Nick made an odd sound.
“What?”
He waved his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.”
I was annoyed that my opening up had amused him. “Why is that funny to you?”
“It’s not funny. Really, it’s not. It’s just that I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to. Because I’m literally the only black guy in the whole school. I’ve had a spotlight on me from the day we moved here. People watch me like a hawk, and most of them don’t even know they’re doing it. So believe me, I totally get it.” He sighed. “I mean, before I got here, I was this really mellow person. My cousins used to call me Yoda because I didn’t get all worked up about things. And I liked that about myself, I did. But here it’s like this constant buzz of disapproval, where all my movements are second-guessed. Like when I take one sip of a beer, I’m an alcoholic, but when I pass, I’m a straight-edge asshole. It’s like sandpaper on my nerves. I worry people will just keep working away at me until all the good parts are gone.”
“They can’t do that,” I said. “People can’t change who you are.”
He shook his head. “You’re wrong about that,” he said. “How people treat you can absolutely change who you are. And around here, half the people act like they’re scared of me, like I’m a time bomb waiting to go off, and the other half are trying to light the damn fuse. I worry one day someone will shoulder-check me in the hall or whisper something as I go by and I’ll lose it. And it’ll just confirm everything they thought all along.”
I wanted to believe I wasn’t part of the “they” he referred to. Wanted to feel confident that I was different, that I’d always seen him as more than the color of his skin, that I hadn’t let that define him for me. But I wasn’t sure that was true, that I’d really treated him, thought about him, like everyone else.
I pushed that tangle of thoughts down, unwilling to pull apart the threads.
“You have friends on the basketball team, though, right?”
He flicked the flower away.
“I’m friends with Brian, and Charlie mostly tolerates me by proxy, but that’s about it. The minute the game is over, the rest of them are all gone. Sometimes they leave in a big pack and I just head on home.” His mouth stretched in a half smile. “Once, I asked one of them about it, and he said they assumed I had other plans. Who knows—maybe they really thought that. Maybe they think I get flown out by helicopter every evening to some big city where I go clubbing with my twenty best black friends.”
While it was utterly beside the point, I was temporarily distracted by the thought of him dancing underneath flashing lights, moving to a deep bass that reverberated through the floor.
He shook his head again. “Half the time I don’t even turn my phone on—I get sick of seeing pictures of parties I didn’t even know were happening, or the great time everyone else had at the few I actually hear about.” Then he laughed, dry and bitter. “The one thing I do get is the ball during games. When I got to this place I wasn’t even all that great at basketball, but everyone was so sure the black guy was going to be amazing that I got more court time than anyone else. Now I’m one of the best players on the team.”
Then he rolled onto his back, done with this line of conversation.
I leaned back on my forearms and stared at the sky, which was streaked with clouds.
Once upon a time, I’d studied clouds, learned the names of all the different types. The only one I could bring to mind now was “nimbus” and I had no idea what those looked like or what weather conditions they signified.
I thought about clouds and rain.
I thought about time.
About Nick. About Anna.
About whether things would be different between Nick and me if I could turn back time and be the one who’d gone up to him when he’d been upset, be the one who’d held his hand. Except, if I could turn back time, then I’d have kept Anna from leaving that night and I’d be with her now instead of lying here with Nick in the grass.
Time only moves in one direction, though, so I just kept looking up at the sky and watching the unnamed clouds go by.
We were more discreet after that. More secretive.
Still, there were times when I wanted to tell you so much it was like pressure on a bruise, growing ever darker and more sensitive to the touch. I wanted to try to explain it to you.
But I didn’t think there was a way to make you—you, who could barely stand to be near anyone other than me—understand how it felt to be touched like that. Make you understand how I thought feeling like that must mean I was falling in love.
THE DOORBELL RANG SOON AFTER I got back to the house after my run, catching me while I was getting ready to shower. My parents were out grocery shopping, according to the note they’d left on the table, so I pulled my sweatpants back on, tossed on a clean shirt, and headed downstairs to answer the door. The doorbell rang again right as I opened the door to reveal a police officer standing on our porch, his finger still on the bell.
It was the same one who’d come to our house before, except this time he was holding a medium-sized cardboard box. When he saw me, he took a half step back and tightened his grip on it.
“Hello. Are your parents home?” he asked.
“No, they’re out.”
“Oh.” He looked down at the box and then up at me. “I’m here to
