Read Online Blackbird by Anna Carey - Free Book Online Page A

way. I still think it’s true. I almost wish I didn’t.
    “What about yours? What do those numbers mean?” She points to the inside of your wrist. It’s a reflex, how quickly you cover it with your hand.
    “It’s stupid,” you say, keeping it covered. She couldn’t have gotten that good a look.
    “Come on. I show you mine, you show me yours, right?” She flashes a smile. No teeth, just her lips twisting into a dimple.
    “It’s just something I got with a friend. The numbers are . . . his birthday,” you say, wondering if it could be true. You think again of the dream, of the boy you followed through the forest.
    “What are the letters? Initials?”
    “Yeah, initials. We’re not together anymore.”
    It’s comforting, this story, how you loved someone enough to make it permanent. You almost want to believe it yourself.
    She nods. “So you’re with Liz’s son now . . . Bud? Billy?”
    “Ben.”
    “Right. My grandma had these fantasies that maybe we’d like each other, that maybe we could be friends while I was here. He’s cute . . . a little mainstream for me. I go for more of the skinny jeans, tight T-shirt, is-he-gay-or-not-we-don’t-know emo guys. I can’t blame you, though.”
    You’re conscious of the connection. This girl telling her grandmother telling Ben’s mom. It’s better if no one knows you’re staying with him, that there’s a toothbrush on the sink, some of his borrowed clothes crumpled on the bathroom floor. “We’re not together. I just hang out here sometimes, but it’s not a thing. It’s just easier being here. I have to sort some things out at home.”
    “Gotcha. Yeah, sorting things out . . . I can relate.”
    “Yeah . . . shouldn’t you be in school?”
    “Shouldn’t you?”
    “I’m eighteen,” you say. You can’t be sure, but compared to her, it feels right.
    “I’m taking a hiatus while I’m staying with Mims . . . my grandma.”
    “Where are you from?”
    “Long Island. Have you ever been? It’s a mall-based economy, if that explains anything.”
    It doesn’t mean anything to you, but her expression changes when she says it. The girl looks down, picking at the frayed edge of her shorts.
    “I haven’t been.”
    “I’m just staying for a week, laying low, as they say. There was a ‘scandal’ at school. My mom’s solution was to go online and immediately buy me a ticket to LA.” She makes imaginary quote marks in the air when she says “scandal.”
    “A week with your grandmother . . . sounds kind of boring.”
    “Actually, Mims is awesome. She does yoga every day and she’s ripped. Seriously—her arms are more toned than mine. And it’s just easier to be around her. I don’t have to explain myself all the time.”
    The girl pulls her iPhone from her sweatshirt. She starts flicking through it, typing, then she turns the screen to you. “Wanna see something?”
    You lean forward, watching as she plays a video. At first it just shows a kid in a supermarket aisle. The kid can’t be more than three or four, and you can see her mother’s legs in the background, facing away. It’s silent. The girl wears a blue dress and she’s dancing, though you’re not sure to what. She shuffles her feet, throws a hand up in the air. Then an acoustic-guitar melody starts. It cuts to a woman who fits the description of Mims, caught in a moment by herself, doing a quick pivot across her floor. The video goes on like that for the length of the song, showing different people of different ages, dancing without knowing they’re seen.
    “Did you make that?” you ask.
    “Yeah. I have a YouTube channel where I post them. It took me two years to get all those little moments together. I was constantly pulling out my phone, trying to record people. You’d be surprised how much it happens. That one on the subway—the guy with his headphones? That’s my favorite.”
    “Mine too.”
    “The scandal was about the videos. My therapist would say I