all day.

The worse news—I really would have preferred Liam’s house to mine, for obvious reasons, but when I suggest it, he brushes me off with a simple “no, sorry.” Not a brooding, mysterious, I’ve-got-sexy-secrets “no,” either. And not a bitchy one. Just no, sorry, could we go to your house? And then a shy smile which almost knocks me over.

Why not his, though? This town has all of 1,500 people in it. I could find his house in no time if I wanted to. So why not? Is he trying to hide something?

I swear I’m not overthinking this.

I’ve formed ten theories before I leave the school though. To prevent more theories from entering my brain, I plug my earbuds in and concentrate on Katy Perry as I walk home. Her roaring distracts me from my obsessive thoughts. I’m a clean slate before I reach my neighborhood—relaxed, confident, and singing (mostly silently) to the rhythm in my head. Hope would be so proud of me.

As I approach my house, I glance up and see Liam standing on my front porch. And he’s talking to Ethan.

My earbuds are out, my confidence is gone, and I’m suddenly walking a lot faster.

“Hi, guys!” I call out a bit too brightly. How long have they been standing there? How did Liam get here before me? What are they talking about?

“I’ll ask him tonight,” I hear Liam say. “And I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.” Ethan turns to me as I walk up to the porch. “Hello, Rain. Don’t forget our run today.”

“You don’t have to remind me every time. I never forget. But can we push it off by an hour, maybe? Liam and I are studying chemistry.”

He’s never going to say yes. I know that. There’s going to be some resistance, at least. We always run at four, Rain. Every day. Always at four.

“Okay.”

Wait, what?

“We can run at five,” he states. He looks uncomfortable—really uncomfortable—but he says it. Just like that. Then he glances at Liam.

What’s going on here? How much could I have missed?

“Great. Thanks.” I look to Liam for a clue, but his face is blank too. “Should we go inside then?”

We settle at the kitchen counter, and Ethan immediately heads off to his room. Part of me is a little relieved that he goes so quickly, but part of me is frustratingly curious. And although I had texted him earlier to let him know that Liam was coming by, I’d hardly expected that he’d leave his room and try to start a conversation. Ethan doesn’t do small talk with strangers, or with anyone for that matter. Still, I can’t ask Liam what they were talking about without seeming totally nosy and inappropriate. So I swallow my questions and pleasantly offer him a snack.

“Sure, thanks. What’ve you got?” Liam looks up from unpacking his books and peers into the open fridge.

“I made a batch of Tums muffins.”

He blinks at me. “What’s a Tums muffin?”

“It’s one of my gluten-free experiments for Ethan. If you crush an antacid in the dough, it makes it fluffier and less rocklike. Ethan calls them Tums muffins. Except for him, I haven’t been able to get anyone to try them.”

“Yeah, you might want to rethink that name. You got some cold cuts or something? That’s what I usually have after school.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You mean like salami? God, no. My mom is terrified of processed meats.”

“Really?”

I nod. “I think hot dogs may have caused my parents’ divorce.”

“That would make a great title for a talk show or something.” He grins at me. “How did that happen?”

I pull some organic cheddar and portobello mushrooms from the crisper and close the fridge. “My last memory of them together has to do with hot dogs. My mom was holding a pack of frozen Oscar Mayers in her hands, and my dad was scowling at her in the corner. And she was yelling, ‘This is what did it! This is why he’s like that. Because you keep feeding them this poison!’ And then she threw the package at him, and it hit him on the head.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yup.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“No worries. If you want, I can make you some algae flour pizza.”

“Algae what?”

Hope’s warning pops into my head, and I shake it away. Isn’t the best advice to “be yourself?” Well, this is the way I flirt (I think), with the coolest, top-secret food tips I’ve gathered from years of research. “I have a small packet of algae flour I got at a trade show a while back. It’s pretty new—and kind of scandalous.”

My offer is the foodie equivalent of front row tickets to the Super Bowl. Seriously. No one has this stuff yet, and those who do certainly aren’t sharing. Probably because the company that was using it had to recall some of its products last year. But I’ve tested it in my own recipes with no problems at all. Still, I’m not surprised he doesn’t seem impressed.

