Marisa was trying to do. As if his actions were meaningless.
Omar untwisted his arm, but stood between them, in case Jordi tried something else. He thought there might be a few more words exchanged, especially now that people had noticed the altercation and were staring. Peejay, though, unflinchingly turned his back, readjusting the pashmina around his shoulders as he walked away.
Omar watched him go, wondering how far Peejay would retreat when Peejay stopped and looked at Omar. “Come with me,” he said. “I need your help with something.”
Jordi was left behind in the hallway, cheeks flushed with shame and anger, his brain churning.
* * *
Amira stood in front of Marisa. She was no good at goodbyes. Marisa was currently writing Lolo a note, which included a previously agreed-upon code word that meant whoever held the note should be trusted. Amira was to take the note down to the basement, and become the first CIS student or faculty member to exit the building in a week.
She didn’t know how to process that information, so instead she calculated the distance to the nearest coffee shop (two and a half miles or so) and how long it would take her to reach it, if she still remembered how to run (twelve minutes).
Marisa was still writing, her dark curls hanging down as she leaned over. She balanced a book on her knees as support for the paper slip. Her handwriting was messy and beautiful, urgent, as if the ink itself knew her power and couldn’t wait to act as her instrument. Amira watched Marisa’s strong hands grasp the pen, hold the paper in place. Her nails were understandably ungroomed, a slight layer of grime that, to Amira, felt more earned than any grime she’d ever seen. After all, Marisa was clawing at the earth, fighting for dirt’s right to exist among so much human garbage.
How could Amira leave this girl here? How could she tear herself away, even if it was for her? Not knowing how or when she’d see Marisa next, how their interactions would change hereafter. Amira knew that, at least until another wild event came up (Alien invasion? Birthing octuplets? Confronting her mother? Coming out? What could compare?), she’d forever think of her life as Before, During and After.
Just another day, she silently begged as she stood waiting for Marisa to finish her scribbling. How much could the note possibly need to say? Amira didn’t care. She wanted to stretch the moment out forever. Let Marisa write for hours and hours so Amira could stand with her that much longer.
Just like that, though, Marisa stopped writing and proffered up the note for Amira to take. Did she not know? Could she not tell how little Amira wanted to go?
Again, their fingers brushed as Amira took the note. This time, neither of them moved away, though Kenji and Celeste were right there watching intently, though Amira’s mom was ever present in her mind. The two girls looked into each other’s eyes, the warmth in their fingers sending jolts down their spines so obvious it was a wonder neither of them could sense the other’s shudder, that they still had questions about how the other felt.
Not knowing what else to say, Marisa managed to whimper, “Take care.”
Amira curled her fingers around Marisa’s, which is both exactly what she wanted to do, and not it at all. She expected herself to give just one brief squeeze, before turning away, and speed-walk toward the basement. That may have happened when she was more in control, but that wasn’t the case anymore. Now Marisa seemed to dictate what her body did, and as her heart pounded, Amira held Marisa’s hand tighter and said, “Now I am mad at you.”
Marisa, unsure if she could focus both on Amira’s words and on the feeling of her fingers wrapped around hers, said, “What? Why?”
The other Protectors averted their eyes, trying to give the girls privacy. All around the foyer people staring desolately at their inactive phones glanced over, wishing that they were part of that inner circle, privy to its conversations.
Amira hadn’t responded, but she had started to rub her thumb against Marisa’s. It felt life-changing, potentially life-destroying.
“Because of the decathlon?”
“Yes. No.” Amira bit her lip, glancing briefly out the window, the rain now coming down at a constant, if not all-too-heavy rate. “I’m mad at you about the decathlon because I’m not actually mad about it, and I should be.”
Marisa wondered if she was just fuzzy-brained from the