Page 2 of The Boy Next Door

My parents never needed to warn me against stranger danger. I was plenty on guard myself. Even with the new family next door, I couldn't muster a measly hello to the two boys around my age.

That's what Mom would say. It's okay to talk to boys your own age.

With the Cruse boys, the words shriveled and died on my tongue. No, before my tongue. The words dissolved in the bile of my esophagus.

We met when I was seven. Dylan and Hunter Cruse were so loud, running around their giant backyard without a care, sometimes chasing each other with foam swords or nerf guns. I stared out my bedroom window, watching with envy and fear.

Dylan shared his fruit snacks with me one day, not forcing me to speak or play. I still remember the way he smiled at my first words, thank you, and how steady his small hand felt in my own. And the pink goggles...

Oh yeah. The first time I spoke to him wasn't because of fruit snacks. Our first conversation happened after Dylan slapped on his cousin's goggles and jumped into the pond after me. Because his older brother Hunter pushed me in. He was trying to be funny, apparently.

This led to the next dilemma. I could talk to Dyl after he rescued me but couldn't come within five feet of him for fear of his maniac brother. That's how we started passing notes.

That's how everything started.

~

My grand victory over the dreaded art project comes with a weak prize, but I savor the vending machine candy bar anyway as I arrive home.

Our two-story with cream paint and blue shutters could be in the dictionary under 'American dream home.

' But the landscape guy quit after some disagreement with my mom, so the grass is growing long.

Paired with the new driveway to our left and gorgeous landscaping to our right, our home seems like the eyesore of the block.

After sitting down in the living room with a mouthful of chocolate and marshmallow goodness, Mom comes down the stairs.

"Did you see those brochures for summer math classes?" she asks, shoes clicking on the hardwood floor.

No, but I'm not interested.

"Why spend my summer stuck in class?"

"There's always the library. They're hiring." Her medium-length auburn hair is pulled back as always, only two perfect curls that don't happen naturally framing her face.

"Doesn't thrill me." A new bite of chocolate-y heaven muffles the words somewhat.

"Entry level jobs aren't supposed to thrill you," she scoffs. Her wine-colored blouse and lipstick look strangely foreboding. "Teens work for money, not passion."

"Is it too much to ask for both?" I offer weakly.

She sighs, going back about her business, click, click, click . Time is money for hotshot attorneys like her. "We can discuss this later."

The art house theater I worked at part-time closed down recently. Mom has plenty of suggestions, but I haven't found another job yet.

"I turned in my Very Important Painting today," I remind her. "Don't you want to hear about it?"

"I do!" she calls out. "Later."

There's the door opening and shutting as she leaves.

Glancing at the coffee table, bright pages try to make facts and figures seem exciting. Summer schedules for community colleges and info about math classes.

I skip the info and follow in Mom's footsteps, heading out the door. Hopefully Dylan is home.

~

Despite a lack of fence or other divider line, it's still obvious where our property ends and the Cruse yard begins.

And not just because we haven't hired a new guy to mow the lawn.

Our yard is sparse while the side closest to us on the Cruse property has a fishpond and archway that leads back into a vibrant garden.

Flowers bursting with color perfume the air with an intoxicating aroma as I walk into the backyard.

"Hello?" I call since I hear the snip, snip, snip of hedge trimmers.

"Over here!" Dylan yells.

He meets me at an open patch of lawn. He's in his element and a little sweaty. Do not swoon too hard, I order myself.

"Hi," I greet. "Am I interrupting?"

He smiles sweetly. "No, you're exactly who I wanted to see."

"Uh, wh-what," I stutter, hardly able to hear over my heart beating double-time. "I am?"

"Yeah, I found—"

"I'm glad to see you too," I say, not realizing that he hasn't finished talking.

"Oh, you are?" He blinks while wiping his hands on his shorts.

"Uh, well, kinda." Crap! "I mean, not that I'm not glad! I just…" Take a deep breath. Start over. "I kinda thought my mom was going to start, so I needed a distraction."

He nods, say no more, and I'm happy to obey the unspoken understanding. "I get that. Why do you think I'm out here taking care of the lawn?"

"Haven't heard back yet?"

His all-important summer before college plans may include an internship with the governor.

"They said I shouldn't even hear back for another two weeks, but every day Dad has to point out how long it's been and what I should have done differently or what I should do now."

I wince. "Sounds tough."

"Yeah." He steps closer, knocking a shoulder into mine. Do not swoon. "You always understand, Bell."

Pleased and totally blushing, I only manage to say, "Well, you always return the favor."

"Anyway, there's something I wanna show you."

He motions for me to follow him and I do. I'll follow him anywhere, including the short distance back toward my house and to the pond.

What seemed closer to a vast ocean when I was a child is actually a tiny oasis of blue and green serenity where water plants thrive. The greenish dark water and picturesque lily pads on top spark a rush of nostalgia. I remember the satisfying splash of chucking a bottle in there.

As kids, we were creative since we lacked glass bottles.

Instead, we used old prescription bottles from our parents to deliver our notes.

The little orange capsules stuck out, orange buoys signaling a secret message from friends.

This was how we passed notes to each other as kids.

Coupled with glass wind chimes in a nearby tree, they created orange light flashes like a signal flare into both mine and Dylan's rooms overlooking the pond. Though it's been years since then.

"Look what turned up the other day." He holds a small tube with a long-forgotten message.

"Oh my god, how old is that?" I reach out as he hands it over, taking it gently in my hands like a precious artifact.

"Think it got trapped in some of those wispy plants at the edge." He looks exactly like the excited boy he once was, except for the dyed darker hair. "Wanna open it together?"

"Sure. You didn't check?"

"Saved it for you," he answers immediately. I swoon a tad. "It's like a time capsule."

Wow. The Declaration of Independence or an undiscovered Egyptian tomb are more valuable, yet this relic of the past is precious because it belongs to our personal history, his and mine.

The notes started as a way for Dylan and me to chat, though eventually I passed notes back and forth through the pond with both Cruse boys.

This feels like a momentous occasion. I open the top and unroll the note with shaky fingers.

Dyl watches with excitement, rocking slightly on his feet. "Hurry up, hurry up."

"Don't rush me. Have a little respect for the gravity of the situation."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," he apologizes in an overly formal British tone. "Do continue, my good sir."

Standing close enough to touch him, the moment almost takes my breath away. His light blue eyes are so striking compared to his dark hair.

Maybe this is the right time.

I brought no flowers, and there's a piece or two of greenery clinging to his shirt, but this chapter from our old lives is what turned us from neighbors into friends. Maybe it's fitting to look at our past while I suggest we move forward as something else in the future.

Before I commit to a decision, I see what's on the paper and the decision is made for me.

"Well, what is it?" he wonders.

I stare at the paper, struck dumb. It's not even a note from Dylan to me or vice versa. This message comes from his brother. A stick figure drawing of a boy with wavy lines around him and two words: ' You smell.'

This? Totally the wrong moment.

"What does it say, Sam? Don't keep me in suspense."

"Uh..." the rest of my ineloquent response is cut off.

Whoa, I jump as music blares, seemingly from nowhere at first, the wail of clashing instruments all playing at once. Is someone serenading the whole freaking street with an angry rock ballad?

"Is that," Dylan begins, listening. "Oh my god." A second later, he's running toward the front of his house.

I follow at a slower pace. Between the blaring music and the obnoxious rumble of an engine, growing dread forms a lump in my stomach.

Oh crap.

Hunter Cruse is home.