Then 11 & 12

She looks cold. That's the first thing he thinks when she gets off the bus, both because of her skirt and the look on her face. She's not happy to see him, but that's okay. He's happy enough for the both of them.

She won't meet his eyes, stomping down the metal steps with her fists clenching the straps of her backpack. She's taller than most of the girls he knows, but still a little shorter than him and he thinks it's cute how she sticks her nose in the air to avoid looking at him.

He knows she's mad. All summer she talked about how excited she was to be in the same school again, to ride the same bus, and then he had to break the news that because of hockey and wouldn't be able to sit with her. He's practicing a lot now. Ice time in the mornings to work on his skating, team practice in the afternoons, and games on the weekend. She doesn't see him on the playground anymore either, not now that they're in middle school, and she has choir practice and orchestra during the morning's free time. Even lunch is separate now, but he still tries to wave when he sees her at her bright blue locker.

It's been a month since she waved back.

Today is different. There's no afternoon practice, so here he is, waiting by the overlarge sycamore tree, coat pulled tight to ward off the late November chill, for Vera to get off the bus so he can walk her home. He knows it's only down the street, but at least this way she can't avoid him. Even if she doesn't say a word or look in his direction once.

"Hi," he says, and she steps onto the street, two other kids pushing off the bus behind her.

The accordion door slides shut with a snick and the bus brakes sigh as they disengage. She stands stock still, not looking at him, but not rushing past him either. He thinks this might be the best it's going to get.

"No hi back?"

She still doesn't answer, staring at the empty branches of the tree, the leaves having long since changed and fallen. This town never got the message that November is still fall, already they're pushing into winter with temperatures low enough for coats and hats and gloves. He has a scarf wrapped around his neck too, and even though he's used to the rink and ice and cold, even he's been shivering while waiting on the bus. She must be freezing. Not only can he see the freckled skin above her knees, but her hair is up in a ponytail and the tips of her ears and nose are red.

He reaches up to unwind his scarf, intent on wrapping her up in it, but she chooses that moment to step past him and start trekking down the street. He hustles after her—her legs are long, and she's quick, but he's faster—still loosening the wool from around his throat. He holds it out in front of her and she stops before running into his arm.

"Are you cold?" Still no answer. "Not even going to look at me?"

That gets her, just like he knew it would. Green eyes meet brown and the chill fades away, a bubbly, warm feeling sprouting in the pit of his tummy. It feels like when he takes that first sip of hot cocoa after a grueling practice, feeling the heat from the liquid thaw him out as he swallows.

"I miss you." The words fall out of him before he can stop them, not that he would. He has missed her.

"What do you want?" She asks, tucking a few strands of hair back behind her ears. She always has some that escape her ponytail or braid to frame her face.

"To walk you home." To see you.

Her hands leave the straps of her backpack, fingers peeling back one by one, and for a blissful moment he thinks she's thawing for him. Then she crosses her arms over her chest and pulls her lips to one side.

"Why?"

Why? What does she mean why? They haven't seen each other in weeks, not in more than passing, and even then she's frosty. They spent every day together over the summer, at least in some capacity. She had dance, and a theatre camp, and he had hockey, but they worked around it, meeting down by the creek or at the playground—even when it was overrun with little kids. He saw all three of her performances of The Wiz. Once with his parents and twice with hers. She came to his scrimmages. Now? Nothing.

Apparently, he doesn't answer fast enough.

"I don't need your scarf. I'm fine." She pushes his hand down and starts walking again. He's quick to loop it around his neck as he chases after her.

They're already even with Rachel Reuben's house, which means his time is almost up and this idea has been a total disaster. The only thing he's learned is that she's mad at him. Or she no longer cares about him. Hopefully, just the first. The second makes his stomach turn.

"What did I do?"

She starts walking again, and he has no choice but to follow. Drawn to her like a compass to magnetic north. She's a homing beacon he looks for in the dark, the one who can always guide him. He feels a little lost without her, and the idea of never having her back makes him want to heave into Mrs. Edgemere's rose bushes.

