Page 7

I’ve never seen a proper fight before.

It’s awesome, in the most religious sense of the word.

Sure, someone gets punched on nearly every episode of Power Jam , and okay, I’ve gotten into a few minor skirmishes when I pretended to be a wolf—a nip here, a scratch there. But a legit punch, thrown by a tiny girl with strawberry-blond hair?

I feel like I’ve been punched: a blow to the ribs that sends my heart hurtling up and out of my throat. The organ drops at her feet. Beats be mine . Can hardly wait for a response.

Where has this Jess Orlando been all my life?

After losing my heart, I move faster than I have in months. Sprint to the kitchen of a house I don’t know. Yank open the freezer door. Search through Tupperwares and cartons of ice cream and objects wrapped in tinfoil. There’s cold, but I barely feel it, just the heat spreading through my chest.

I grab the next best thing to an ice pack and vamoose.

Outside, this fighter, this Jess Orlando, stands by the rope swing. She’s less girl and more magnet, pulling me toward her with remarkable force.

“Hi,” I say, then: “That was amazing.”

“It was stupid,” Jess Orlando says, her voice both lower and gentler than I’d have guessed. She continues: “I shouldn’t have let him get to me.”

She takes another look at me, a full un-self-conscious up-down. If I wasn’t feverish before, I certainly am now. My heart beats loudly from the grass below us.

She asks: “Why are you holding a bag of shrimp?”

“For your hand,” I say.

Her expression is complicated: bemused, curious, maybe even a little intrigued.

“Well,” she says, “are you going to give it to me or what?”

I swing the bag out to her, and her hand closes around it.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

But of course I can’t answer, because Celia and Touchstone show up right then. Celia is wringing her hands, fretting over nothing.

“I think it’s time to get out of here,” says Celia. She tugs on my elbow and asks, “You ready?”

No, I don’t say. I’m staying with Jess Orlando forever.

“Come on,” said Celia.

I walk away with my friends, but it feels like half of my body stays behind, under the tree with this new person, this Jess Orlando. Her newness sparkles, gives off light in the dark. It’s what I want: a whole new life, with someone who doesn’t know a thing about my dad, or the year I’ve had, or my whole story. I want someone who just knows me as Ros, without all the associations. Not Ros Whose Dad Left, just Ros. They have no idea who I am, and I love that.

“Hold on,” I say. “I think they’re calling for me.”

I run back and look to Jess, searching for words.

“Did you call?” I ask.

“No,” she says, and a slow smile creeps over her face.

“You fight good,” I say finally, and I scuttle back to my friends, embarrassed and hopeful and feeling like my limbs are on fire.