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Twenty-three
Henley
When I hear tapping on my window, I thinkit’s Ryan, waking me up to let him in. He gets locked out at least three times a week.
Rolling over, I contemplate leaving him out on the fire escape until morning. I know he won’t knock loud enough to wake my dad. You could break the sound barrier next to my dad when he’s passed out and he wouldn’t so much as twitch. My mom isn’t here. I beat her home by about five minutes, long enough to dump my books in my room and change my clothes. She breezed through the door, heading straight for her room where she took a shower and changed her clothes, all while giving me a lecture about the expected behavior of ladies.
“I don’t know why you insist on running the streets, Henley,” she says to me, tilting her head to fasten her earring. I’ve never seen them before. They look like diamonds. They look real. The dress is new too. “Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing.”
She’s not embarrassed by the fact that I run the streets. She’s embarrassed by me. Period. By the fact that I like books and baseball. By the way I look.
Because I don’t look like her.
“I wasn’t running the streets, Mom,” I said to her, watching her from the doorway while she ping-ponged around her room. “I was at the library.”
She gives me a sour look. “The library,” she says, her tone telling me that hanging out in a library is just as bad as running the streets.
“Don’t tell me,” I say dryly. “Ladies aren’t supposed to read, either?”
She stops flitting around her room long enough to land a good, hard slap across my face. “Go to your room,” she says, standing over me. “I don’t want to see your ugly little face for the rest of the night.”
She was gone fifteen minutes later.
He taps again. I should leave him out there. That’s what he gets for always taking off and leaving me to deal with our parents on my own. Angry, I roll over again to face the window.
It’s not Ryan at my window.
It’s Conner.
I know it immediately, even though it’s dark. Even though he and Ryan are similar in height in build. I know because my heart starts banging around inside my chest and I suddenly can’t breathe. After what happened at school today, I was sure he’d never talk to me again.
He stops tapping and waits while I swing my legs over the side of my bed and pad my way across my room to open the window. “It’s 3AM,” I say softly, trying to smash my crazy clown hair flat against my head.
“I know,” he answers in a stage whisper that instantly annoys me.
Giving up on my hair, I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him. “What are you doing here?”
He grins at me and shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” Holding out his arm, I see something hanging from the end of it. “So, I brought you something.”
“Why?” Caught off guard, I drop my arms.
“Because I’m sorry about today and I want to make up.” He holds what he brought out for me to take.
“What is it?” I say, instantly skeptical.
“A bag full of snakes,” he says, impatiently, pushing what I now see is a backpack into my hands.
Taking it, I back away from the window to lower myself onto the edge of my bed. He brought me a backpack. One of his old ones but practically brand new, compared to mine.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” My voice sounds weird. Tight and scratchy, like someone has me by the throat.
“Come in, Conner,” he says to himself while throwing his legs over my windowsill. “Thanks, Hennie—don’t mind if I do.”He walks into my room, stopping in front of me. “It’s a backpack. You put books in it. Or snakes. Whatever you want.”
“I can’t carry this.” I hold it out to him, showing him the front pocket where his name is written in bold black marker. “It has your name on it.”
“So?” He reaches over and turns on my lamp. There’s no shade on it, and the light is bright, revealing my saggy mattress and particle board dresser. The milk crate I use for a nightstand. My cheap desk with the broken drawer.
“So?” I drop my arm and stand, the sudden movement bringing us much closer than I’m comfortable with. “So, people will see it. They’ll know where I got it. They’ll think—”