Origins: The Fire (4 page)

A crease formed over Kaylee’s nose as she waved her hands at me, palms out. “I swear, I had no idea you were an ear-o-phobe. No more ear touching, promise—but try not to make us look lame in front of cute boys, okay?”

Forcing a smile, I sank back into the booth. Even if I
wanted to explain what had happened, I couldn’t, because I didn’t have the faintest clue. Unless this had something to do with the hospital, post fire. Maybe the doctors had performed a procedure on my ears?

Ella’s giggle rescued me. “Hey, the new guy’s still looking this way.”

“Thanks to Mila, everyone’s still looking this way,” Parker muttered. But of course our heads swiveled toward him.

Old denim, I decided. His eyes were the color of old denim.

His long-sleeved white tee was paired with slim gray pants. And on his feet—checkered gray-and-black Vans.

“No work boots,” I pointed out, for Kaylee’s benefit.

“Duh. That’s the first thing I noticed.”

I bit back a smile. Of course it was. Me, I’d noticed lots of things—as always. The gray along his jawline that hinted at five o’clock shadow. The way he leaned against the counter, poised but standoffish, his hunched shoulders not inviting anyone to chat. The way the left side of his upper lip was slightly higher than the other, saving his mouth from perfection in an intriguing way.

And then a worker handed him a drink, and he was out the door.

Kaylee broke the silence by banging her fist on the table, making our collection of cups jump. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s exactly the kind of fresh blood we need at Clearwater.”

“Too bad Mila scared him off with her booth dive,” Parker sniped.

Kaylee jumped in, pointing out that any attention was better than none at all. While the girls’ chatter went from mystery boys to favorite actors, I burrowed into Dad’s shirt. My gaze found the window, but instead of pastureland, I summoned more memories, pored through images of Mom and Dad smiling and dabbing my nose with tomato sauce while we assembled a homemade pizza. Images of all three of us, curled up on our navy-blue sofa, playing a game of gin rummy.

Kaylee’s fake swoon into my shoulder stole them away. “Oh my god, he was hot in that werewolf movie. But I still liked him better in
Tristan James, Underage Soldier
.”

I stood up. On purpose, this time.

“I’ve gotta go,” I said. Knowing Mom would probably be upset that I was breaking the rule by walking, and not really caring.

I took off before Kaylee could even finish her startled good-bye or Parker her second eye roll. And then I was outside. Alone. Away from the girls, from the fried food smells, from the strangers and plastic booths and everything that wasn’t Philly.

Away from any interruptions to the memories I continued to parade through my head.

THREE

K
aylee burst into homeroom the next morning in a bigger frenzy than usual, her brown hair fluttering behind her as she practically sprinted over to my desk. Only after she had smoothed down her homemade black dress—the girl could sew like anyone’s business—adjusted her sparkling aqua tights, and rubbed her index finger across her top teeth to erase phantom lipstick did she collapse into her spot next to me.

“Have you seen him yet?” she hissed, craning her head to check out every corner of the room.

“Him who?”

When I performed my own room inspection, I didn’t see anyone—or anything—out of the ordinary. Same chalkboard spanning the opposite wall, same bulletin board full
of colorful flyers advertising SWIM TEAM TRYOUTS! and FREE TUTORS! and YOUTH GROUP CAMPING TRIP TO AJ ACRES! Same twenty desks, lined up in four rows of five across the industrial green carpeting, the color supposedly picked in an administrative spurt of school spirit. Same group of students settling into those desks. Same ammonia-mixed-with-sweaty-feet smell.

Same sense of being stranded in a room filled with strangers. Kaylee assured me that Clearwater High was small compared to tons of schools, but since I’d been homeschooled back in Philly, the words did little to soothe me.

“No fair.” She sighed, letting her backpack slip from her fingers and smack the floor.

I ignored the typical Kaylee drama and pulled a pen from my backpack. “Who are you talking about?”

I heard rather than saw Kaylee stiffen. “Oh my god, Mila, look!” she said, knocking my arm as she whirled in her chair. The pen flew out of my hand…and headed straight for the instigator of the “oh my god, Mila, look” comment’s gray-swathed chest.

In a reflexive motion, my hand whipped out, snagging the pen-missile midair. Great save, until the hand connected to the gray shirt knocked into mine as it sought to do the same. The pen sprang loose and clattered to the floor.