“I’m sorry… Algae?”

“Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but you wouldn’t even know it’s there. And the dough comes out amazing! Algae is basically a substitute for everything—eggs, wheat, dairy…”

His lips twitch, and his brows come down. “You want me to try your pond scum pizza.”

I shut the refrigerator. “Oh, no, please don’t call it that. Just forget I mentioned it.”

“But I don’t want to forget.” He seems to be choking on suppressed laughter. “No one has ever offered me algae before. This is a special moment.”

“Never mind. Offer withdrawn.”

“I’m not making fun! I swear. I’ll eat the entire pizza. And no matter what it looks like, I promise I won’t post it on Instagram.”

I sink down on the kitchen stool and toss the package of mushrooms on the counter. “You saw the sperm pudding pic.”

“Everyone saw the sperm pudding pic.”

“That thing has ruined my reputation,” I mutter. “I was trying to find a way to make it look less…gross. Marcus just caught it in the sperm stage. I’ve made improvements to the recipe since then. Like anyone cares.”

He smiles and clears his throat. “Well, I basically live on pasta and bologna sandwiches. So I’ll be happy to try your sperm pudding.” He chuckles quietly. “Hah. There’s a phrase I never thought I’d say.”

I get up from the stool and fetch a covered bowl from the counter. “You’re the first person to taste this since I’ve fixed it. It looks kind of like tapioca now.”

He lifts the spoon and sniffs, his eyes wary. “Holy crap,” he says after the first swallow. “Rain, this is actually…good.”

“Just good? Could you be more specific? Since that photo went viral I don’t get very many volunteers to taste my recipes.”

His shocked expression is the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. “It’s fantastic. Like a cross between butterscotch and—”

“Cashew cream. Yeah. And that’s raspberry syrup in the topping.”

“You should put this picture up,” he insists, scooping a giant spoonful into his mouth. “Like a ‘before and after’ piece. Show how far you’ve come.”

I feel my face getting warm. “I can post it to my blog. With the title ‘How You Like Me Now, Haters?’”

And there goes Hope’s last piece of advice. I’m discussing my blog with my crush. And he hasn’t run away. (Take that, traditional flirters.) I can’t tell if his smile is in response to my blog comment or the sugar rush from the raspberry syrup drizzle, but I’m clearly doing something right.

“Well, algae or not, I think you’ve got a career here,” he remarks as he scrapes the bottom of the glass. “For what it’s worth. Like I said, I live on sandwiches and pasta so I’m not the most discerning critic.”

“That doesn’t sound like living to me. Your dad doesn’t cook?”

“My dad is almost never home,” he replies. His smile fades. He studies his empty glass and runs his finger over the last traces of pudding.

“So it’s just you? No brothers or sisters?”

“Just me.”

“Oh. That’s…”

That just seems wrong, I want to say to him. He comes home to nobody, goes to bed in an empty house, wakes up to…silence. I can’t imagine it. For all my brother’s quirks and my mother’s nuttiness, I wouldn’t be able to live without their warmth and energy around me. “That must be…quiet,” I finish lamely.

“It is what it is,” he replies. “Hopefully I won’t be there much longer.”

“You won’t? Where are you going?”

He sets his spoon down and glances up at me. His quiet statement upset me a little, and I’m doing my best to hide my confusion and disappointment. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about postgraduation. His tone clearly implied that he’s got one foot out the door already.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I just thought that you should know.”

Know what? And why does he think I have a right to know, anyway? It’s not like we’re dating. He doesn’t owe me anything. “What do you mean?”

He sighs and rubs his hands over his forehead. “I’m trying to graduate early. I’m applying to the Global Gap program with Projects Abroad.”

“Projects Abroad?”

“Yeah, they have six-month training courses in Ghana, Peru, South Africa, and a couple of other places. Before college. Mostly volunteering in day cares, medical internships, irrigation and clean water projects—”

“Wow. That sounds amazing.”

