Chapter 27

Hunter lay in Mrs. Baker's office for three days. He'd meet me in the parking lot each morning, still pale and still coughing. Chris would smile and I would frown, and Mrs. Baker would wave Hunter to the cot, looking sadder than I felt.

I clambered into the back room on the third day and closed the door with a careful click. Hunter was on the orange cot, curled into the fetal position with both his hands beneath his cheek. His breathing was soft and steady, and my heart fluttered as I studied him. He was angelic, even with the faded bruising. When we were younger, my mom forced Chris and me to go to Sunday school. Hunter reminded me of the archangel who had fought Satan, then sent him spiraling back to earth. I didn't remember a lot of the stories, but I remembered that one, probably because it was somewhat interesting and read more like Star Wars than the Bible.

His eyes fluttered open, and we stared at each other before he shifted upright. His black Vans squeaked against the cot's plastic covering. There were pink lines across the side of his face, and his hair stuck out in wrong directions. I don't know which of us felt more embarrassed that I'd been watching him sleep.

He scrubbed one hand against his face, glancing at the clock on the opposite wall. "Have you been sitting there awhile?"

I shook my head, not sure if I was sparing him or myself. "No, I just walked in."

He nodded once.

"How are you feeling?"

He peeled himself from the plastic, his limbs looking as if they weighed more than usual. "Much better." He paused, sitting at the edge of the cot for only a moment, before he stood and grabbed his backpack from beneath the window.

Mrs. Baker was still at her desk when we emerged, and she glanced up from the computer as Hunter stopped in front of it.

"I don't think I'll be back tomorrow," he said.

Despite his standoffishness, Mrs. Baker smiled at him with fondness. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

He stood there, searching for something as he stared at her. "Thanks."

She returned her gaze to her computer screen. "Anytime, dear."

Hunter gave her a curt nod and held my hand while we strolled out. I turned around to give Mrs. Baker a timid smile and found her watching us. She winked at me as the door closed behind us.

The hallways were end-of-the-day busy, louder and more energetic than usual. Hunter flattened the hair at the back of his head with a firm hand. "You should tell your brother you don't need a ride today. We could, um, hang out?"

My heart stuttered as I stared up at him. His face still had faded pink lines, and though the right words swelled to the surface, I couldn't get them out. If we were a drama, the audience would let out a collective sigh of sympathy because we were too star-crossed to make it work. And if we were a romantic comedy, I'd say, It's not you, it's me. And I'd walk away, and he'd watch me go. But I wasn't the unselfish hero or brave protagonist. Hunter smiled down at me, and my knees were weaker than my resolve.

When we reached the side door, Hunter held it open for me with an overdramatic bow, and like the wretched hag I was, I smiled as I walked through it.

The air outside was freezing, and I paused to zip my coat as Hunter pulled on the hood of his sweatshirt. When Margo and I were in middle school, she'd become obsessed with uncovering her psychic abilities. Turned out, she had none, but she'd spent hours trying to open her third eye and tune in to dead people. She'd informed me that everyone had an aura, and though I couldn't remember all the colors and what they meant, I felt as if I finally knew what the hell she was talking about as I stood next to Hunter.

I suppose that's how we know whether someone is trustworthy or trouble. Not just because you know, but because you can somehow see it, floating above them. Or maybe feel it, I don't know. His color would be vivid and genuine, and I wondered what color I'd be. I liked to think I'd be pretty blue, and maybe I used to be, but right now, with Hunter's hand in mine, I'd be storm-cloud gray. I'd be nothing but warnings and gloom, and I wondered how Hunter couldn't see me like I could see him.

"How about we go on a proper date?" he said, grinning.

My heart lurched. "What would a proper date entail?"

"Oh, you know, the old Franklin town special ... milkshakes at Ralph's. I'll put our song on the jukebox, and we'll hold hands as we walk to the movies. Who knows, maybe we'll lie down in the middle of the road like a bunch of dumbasses. I'm open to whatever romantic shit first dates entail, no matter the risks."

I couldn't help my laughter. "You've seen The Notebook?"

He stopped, staring at me as the side of his mouth twitched. "You seem to be under the constant impression that I live under a rock. Yes, I've seen The Notebook."

"But ... why?"

His eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean, why? It's a great movie. It was my mom's favorite, actually. She used to watch it all the time. I think it was the first sex scene I ever saw. I was probably six, and I thought slamming into walls was a prerequisite."

"Eugh. It's terrible."

He gave me a startled glance that transitioned into an eye roll. "Uh-huh, good try."

"I'm serious. I think it's straight-up bad."

We turned right at the end of the parking lot, and his smile grew permanent, plastered on his face as though it had always been there. I remembered the first time I saw it, standing beside Margo's locker. It had been as brief as a flickering lightning bolt, the kind you're not sure was even there in the first place.

"If you think The Notebook is bad, then something is wrong with you, but okay, fine, what's your favorite romance movie? I might need to adjust my game, because I was definitely about to go all Ryan Gosling on you."

I cocked my head to one side. "What's that super romantic line again? You'll tell me if I'm being a bitch?"

He grinned. "If you're a bird, I'm a bird."

"Right, yeah, that one. That one is definitely worse."

He laughed, and I tried to memorize every detail. The way our laughter sounded together. The dimples that were almost there, but not quite. His straight white teeth that had obviously worn braces at some point.

"So, come on, spill," he said. "Give me a favorite."