"Please, V. You're my best friend."

She whirls on him, skirt swirling around her legs and eyes flashing.

"No." Her pointer finger stabs into his chest and he rubs the spot, fighting the urge to smile. Here she is. His mom told him once that hatred wasn't the opposite of love, just another side of the same coin. He didn't understand then, but he thinks he might now. Not that he really understands love. He loves his mom and his dad, his Gram and Pops, even Irwin, the one-eared calico that walked in the back door one day.

Friendship is a kind of love. He loves the twins, and Michael, who sits next to him in homeroom, but what he feels for Vera is different. He's had other friends come and go, and not one made him feel like he had to make it right. He has to. There is no other option.

"Why not?" He steps closer, her finger curling into her palm. "I'm not yours?"

Her hand drops to her side.

"That's not fair Robbie." She jams them into her pockets and scuffs the toe of her boot along the ground. "You're the one who left."

He didn't leave. Going to Harvey Middle the year before she did wasn't leaving. It's not his fault his a year older than her, it's not his fault that meant a different bus, and it's not his fault he likes hockey. Technically, he liked hockey before he even met her. So he's definitely not sorry that he's still playing. Not sorry that he's good at it.

"I'm the one who kept waving. You didn't wave back."

Her cheeks go pink. Actually, they've been pink this whole time, from the cold and the righteous anger she's been brewing, but the flush deepens. He can't stop his smile because if he's activated this side of Vera Aster Novak's temper—the fireball, her dad calls it—then he's closer to getting them back to them . Vera and Robbie. Them against the world.

She looks away, and he steps around her, putting them chest to chest again. He wants to have this out, and he has practice tomorrow. And the day after that. It's now or never.

"Did something happen?" Her eyes dart to the left. "Someone say something?" Left again. "Tell me who."

He fists his hands. The team might not allow fighting, but he still knows how to throw a punch. A real one too, with his thumb out. And he doesn't fight on the ice, but he can take a beating, even without his hockey pads.

Cool fingers slide over his and there she is again. When did she disappear?

"Robbie."

He thinks her voice echoes a bit, but he blinks and everything looks sharper.

"Who?" This time she laughs, and just like that, his hands unclench and he loops their fingers together. "Please tell me."

"It's not like that. It's stupid."

If it's her, it's not stupid. He might not understand it, but it's not stupid. And if it made her stop waving back at him, stop smiling at him, then it deserves to be punched.

"They called you my boyfriend. Said I had a crush on you." She tries to pull away, and he tightens his fingers to stop her. She's the color of a tomato, face ducked away so he can't see her and he doesn't like that.

"Do you?"

"No."

That's good. Right? A crush would be inconvenient right now. She's his friend. His best friend. He doesn't even want a girlfriend. Not any time soon.

"Then don't worry about what other people think." He loops an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his body for a hug.

"It's just embarrassing," she mumbles into the bulk of his coat, and he tightens his grip. "You're like the coolest guy and you're a seventh grader, and I'm just the freckled baby with red hair that follows you around and can't take a hint."

"I'm not that cool," he says, trying to gather his thoughts. "And your hair isn't red."

There's also no hint, other than that he misses her. Fiercely.

She sniffles into his coat and his stomach bottoms out, like a free fall to his knees.

"Everyone else thinks so."

"It's like a cherry coke. That's not the same at all. Besides, you're the only person allowed to wipe their snot on me." She laughs again, but it's congested and watery. "I can stop waving if you think it'll help, but I'm not done being your friend."

"What if they start saying you have a crush on me?"

"Let them," he says. "You and I know the truth. None of it matters."

Another exaggerated sniffle, and a swipe of her nose, and she pulls back to look at him.

"I missed you," she says, and he grins because thank Wayne Gretzky she felt it too. "When did you get so good at taking care of things?"

"Your'e mine, Vera Novak. I'm always going to take care of you." This time she lets him unwind the scarf and loop it around her neck. He leans in close until his mouth is almost touching her ear. "Even when we're old and like thirty. I'll still take care of you. Forever."