Shaggy dark hair. Lean face. Faded blue eyes—the color of Kaylee’s favorite old jeans—that widened briefly. I had
just enough time to register the images before the boy from Dairy Queen dropped into a crouch behind my chair.

He didn’t say anything as he extended the pen to me. Kaylee cleared her throat in a totally obvious
um-hum
, but I ignored her. I was too busy shaking my hair forward to hide what had to be a brilliant display of red spreading across my cheeks.

So I was correct—the Dairy Queen boy didn’t go to Annandale. And, in a spectacular display of idiocy equaled only by my booth dive yesterday, I’d just assaulted him with a writing utensil. Well played.

“Here you go,” he said, in a surprisingly deep voice.

After accepting the pen and placing it on my desk, I turned around, an apology on my lips. It died as I watched his broad shoulders retreat. Smart choice. All the safer from the weird girl and her incredible flying Bic.

“Okay, now that’s a voice I could totally wake up to in the morning,” Kaylee whispered, staring unabashedly.

“Kaylee!” I said, half appalled, half amused. Even though I tried not to follow in her ogling footsteps, my peripheral vision had other ideas. I caught the slump of the boy’s six-foot frame into a chair on the far side of the room, the top of his head level with the bottom of a baby-blue BOOK FAIR! poster. Only fifteen feet of space to escape us, and he’d utilized every available inch.

Obviously my attempted stabbing hadn’t amused him.

From across the room, I noted how only four wavy strands of hair actually grazed the top of the olive buttondown that flapped loosely at his sides, jacket style. The same way I wore Dad’s flannel. Once again, his slim-fitting pants—black this time—hinted at skater rather than farmhand. Today’s black-and-yellow Vans—Kaylee would be in heaven—pretty much clinched the nonlocal look. Still, there were all types at our school, even in the middle of rural Minnesota, so he wasn’t completely out of place.

The bell rang to mark the beginning of the period, a prolonged, discordant groan inciting the usual snickers from students.

Mrs. Stegmeyer cleared her throat before slapping the attendance file onto her desk and resting her clasped, multiringed fingers on top of it. Four of her rings were the same as always, but I noticed she’d traded the thick silver one on her right index finger for three thin gold bands, stacked one on top of the other.

Once the chatter ceased, her syrupy voice filled the room, a thick drawl that suggested southern roots. “All right, y’all. Before we move on to roll call, we have a new student to introduce. Hunter, please stand and say a few words about yourself.”

Hunter scuffed his Vans against the floor. His hunched posture said giving an impromptu monologue was about the last thing he wanted to do. I could relate. I’d had to
deliver my own less than a month ago in this very room. Back when everything had been too new and weird and overwhelming.

Come to think of it, things really hadn’t changed all that much.

Hunter swiped at a strand of hair that covered one of his eyes, the wavy fall of his bangs making him bear a passing resemblance to the neighbor’s dog, a shaggy briard that kept their horses company in the front yard.

I’d always thought the briard was cute, too.

He stuffed his hands into tight pockets and rose to his full height, his gaze skimming past everyone without really sticking. I flashed him a sympathetic smile as it slid over me.

“Yeah. Hey. I’m Hunter Lowe from San Diego,” he said.

After one more ineffectual swipe at the dark waves grazing his eyelashes, he slumped back into his chair.

“Is that all?” Even Mrs. Stegmeyer seemed surprised at the brevity of his speech.

He shrugged, a loose-limbed, eloquent gesture that almost made words unnecessary.

Kaylee leaned toward me. “It’s okay—no one expects him to be a genius when he looks like that,” she whispered.

I remembered back to my introduction—I hadn’t said much either. Was that the assumption then, too? That I was lacking in brain cells?

I could feel my smile wilt around the edges when I
glanced back over at Hunter. Not that he could tell. He was staring out the window, a view with which I’d become intimately acquainted over the past month. I let my line of sight follow his, wondered if he was doing what I did. If he stared beyond the football field, beyond the slow country street behind it, and wished himself back into another place and time.

Every so often during homeroom, I’d sneak a peek at Hunter. And each time, his head was turned toward that window.