“Yeah, but it’s not cheap. So that’s why I’ve got the after-school tutoring jobs and the lifeguarding. My grandmother says she can help with some of the cost, but I feel guilty asking her for that much. So I’m trying to raise most of it myself.”

“No wonder you’re never around. Doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for hanging out with friends.”

“No, I guess not.” He doesn’t sound regretful or bitter when he says it. Just quiet. And a little tired.

“I’m sorry.” I really am too. Not only because I realize we can never truly become close if he’s so focused on leaving. I’m also sorry for him—for the picture he’s just painted. His life seems so lonely as he’s described it. I wonder if he’ll look back one day and wonder where his teenage years went.

“Anyway, I figured you should know,” he murmurs almost guiltily.

There it is again. What does he mean by that?

“Why?”

He glances up again, and I see a flicker of indecision pass over his face. He opens his mouth to answer, hesitates for minute, clears his throat, and then seems to reconsider. “Never mind. I just meant… You know, if you were looking for a long-term study partner or whatever.”

I’m not sure what he’s hinting at. What had he meant by “long-term study partner?” He had asked me for a study date, not the other way around. Where had he gotten the idea that I was interested in more? Hope’s strange behavior had already roused my suspicions. I’d guessed that my friends had been conspiring to set us up somehow. But had they flat-out told Liam how I felt about him? They wouldn’t do that… Would they?

“Speaking of studying,” I say, flipping open my book. “Should we start with the section on acids and bases? We can take turns answering the chapter questions.”

“Sure.” He pulls his textbook out of his bag.

I begin reading out loud, but my mind is nowhere near pH balances. Is it so bad if he knows that I like him? Girls ask guys out all the time. Whatever happened to taking chances?

But he’d just said that he wasn’t interested in a long-term study partner. Was that code for something? Was it a preemptive brush off? I definitely need to think about this more. Later after he goes home, I’ll go over every word and expression and then plan for our next conversation. I’m way too confused to sort through this while he’s sitting next to me. Enough, I tell myself. I’m going to concentrate on the book in front of me like it was the only important thing in the room.

For the next half hour, I’m the most dedicated student in Montana. I don’t even sneak a peek at my study partner, who seems to be getting quieter and more hesitant as the minutes tick by. When I finally do look up, I see that he’s staring at me, his finger still poised over the page, his brows pulled low over his dark eyes. He starts when I glance at him and quickly drops his gaze, but I’ve clearly flustered him, and he has to go back over the last paragraph from the beginning.

I watch him as he reads, and a familiar ache forms somewhere in my throat. I need to stop caring about this guy. He’s almost gone, he’s leaving, he was never a part of my life, and he never will be. I know that. So why can’t I stop wondering how those brown curls would feel against my fingers? Why can’t I stop picturing my hands running over his shoulders and down his back? I want to know everything about him, want to talk to him until our mouths are dry and our eyes heavy, want to be the person that bursts into his solitary, quiet life and makes him happy. I don’t even know why I want it so badly. I just know that the last half hour of fake indifference is all that I can handle.

Marcus and Kathy had teased me for being too careful, never taking chances. If my mother had to evaluate me in three words I bet that one of them would be “guarded.” And for once, that’s not who I want to be. My friends are all waiting for me to call them, to break the news that the guy I’d had a crush on had finally asked me out. But that wasn’t going to happen, that much was obvious. He wasn’t looking for “long-term” anything.

Well, that’s okay, I think. Neither am I. I’m looking for now, this moment. And I’m tired of waiting.

“Liam…”

I have no idea what I’m going to say before I say his name, but I know whatever comes out of my mouth will be a fantastic, rule-breaking revelation. Hey, I’d talked about my blog and pond scum pizza, and he was still there, wasn’t he? I’d even made the chia seed sperm fiasco work for me. I could do anything. And right now, I was going to bring down walls.

“Liam…” He stops reading, his eyes are focused on me—waiting, expectant. My trembling voice promises a great confession.

“I just wanted to tell you—”

“Yeah?”

Oh God, where did all the words go?