I chewed on my lip, thinking about it. "Chris and I went through a phase where we watched Garden State once a week for about two years straight."

"Hmm, I've never heard of it. We should watch it sometime."

My stomach sank while my heart bobbed to the surface. "Yeah, we should."

We headed toward the center of town. It was about a half mile from school, and we weren't alone. A large group of guys from school walked ahead of us, shouting and shoving one another.

"So, what do you say? Milkshakes at Ralph's then?"

I shrugged. "I didn't know you frequented such establishments."

He snorted. "Are there other choices?"

And he was right. There weren't other choices without a car, and even then, I didn't feel inclined to gaze at him from across the booth of a McDonald's or Subway. I hadn't been to Ralph's in ages. I used to sit in the corner booth in ninth grade, squished between Margo and Casey, admiring the upperclassmen as they sauntered through in their letterman jackets.

A crowd of our classmates hung around outside of Ralph's, and I expected a couple insults or even a dirty look, but they didn't glance twice as we walked inside. We were seated in a red booth in the back corner, outside the bathroom. The diner had all the regular decorative bullshit where they tried too hard to make it look vintage when, really, the photographs of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe were probably from Target or Walmart. They served Coke in old bottles, pretending they had an endless supply of crates from the fifties even though the place had opened within my lifetime.

All the waitresses wore a striped pink-and-white dress, even in midwinter. And yes, every employee was female. Casey had gotten a job here sophomore year because she said she looked hot in the uniform. She'd filled out an application at Ralph's and the deli, and upon hearing she had to wear a hairnet at the deli, she'd promptly tossed her application in the trash. I craned my neck to peek into the small window of the kitchen behind the counter, but I didn't see her.

I recognized our waitress from school, but I didn't know her name. She smiled in mutual recognition when she handed us our menus. I studied her when she returned, and though I wasn't positive, I thought I could place her in Hunter's grade.

"Hi, guys, are you ready to order?"

Hunter gestured to me, and she redirected her pleasant smile, pen and pad perched in readiness.

"Know what you want, Alice?" she asked.

I blinked at her. "Oh, um ... yeah, I'll have a strawberry milkshake, please."

"Sure." She looked at Hunter.

"Chocolate for me, please."

She nodded and retreated to the counter, pausing to slide open the freezer. I watched her, the muscles in her arm pulsing as she scraped out our ice cream.

There was a collection of people in my grade sitting in the front corner booth, and a few of them glanced over at me every few seconds. We had never been friends really, but we used to be at the same place at the same time often enough. It was weird how things turned out. I pictured myself sitting among them while Hunter sat here with a different girl, and the thought made me flinch.

He eyed me. "What are you thinking about?"

The diner grew deafening as our waitress whirred our milkshakes.

"I used to be really different," I said. The waitress clicked off the machine halfway through, and the last part of my declaration was too loud and too jarring.

But instead of shrinking from the admission, Hunter smiled. "Yeah, I remember you."

Our waitress carried our milkshakes to our table, then slid them in front of us, leaving a trail of condensation. Hunter tore the paper off his straw and stuck it in his ice cream. He leaned forward to suck down a quarter of his milkshake while I sat there.

He sat back, probably only pausing so his brain didn't ice over. "You had a pair of plaid Converse in middle school, and I told you I liked them. All your friends were there, and they stared at me like I was some kind of insect, but you smiled and told me you got them at a sidewalk sale for twelve dollars. That has cracked me up for years."

The air became hard to choke down. The compliment sounded familiar, and I rifled through my head but couldn't quite grasp the memory. "I'm sorry, I don't remember that."

He shrugged, still smiling. "I like that you don't remember me. No one knows me for good reasons. I'm the psycho, or the loser, or the kid who tried to kill himself. I like the fact that up until a little while ago, I was as ordinary to you as anyone else."

But Hunter was wrong; I did remember him. Maybe I didn't remember him complimenting my shoes in middle school, but I had another memory. One as vivid as he was now. "I don't think you're ordinary."

He let out a gust of laughter. "Well, how's that for romance?"

And without warning, another memory slithered into my head, as vivid as Hunter. I remembered Scott's breath against my neck. I remembered his nose brushing along my jaw, and I remembered his voice in my ear. You and I are going to be the best romance this school has ever seen. And even then, I didn't know if it was a promise or a threat, or if there was any difference.

Our waitress came by a moment later. Hunter and I both nodded when she asked us how the milkshakes were, but when she inquired about ordering food, I spoke first, declaring that we wouldn't be eating as Hunter deflated across from me. I said I had to be home for dinner, even though it was a lie. In fact, I didn't have to be anywhere, but I felt like a fraud, and I slowly realized that being decent didn't mean sitting there with Hunter; it meant abandoning him altogether.

I eyed Hunter against the backdrop of the diner, and despite being right there, I'd never felt farther from anything. He was something mystical, dangling right in front of me, but no matter how hard I ran, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't quite grasp him. All the people I knew were just behind him, loud and squished together. They were his background and he was my foreground, and if high school were a picture, he'd have to be in it.

If I were more confident, I'd have asked him if I could take his picture right then, because this was how I wanted to remember him—his green eyes and dark hair, and a smile for me and no one else. And if he'd asked to take my picture, I'd have said no. Because he'd end up tacked to my bedroom wall in the center of my collage, while I'd end up in a flame, and I couldn't bear the thought of his grim face as he watched me burn.