couldn’t imagine writing anything like that, all intense and continuous. The only time I ever write anything is when we have to do essay questions in those blue books or type up term papers, and even then I feel like I have to stop every three words to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say.
“Hey, Meg,” I said.
Her pen kept going. Didn’t she hear me? Or was she still pissed that I hadn’t known her name?
“Meg,” I said again, louder.
The pen stopped. She looked up. “What do you want?”
Yeah, she was still pissed.
“Is this okay?”
She read my sign, and her dark eyes changed from coal to velvet as she laughed.
I felt an inexplicable rush of relief. Fifteen minutes ago, I’d completely forgotten this girl existed. And now I cared whether she was mad at me or not? What the hell was wrong with me?
“It’s better,” she said. “But kinda stilted, don’t you think?”
“Stilted?”
“Yeah, you know, too formal. Not enough personality.”
“I know what it means,” I said. “But it’s just a sign about gum. Why does it need personality?”
She tapped her pen at the corner of her mouth, right where her top lip and bottom lip met. The skin there looked really soft. I had the sudden urge to run my thumb over it. “How about doing a play on one of those no trespassing signs? Something like, No Sitting. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.”
I laughed. “Or, Private Gum Residence. Trespass At Your Own Risk.”
“Yes! Amazing. Or… Beware of Gum.”
“Private Chair. Gum Only. No Butts Allowed.”
Meg cracked up. “Yes! Do that one.”
I was putting the finishing touches on the sign when Meg’s laughter cut off. I looked up, and she pointed to the chair, her eyes wide.
Someone was sitting in it. We’d been so busy trying to come up with something funny for the sign that we’d forgotten the whole point of the sign. Oops.
The guy sitting in the chair was Gary Fleming, this dude who always pushed around the underclassmen and wrote things like “homo” and “slut” on people’s lockers.
I felt bad for about a second, and then I was kind of glad Gary sat in the chair. If anyone deserved it, he did.
I turned to Meg. She actually looked scared, like Gary was going to think she was the one who’d made him sit in the gum and make her life a living hell because of it. Huh. Was that what people like him did to people like her? I’d never really thought about what school was like for other people.
I shook my head. “That guy’s a douche bag,” I whispered. “Don’t worry about it.”
She stared at me, her eyes latched on mine as if she was trying to figure me out. I smiled. She smiled back hesitantly.
It felt good, holding her gaze like that. Safe. Comfortable.
But then Mr. Wheeler came into the classroom muttering something about a broken Xerox machine in the teachers’ lounge, and Meg turned away.
There were a million thoughts going through my head—and, let’s be honest, a million feelings in the, um, lower half of me—but one thing was certain: I’d never forget Meg Reynolds again.
Chapter 3
There’s so much noise. I pace around my room, bouncing Hope on my hip, rubbing her back, trying to soothe her. The vibrations from her little crying body seep into me. The music pumping through my earphones is like Febreze—it covers the sounds of Hope’s crying and Mom’s office music, but it doesn’t erase it. It’s an illusion. I still know the noise is there—outside me, inside me—and all this trying to fool my brain into thinking otherwise is a giant waste of time. And probably causing cancer.
Fuck. Why’d I have to go and think that?
I put Hope in her swing, pull off my earphones, wipe the baby drool from my cheek, and run my finger over my laptop trackpad. The Futurama screen saver vanishes, and I pull up Google. But I don’t know what to type. “Guy named Michael with a son named Ryden Brooks” doesn’t bring up much.
Mom doesn’t like to talk about my father. She wouldn’t admit that, and she’s actually told me many, many times since I was a little kid that if I have any questions about him, I should ask her. But I get the feeling that talking about him makes her sad, so I’ve tried not to ask many questions. Sparing her that pain is one small way I’m able to take care of her.
Here’s what I do know about him:
His