stamped with the imprint of a runner dangled from a green and yellow ribbon behind his rearview mirror, and between the seats was an opened CD case filled with rap music. Eminem. Run-DMC. Jay-Z. I wondered if his iPod was filled with tracks like these, if he had certain ones that he listened to when he trained for track season.
He got in and turned the car around with desperate, jerky movements, as if I might try to jump out if he didn’t move fast enough. I braced myself against the seat, buckled up, and reached out to grab hold of the leather armrest. It would be just my luck to get carsick and puke all over the inside of Dominic Jackson’s car. I steadied my gaze on a point in the distance, tried to focus behind my sunglasses. Between us, the track medal swung back and forth beneath the mirror, throwing small shadows across the dashboard, and the empty candy wrappers skittered along the floor. Dominic didn’t talk until we were on the street again, a safe distance from the dirt road and the farmhouse. Then he sighed once, heavily.
“Damn, Marin.” He turned his head to look at me. “I honestly didn’t know if I was going to be able to get you to come. Thanks. I mean, thank you, really. You have no idea. Maybe my sister will be able to get some sleep now.” He left the sentence hanging between us.
“She hasn’t been sleeping?” I asked.
“No.” He moved his eyes between the road and me. “Not for months.”
“Maybe because of the epilepsy.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s what they said she has, right?”
“That’s what they think so far.”
I looked out the window. The light was fading quickly, pale fingers of it draining behind the trees. A wedge of birds streamed in front of a slip of clouds. We were almost intown, which meant that in less than five minutes we’d be at Quiet Gardens, which as far as I knew, was the only mental hospital in Fairfield. Behind my glasses, I closed my eyes again.
He’d been so kind that day after finding me in Cassie’s closet, trying to get me to calm down, asking question after question to find out what had happened—
What’s your name? How did you get in here? Did Cassie do this? On purpose? Where is she?
—and finally letting me go when I shrieked at him to just give me my clothes, that I had to get out of there, that I just wanted to
leave.
We’d never spoken another word since, had never even exchanged a wayward glance. Still, it would have been a lie to say that I didn’t look up when he swept by in the hall, engulfed by the other seniors, preoccupied with any number of things that had nothing to do with me, and wonder if he remembered.
I would never forget.
“I really like your bike,” he said. “It’s an Aggressor?”
“Yeah. A three-point-oh.”
“I’ve heard good things about them. They’re fast. You like it?”
“It’s okay. I could go faster.”
He smiled a little. “You like to ride?”
“Sometimes.”
“Me too.” He draped the inside of his wrist along the top of the steering wheel. The blue disk inside faded a bit as I looked at it.
“Do you ride?” I asked.
He nodded. “I have an Epic Twenty-Nine. I take it out every chance I get. I think it’s probably my favorite way to spend time.”
“An Epic Twenty-Nine?” I looked at him out of the corner of one eye. “Isn’t that what last year’s winner of the World Cup rode?”
Now it was his turn to look at me again. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “It was. You know your bikes, don’t you?”
I looked back out the window, flustered by the compliment. He would never know how the bottom of my stomach plummeted, like an elevator in free fall, whenever he came into my presence. Right now, I wasn’t sure my stomach even
had
a bottom anymore. “What about running?” I asked, struggling to sound nonchalant. “I thought running and track were more your thing.”
He shrugged. “Running’s cool. But it’s sort of my second speed. Like you said, I could go faster. Being
He got in and turned the car around with desperate, jerky movements, as if I might try to jump out if he didn’t move fast enough. I braced myself against the seat, buckled up, and reached out to grab hold of the leather armrest. It would be just my luck to get carsick and puke all over the inside of Dominic Jackson’s car. I steadied my gaze on a point in the distance, tried to focus behind my sunglasses. Between us, the track medal swung back and forth beneath the mirror, throwing small shadows across the dashboard, and the empty candy wrappers skittered along the floor. Dominic didn’t talk until we were on the street again, a safe distance from the dirt road and the farmhouse. Then he sighed once, heavily.
“Damn, Marin.” He turned his head to look at me. “I honestly didn’t know if I was going to be able to get you to come. Thanks. I mean, thank you, really. You have no idea. Maybe my sister will be able to get some sleep now.” He left the sentence hanging between us.
“She hasn’t been sleeping?” I asked.
“No.” He moved his eyes between the road and me. “Not for months.”
“Maybe because of the epilepsy.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s what they said she has, right?”
“That’s what they think so far.”
I looked out the window. The light was fading quickly, pale fingers of it draining behind the trees. A wedge of birds streamed in front of a slip of clouds. We were almost intown, which meant that in less than five minutes we’d be at Quiet Gardens, which as far as I knew, was the only mental hospital in Fairfield. Behind my glasses, I closed my eyes again.
He’d been so kind that day after finding me in Cassie’s closet, trying to get me to calm down, asking question after question to find out what had happened—
What’s your name? How did you get in here? Did Cassie do this? On purpose? Where is she?
—and finally letting me go when I shrieked at him to just give me my clothes, that I had to get out of there, that I just wanted to
leave.
We’d never spoken another word since, had never even exchanged a wayward glance. Still, it would have been a lie to say that I didn’t look up when he swept by in the hall, engulfed by the other seniors, preoccupied with any number of things that had nothing to do with me, and wonder if he remembered.
I would never forget.
“I really like your bike,” he said. “It’s an Aggressor?”
“Yeah. A three-point-oh.”
“I’ve heard good things about them. They’re fast. You like it?”
“It’s okay. I could go faster.”
He smiled a little. “You like to ride?”
“Sometimes.”
“Me too.” He draped the inside of his wrist along the top of the steering wheel. The blue disk inside faded a bit as I looked at it.
“Do you ride?” I asked.
He nodded. “I have an Epic Twenty-Nine. I take it out every chance I get. I think it’s probably my favorite way to spend time.”
“An Epic Twenty-Nine?” I looked at him out of the corner of one eye. “Isn’t that what last year’s winner of the World Cup rode?”
Now it was his turn to look at me again. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “It was. You know your bikes, don’t you?”
I looked back out the window, flustered by the compliment. He would never know how the bottom of my stomach plummeted, like an elevator in free fall, whenever he came into my presence. Right now, I wasn’t sure my stomach even
had
a bottom anymore. “What about running?” I asked, struggling to sound nonchalant. “I thought running and track were more your thing.”
He shrugged. “Running’s cool. But it’s sort of my second speed. Like you said, I could go faster. Being
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