“Liam. I like your…”Crap, I can’t remember English! How do I finish that sentence? How do guys do this? How does anyone do this? Can I say eyes? No, too cliché. Body? Ew, no. Personality? No, don’t know him well enough. “Liam,” I gasp out in breathless desperation. “I really like your face.”

Oh, God. Did I just interrupt our chemistry lesson to tell him that I liked his face?

He doesn’t laugh. Thank all the stars in heaven, he doesn’t laugh, not even with his eyes. All he says is, “My face?” as if looking for clarification on something he’d misunderstood. I feel like I’ve swallowed a mountain of rocks.

“No. Not face—not—no.”

I am not a leader of women, after all. I am just an embarrassing weirdo.

“Not your face,” I splutter helplessly. “I mean, your face is fine. What I meant was—”

Oh, God, I hate everything.

“I like you,” I finish miserably. “I was just trying to ask you out.”

Is that better? Is that closer to normal? I can’t tell anymore. All language and sense has abandoned me.

His expression doesn’t change. He eyes me skeptically and slowly closes his chemistry book. “Rain, if this is a joke, I’m not going to give you any more material. Our exploding lab experiment should get you enough views on YouTube without the fake date proposal.” He starts to rise, but the pained look on my face makes him pause, and he sinks slowly back into his chair.

“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out strangled, somewhere between a wheeze and a squeak. “How could have I posted it to YouTube?”

“Hope told me to call you because you needed help with chemistry,” he replies. “I didn’t believe her.” He sighs. “And yet I’m here anyway. For some reason.”

Well, that explains Hope’s behavior. Still, as annoyed as I am with her, I’m going to have to deal with that later. Right now though, I’m totally pissed at Liam. He’s not following any kind of reasonable script. But then, neither am I.

“You didn’t believe her?” I retort. I’m breathing more normally, and I even manage to add a touch of vinegar to the question. “Or you didn’t want to believe her?”

“I thought she was making fun of me,” he replies quickly. “And after what happened in lab, I was sure you two were in on some kind of a joke and that one of your friends had filmed the whole thing.”

I shake my head. “Hold on. You thought I was asking you out as a joke?”

He shrugs and slides his glasses off his nose. “It happened at my last school. Look, I’m not exactly homecoming king.” God, those eyes are even more potent without the frames. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on what he’s saying.

“But why would you think I was trying to prank you? Who does that? Who would find that funny?”

He blinks at me in surprise. “Thousands of people, apparently.” He hesitates and slides his glasses back into place. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No. Not a clue!”

“Wait. So you haven’t seen—” He hesitates again, and the doubt in his eyes flickers out. “Oh. Oh, man. I just assumed you’d seen that clip…and you were trying for the sequel.”

I pick up my phone. “What clip?”

He reaches out to block my hand. “Please don’t. I know I can’t stop you from looking after I go. But at least don’t do it in front of me.”

“Internet bullies?”

“Yeah. At my last school. They said it served me right for thinking that the prettiest girl in the grade actually liked me. Apparently I had it coming.”

“Then why did you ask me for a study date? If you thought I was like those people?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to think. Hope texted me after the lab explosion and told me to give you a call. She said you were having trouble with chemistry and needed my help. That’s what made me suspicious. People ask me for free tutoring all the time. I know that girls notice my grades, not me. But you don’t need my help. Then I started wondering if you made that experiment explode on purpose. That all of this was part of some elaborate joke. I hoped that I was wrong. But I didn’t want to make a fool of myself again.”

His honesty disarms me and my frustration melts in a moment. “You mean more than I just did?” I ask, smiling. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

He grins at me. “Well, just now I was thinking that my only hope of acing chemistry is if I suddenly discover I’m gay.”

“What?”

“Because it’s distracting.”

“What is?”

“Your face.”

I can’t think of a response to that. Our conversation is so broken that I’m not sure where to begin. And Liam’s blush is so deep that it just adds to my embarrassment.

“What I meant was,” he concludes meekly. “It’s hard to concentrate on chemistry when you’re sitting there.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You’re basically the chemistry antitutor. You make me stupid.”

