I knew he’d tacked on the odd nickname to help soften the raspy blow, but it didn’t work. A wave of ice still blew over my skin—pricking, crawling, chilling.
I carried the peas to the table and retook my seat. “At least put this on it.”
I didn’t wait for his reaction or even look at him before I picked up my crayon and resumed the mind-numbing task of long division.
The music played on, Everett’s fingers tapping committedly as he held the ice pack to his mouth with his other hand. Eventually, he spoke. His quiet, rough voice almost inaudible. “You do math in crayon?”
I flipped the page, tapping the tip of the florescent pink on the paper as I stared at the equation. “Yup.”
“Why?”
Dropping the crayon, I rested my chin on my hand and met his curious stare. “Because I want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
My brows jumped, and I held back a smile. “Whatever.” I grabbed the crayon and finished the page, feeling his attention hot on my head the whole time.
He waited until I finished to ask again. “So… why use the crayons?”
“God,” I groaned. “Is this payback for asking about your lip? Why do you care so much?”
“No.” He tipped a shoulder, sitting back in his seat. “I just wanna know because of how six-year-old it is.”
“That sentence makes no sense.”
“Sure, it does,” he said, lip curling. He winced as it split, a droplet of blood bubbling to the surface. He smeared it away with the side of his hand. “Fuck, Clover. Just answer me.”
“I don’t know,” I snapped, irritated as to why it was so important he get an answer. “It just… I guess it makes me happy while doing something that makes me unhappy.”
Satisfaction remodeled his features. Hard was now soft, sharp cheekbones rising and his teeth flashing with his grin. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I closed my book. “Go play Hendrix’s acoustic or something.”
He did, standing from the table and leaving me to get started on my English reading.
Words blurred into gray blobs, my ability to focus sufficiently stolen.
Clumsy strumming echoed from the living room, and then a riff I didn’t recognize slowly stitched together.
I ditched my book, pushing back from the table and walking toward the sound as if it was tugging at something inside me, forcing me closer with every note.
Everett had his eyes downcast, fixed on his moving fingers as his body began to sway with their skill. After another minute, he stopped, jotted something down in a notebook on the coffee table, then went to start again. Before he did, he said, “Need something, Clover?”
I didn’t realize he even knew I’d been standing there. “Are you seriously going to keep calling me that?” I wasn’t sure why I acted as if it annoyed me. Maybe to end the fluttering that was tickling my stomach.
He didn’t answer.
“Did you come up with that?”
“I did,” he said.
I shook my head with an incredulous laugh. “But you only just started playing, what, not even a month ago?”
“Your point?” He looked up then, golden brown lashes fanning high.
“My point is my parents tried to get me to play a musical instrument before I could even walk, and I’ve never been able to play a damn thing. I can’t even sing, for Christ’s sake.” My arms flapped out, hands gesturing wildly at him. “And here you are. Just waltzed on into town, picked up a guitar for the first time, and became some kind of instant genius.”
“I’m not a genius.” He wrote something else down. “I really want to learn, so I am. Besides,” he said, “I don’t just practice here. I’ve been spending some of lunch in the music room at school.”
I had no response; my mouth opened and closed, trying and failing to find a rebuttal. “Hendrix won’t like you becoming better than him.” I had no idea why I said that. Yes, my brother could get competitive, but I didn’t know if he would about this.
He had the audacity to smirk. At least, I think that minor twitching of his perfect lips was considered a smirk. An Everett smirk. “We’re starting a band. He didn’t tell you?”
Shocked, I almost laughed, almost told him this band of theirs wouldn’t last, just like all the bands Hendrix had formed before.
But the tiny lilt of excitement in Everett’s voice, that cut on his lip… I returned to my homework and left him to his songwriting.
The front door opened and closed some minutes later, and the clack of Mom’s