writing them?”
“No one knows. I think it was the pressure.”
“I guess I can’t really be mad about it, then.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “How can you be mad that something doesn’t happen, when it would hurt another person? If she had to quit for her health, then I’m glad she did. You shouldn’t have to kill yourself for your art. No matter how many fans you have.”
I get the very intense desire to hug him then. And possibly kiss him. Still debating the kissing, though. “I’m not sure how many people would agree with you on that.”
“Unfortunately,” he says. Then he looks toward my headboard shelves, filled with all my different copies of the Children of Hypnos books, and smiles. “I like your house,” he says. “It’s bigger and quieter than mine.”
“It’s not quiet when Church and Sully are home, trust me. Speaking of which—do you have to be home at a certain time? I have to take them to soccer practice at four, if you want to come and hang out.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Now we’re both smiling.
Mom calls us down for lunch. I expect to have to pull Davy off Wallace’s lap, but Wallace picks him up and sets him on the floor. Davy’s tail wags the whole time. I stare.
“What?” Wallace says.
“Do you play football?You seem like you should play football.”
“I like watching football. Does that count?”
“You just lifted a hundred-and-forty-pound Great Pyrenees like he was filled with Styrofoam.”
Wallace holds out his arms. “Wanna try?”
“Um. Rain check.” Despite being almost thirty pounds lighter than Davy, I haven’t let anyone try to lift me since some boys at school made a joke out of it in gym class and pretended like they couldn’t get me off the ground. That was freshman year, when I was just Creepy Too-Thin Eliza, not Creepy Don’t-Touch-Her-You’ll-Get-Rabies Eliza.
The fact that Wallace offered is kind of nice, though.
Mom makes us peanut butter and jelly with apple slices, aka the lunch you send to school with your first grader. I stew in horror until Wallace begins eating and says it’s “the best freaking peanut butter and jelly” he’s ever had, which makes Mom beam like she’s won an award. At this point I believe he must be either the least picky eater on the face of the Earth, or he’s always so hungry that everything tastes good all the time.
When we return to my room, he finds his spot on the bed. There is plenty of space beside him and the headboard. It’s not like we’ve never sat that close before. We do it all the time at Murphy’s, and on the bench behind the middle school. Sure, those are out in the open and this very much isn’t, especially now that my door is closed, but it’s the same, right? I do my best to hold my frantic heart still, and cautiously arrange myself in that empty space beside him. He doesn’t say a word, but watches me until I’m settled.
“Dog Days reruns, huh?” he says.
“Yep. How do you feel about it?”
“There is no higher teen soap opera.”
“Good answer.”
And thus begins our watching of old Dog Days episodes. The great thing about Dog Days is that it requires so little energy. You don’t have to think, you just have to watch characters making terrible decisions in the height of summer. It surprises me a little that Wallace likes it, considering how much he appreciates deeper meanings in his stories, but I guess we all need something that lets us go a little numb.
I focus on forcing myself to relax, stretching my legs out, trying not to look like I think I might be strangled at any moment. My hair is finally beginning to dry—I pray it doesn’t frizz—and so far neither my sweatpants nor my Wookiee socks have been brought up in conversation. All in all I think we’re doing pretty good.
At one point Wallace stands up to straighten out his pant legs, and when he sits again, he’s close enough I can feel his body heat. We sit shoulder to shoulder. I can see his eyelashes touch his cheek when he blinks. His hair always looks black from a distance, but up close it’s really dark brown. He’s been letting it grow out. I get the strangest urge to trace the curve of his ear with my finger.
After the fourth episode, he says, “Do you have a piece of paper I could write on?”
I jump up too fast. “Sure. Just one? Do you—of course you need something to write