It’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten. But it makes me smile anyway. His expression visibly relaxes. “I’ve always thought you were pretty, Rain,” he admits after a moment.

“But…” I protest weakly, “but you didn’t even know my last name.”

“I lied. Of course I knew your name. I was freaking out yesterday that you were going to be my lab partner. But then you started acting so…uh—”

“Batshit crazy?”

He chuckles. “Well…yeah. So I thought baffled ignorance was my best bet. At that moment.”

“I get that. But why didn’t you say anything before? I mean—if you liked me—” I pause, uncertain. That’s what he’d just admitted, right? I hadn’t imagined it?

He nods heavily, and the old tired look settles over his features. “I don’t know how to explain this to you.”

“Just try,” I urge him. “I’m not going to judge.”

“It’s just that I’ve never really asked a girl out. After what happened at my last school I decided to play it safe—at least through high school. Ever since I got here, I’ve only had one goal—to get the hell out. So I wasn’t going to get attached to anybody. I wasn’t going to care.”

“Yet you still came over here today.”

He shrugs and glances back at me. “Yeah. First time I didn’t follow my own advice. Couldn’t help myself. Anyway, I was ninety-five percent sure you weren’t interested. So there wasn’t any real danger.”

“Danger? Liam, that’s an awful way to look at people.”

He looks surprised and a little hurt. “It isn’t personal,” he says defensively. “I haven’t gotten close to anyone here.”

“I know. That’s awful too.”

“I thought you weren’t going to judge.”

“I’m not judging you. I just can’t imagine living like that.”

“Well, you don’t live in my house.”

That shuts me up. I feel my face get hot, and I drop my eyes. He’s right, I think. I don’t know his story.

“Look, I’m not expecting forever either,” I say after a moment. “We’re only sixteen.”

He shoots me a doubtful smile. “I thought you prefer to plan everything, to play it safe. Like me.”

“Yeah, I also believe in trying new things. Like algae.” I’m all cool confidence now, which is a nice improvement from wheezing and sweating. I throw him a flirtatious wink, but he just stares at me. “And I’m trying to be spontaneous for a change.”

“Spontaneous?”

“Sure. That’s why I told you how much I like your face.”

He grins. “Yeah. Right after you tried to blow me up in chemistry lab.”

“Oh, that was just me playing hard to get.”

We’re both laughing now, and I try to freeze this perfect snapshot in my mind. I want to remember it. I inch a little closer to him and gently nudge the pudding cup out of the way.

And then Ethan appears behind us. “It’s five o’clock,” he says.

The moment’s over.

“Right. I better go.” Liam sweeps his books off the table and stuffs them into his bag.

“Rain, it’s getting late,” Ethan urges. “You don’t even have your tennis shoes on.”

“One more minute,” I tell him. “I’ll just say goodbye to my friend, okay?”

We walk out onto the porch, and I shut the door behind us. “I want you to know, I’m not going to look,” I tell him as he turns to leave.

“What?”

“I’m not going to watch the YouTube clip. I promise.”

“Thank you.” He hesitates for a moment. “It got three thousand views,” he says. “I can’t believe no one at Clarkson High has seen it.”

“It was more than a year ago, right? And three thousand views is hardly viral.”

“Everything feels viral in high school.”

I can hear the shame in his voice; the memory still stings him like a new wound. It’s no wonder he wants to play it safe. I know a small part of him still doesn’t believe I like him, even after I told him. He’s holding his breath, waiting for the “gotcha” moment and for it to all come crashing down around him. And I realize he’s never going to reach through the wall he’s built, not unless I pull some bricks out for him first.

He slides his glasses off his nose and rubs the lenses with his sleeve. If there’s ever a moment to be spontaneous, it’s now. I want to blot out any doubt in his mind. I want him to go home happy tonight. But I have less than a minute to act; my brother is inside literally counting the seconds.

I can’t think or analyze or plan. Just this once, I have to grab the moment. So I do. Rather, I grab Liam.