When the bell rang, Kaylee jumped out her seat like the sound had triggered an electric shock. Her eyes were glued to the spot under the window.

“Mila, hurry!” she said, flapping her hands at me.

“What’s the emergency?” But I shouldered my backpack and stood anyway. She nabbed my arm and plowed us between the rows of desk, almost tripping over Mary Stanley’s purple peace sign backpack and taking out Brad Zanzibar as he stooped over to tie his shoe.

Her trajectory led us straight to Hunter’s desk.

“Hi! I’m Kaylee, and this is Mila.” I tried to fade into the background, but she grabbed my arm and yanked me forward. “We figured you might want some help finding your next class.”

While Kaylee bounced on her toes and beamed, I froze.
We
figured? Since when?

My head whipped to the side. I hoped to stare her into a spontaneous confession, but she either didn’t notice or deliberately ignored me.

Hunter stood, hoisting his red North Face backpack over his shoulder before shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes flitted from Kaylee to me and back again. He shrugged.

Of course that was all the invitation Kaylee needed. “Perfect!” she said, giving two baby claps. “Follow me.” As she scurried ahead, she used her left hand to inconspicuously flatten down the sides of her hair.

I stood there awkwardly, shifting my weight from foot to foot, wondering who was supposed to follow next, since the row was way too narrow for both of us to fit through together. Hunter glanced at me then, his eyes lingering on my face for three excruciatingly long seconds. Seconds in which I realized that in different light, his eyes lost their translucent quality and looked more opaque. Still that sky blue, but a weightier, more substantial version. “You first,” he finally said.

The combination of deep voice, slight smile, and offhanded invitation had a peculiar effect on my lungs, like I’d suddenly released a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.

I hurried after Kaylee and hoped that breathing in the hallway would prove less of a challenge.

Yeah, not so much. Students streamed both ways through the corridor, some rushing to class, others meandering. All of them varying degrees of loud. And with the exception of
the few I exchanged hellos with in class, virtually every one of them was a stranger.

Plus there were no windows in this particular hallway, just rows of chipped forest-green lockers and classroom doors. Between the lack of natural light and the narrow space, it felt like being thrust inside a long, narrow trap.

“Where to?” Kaylee said as Hunter emerged. After he told her where his next class was—Room 132, Mr. Chesky—she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged him along like a reluctant pull toy. I followed on her other side as she navigated us down the hall.

“So, you’re from San Diego? What’s it like there? Awesome, I bet. Do you surf?”

I peeked in front of Kaylee and watched Hunter tug his earlobe before responding.

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “If you don’t surf, you don’t graduate.”

Kaylee’s eyes widened. “No way, really?”

A twitch of his lips gave him away. She squealed. “Oh my gosh, you’re evil! Mila, can you believe this guy? He’s barely here for three seconds and he’s already teasing me!”

And now, all of Clearwater High knew about it, since Kaylee’s voice echoed down the corridor.

I coughed to cover my laugh. For all her good grades, Kaylee could really act dim-witted around boys, but they usually never called her on it.

Until now.

In her typical babble-a-thon manner, Kaylee managed to quiz Hunter on everything from whether he owned a pet—no—to his favorite singer—Jack Johnson—before we’d even turned the corner. Of course, his monosyllabic answers gave her plenty of time to talk.

Instead of listening to her, I watched him. He walked gracefully, like an athlete. He had a tiny mole on his left cheek, just where a dimple would be, and whenever Kaylee asked him a question that seemed this side of too personal—like, did he get along with his parents—he looked down at the ground before responding.

About five doors away from his drop-off spot, she finally abandoned the one-sided questioning and launched into telling him all about us.

“I’m from here, born and raised. Sad, isn’t it? But Mila’s not. Poor thing moved here from Philly a few weeks ago, when her dad died. We’ve been buds ever since,” she said, hooking her arm through mine and resting her head on my shoulder.

“When her dad died…”

I stiffened. Great. Unintentional or not, she’d managed to up my pathetic quotient and spew private details of my life, all in a few breezy sentences.

“Right,” I mumbled. Hunter stopped walking, which had a domino effect since Kaylee currently linked the three of us into some kind of crazy human chain. Kaylee jerked to a stop first, then me. I looked up to see Hunter staring at
me over the top of her frizzy head.