A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,37

plans.

“I don’t know what I am going to do yet, but…” I paused. I had never said it aloud. I had only written it in my diaries. But the year would be full of moments all about looking forward and so that was what I was going to do. “I want to be a writer.”

“A writer,” you repeated back to me, but it didn’t have the edge of disappointment that my voice had when I’d replied to your future plans.

Still, I wanted to shove it back into my head. I wanted to keep it hidden. Far away from judgmental eyes. But you didn’t look like you were judging me. You looked like you were piecing a puzzle together.

“That’s nice,” said Henry. “Like a journalist?”

I shook my head and tapped my foot on the linoleum. I was wearing my inked-up shoes. There was barely any white space left on them. “No, like a novelist.”

Henry was about to say something, but you interrupted him. “What do you want to write about?”

Write about what you know. I had read that in a book once and like a tidal wave, I was slammed with feeling lost and cold and uncertain.

“I want to write about broken things,” I said softly.

Your gaze whipped to me, suddenly serious. Your eyebrows scrunched up together so high that I thought they looked like two caterpillars aiming to take flight right off your face.

Mr. Jameson walked in, ten thousand watts of scientific enthusiasm. He knocked into the skeleton and nearly walked straight into his desk.

We all turned our attention to the front of the room.

You chewed on your lip for a moment, then leaned closer and whispered, “I want to know about broken things, Ellie.”

I didn’t look back at you.

“My mad scientists! It is time to…” Mr. Jameson’s voice bellowed throughout the classroom, nearly outdoing the ten thousand watts of Jameson-ness he walked in with. It was like he swept up all the air and there was only enough for him to speak.

I was grateful. I hadn’t wanted to talk to you about broken things.

I didn’t want to tell you that I was one of them.

27

August,

That first week back passed quickly, and suddenly it was time for Chem again. Thank god for block schedules so I didn’t have to sit next to you every day.

I squeezed past your seat to get to mine. You didn’t move, didn’t even look up. Henry’s seat was empty. I dropped my book and notebook on the desk and made a big show of arranging my space so I wouldn’t have to look at you either. You felt too close. I felt like you already knew too much. I opened up the textbook and started reading intently. Well, fake reading. I could feel you shifting beside me, turning your head ever so slightly. I kept reading. Not really seeing the words as my eyes scanned and just blurred them all together.

“Ellie…” Your voice was tentative and quiet.

“Shhhh, I am reading.”

“Ellie…”

I whipped my head to the side, annoyed. “What?”

Your eyes went wide and apologetic. You lifted your chin to the book. “Um, your book is upside down.”

I blinked at you, then snuck a glance at the text. It was, in fact, upside down.

I closed the book and held it to my chest. “I was … trying something.” What in the world was I talking about? Is this what happens when you do something ridiculous? You come up with even more absurd things to say? I wanted to smack my forehead with my textbook, but that also seemed, well, ridiculous.

“I am sure you were.”

I looked at you.

You were smiling.

“Stop that.”

“What?” You didn’t stop.

“Smiling. You look ridiculous.”

“Says the girl who reads books upside down.”

“Listen, I—”

“You really should fix that habit because when you write your books it will be hard to write them that way.”

I stilled; my body went rigid. Where was Henry? Where was Mr. Jameson? Their cue to interrupt was sounding. Yet they’d missed it.

“If I ever become a writer…”

“You will be a great writer, Ellie.” You said it in a rush. You said it like you’d been waiting to say it for hours.

I tapped my foot, drumming it to take out some of the nervous energy. “Why do you say that?”

You were quiet for a second and then with your eyes far away you said, “Because once upon a time, you dreamed up a world for us to live in behind an old subdivision in the woods. It was real. It was ours. And it