I step forward and wrap my hands around his neck. He startles so hard that he drops his glasses. As they hit the ground, I lean up and kiss him. I miss his lips by a little and have to go in again. Then there’s a little awkwardness due to a miscalculation of nose angles and some embarrassed laughter as they knock together. We get it right by the third try.

“There,” I say after I catch my breath. “Do you believe me now?”

I take his speechlessness as a yes. He runs a shaky hand through my hair. The tremble of his fingers is the hottest thing I can imagine.

“There’s a Halloween party next Saturday at Kathy’s house,” I whisper.

“Okay.” He’s still staring at my lips.

“Her parents are out of town.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I smile. “I’m asking if you want to come with me.”

“Next Saturday? Sure. Okay.” I get the feeling he would have agreed to lion taming lessons on the moon right now.

“Rain!” Ethan throws the door open and drums his foot against the mat.

Liam jumps away from me and picks up his glasses. “Okay. Bye, then,” he calls and stumbles down the porch stairs.

As he disappears around the corner, I do a little dance of joy around the porch. A party with Liam! The super serious guy with the weight of the world on his shoulders is coming with me to a party. Our first real (no parents) party. It seems too good to be true.

And then Ethan speaks again.

“So what are you going to tell Mom?”

I hadn’t considered Mom at all. I know exactly what she’d say. She wouldn’t need three adjectives either. No “responsible” daughter of hers would ever—ever—

“I won’t say there’s a party. I’ll tell her I’m going to Kathy’s house.”

He considers for a moment. “Why can’t we tell her about the party?”

We?

“Because,” I explain patiently. “That will lead to more questions. And probably a call to Kathy’s parents. And the party will be canceled.”

“Why?”

“Because, Efan.” I sigh as he drops my tennis shoes in front of me. “There’s going to be beer and stuff. And since I’ve never been in trouble in my entire life, it’s not that big of a deal to bend the rules a little bit. This once.” I let him ponder that as I duck into the house to change into my running clothes. He doesn’t say anything when I join him outside; we jog silently down the stretch to the ice cream shop and round the corner to return home before he finally speaks again. “I’ll tell Mom that I’m going to Kathy’s house too,” he remarks calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“What?” I stop suddenly in place and stare at him even as he continues past me, oblivious.

A few paces forward, he realizes I’m no longer next to him, and he turns to face me, confused. “I said I’ll tell Mom—” he begins before I cut him off.

“I heard you. Where do you plan on going Saturday night?”

“The party. At Kathy’s.” How does he manage to destroy everything while wearing such a blank and innocent expression?

“What?”

“The party—”

“Stop repeating yourself!” I exclaim. “I can hear. I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t look hurt at all. Considering my tone and the pissed off expression on my face, I’d say that is one of the miracles of autism. Or maybe it’s just Ethan, I don’t know. “What can’t you believe?” he asks.

“That you want to go. To a party.”

“Oh. Hope asked me to go with her,” he responds in that infuriatingly even tone of his. “She texted me while you were studying with Liam. Here, I can show you—” He begins to pull out his phone.

“You don’t have to prove it to me,” I interrupt. “But Efan—”

“We have to finish our run,” he mutters, looking up at the sky with growing concern. “It’s going to get dark.”

“Fine,” I respond irritably. “Never mind. I’ll just talk to Hope. I have no idea why she asked you to go to a Halloween party. She must have lost her mind.” I take off down the path in a rapid sprint, and after a couple of minutes I hear Ethan behind me panting and struggling to keep up.

We’re close to home by the time he finally catches up. His face is flushed, and his eyes are shining with a strange light. He’s usually all pepped up after our run, but today there’s something new there, something underneath the surface that I’ve never seen before. And that something is freaking me out.

“I think she asked me because she wants to go to the party with me,” he states quietly, as if there hadn’t been any break in our conversation. “I don’t think she’s lost her mind. But you can talk to her if you’re not sure.”

From anyone else’s lips those words would have been loaded with injured pride and sarcasm. He would have spat them at me angrily before storming off to slam his door. But from Ethan, the declaration rings pure and simple, untainted by malice or double meaning. And I stand there totally speechless, shamed silent by his sincerity.