Golden light shines from a window on the corner of the Mackenzies’ house. Lennon’s room. I know it well. We used to signal each other from our windows before sneaking out late at night to meet up for walks around the neighborhood with Andromeda.
We made a game of creating and naming detailed routes. Lennon would draw them all out, streets labeled with his neat handwriting and tiny sketches. He’s drawn maps since we were kids. Some were fantasy maps based on books he read; he redrew Middle Earth about twenty times. And some were of Melita Hills. That’s how our friendship started, actually. I’d just moved to Melita Hills and didn’t know my way around, so he made me a neighborhood map of the Mission Street area. He gave me a larger, updated one for my birthday last year—one that included our favorite late-night walking route, which extended out along a bicycling path curving around the Bay. It had funny little drawings, all the points of interest we considered important, and a legend of symbols he’d made up.
It’s currently upside down at the bottom of the same drawer where I’ve hidden my dad’s stupid photo book. I wanted to throw it away after we stopped speaking, but I couldn’t make myself do it, because that walking route he drew? It’s where the Great Experiment started.
Who knew walking could lead to heartbreak?
Out of curiosity, I screw on a low-power eyepiece and hesitantly aim my assembled telescope toward the Mackenzies’ duplex. Just for a quick look. It’s not as if I usually spy on all the neighbors. I quickly focus on Lennon’s room. It’s empty. Thank God. After an adjustment, I can see an unmade bed and, right beyond it, his reptile terrariums. The last time I was in his room, there were only two, but now there are at least six sitting on shelves and one big floor model. It’s a freaking jungle up in there.
I scan the rest of his room. He has a TV and a million DVDs stacked precariously, out of their cases. Probably all horror movies. An enormous map hangs over his desk. A map of what, I’m not sure, but it’s professional, not one that’s he’s drawn himself—definitely not one of our late-night walking routes. Silly even to think it could be.
A shadow catches my eye as the door to his room swings open and closes. Lennon walks into view. One by one, I watch him turn off lights and heat lamps inside the terrariums. Then he sits on the edge of his bed and begins unlacing his boots.
That’s my cue to bail.
Only, I don’t.
I watch him take off both boots and chuck them in the middle of his floor. Then he tugs up his shirt and pulls it off. Now he’s bare-chested, wearing only black jeans. I should definitely look away before this turns X-rated. But holy mother of God, when did he get all . . . built? I mean, it’s no soccer-player physique, or anything. He’s too lean to be buff. But he flops on his bed, lying on his back with his arms spread, and stares at the ceiling while I keep staring at him.
And staring . . .
There are now muscles where there weren’t before, and his chest is a lot bigger. Is he lifting weights? No way. That is not him at all. He hates sports. He’d rather hole up with a comic book in the dark.
At least, I think he would. I suddenly feel like I don’t know him anymore.
“Of course you don’t,” I whisper to myself. He’s changed.
I’ve changed. Only, I haven’t, or I wouldn’t still be looking at something that should be off-limits.
When I sharpen the focus, I home in on a stack of muscles rippling down his stomach as he sits up again. And—
I pan to his face. He’s staring this way.
Not in my general location, but RIGHT AT ME.
Heart racing, I jerk back from the telescope and lurch to the floor. Smooth move. Like he didn’t see me do that. If I had just kept a level head and shifted the telescope to the sky, I could have played it cool and pretended I wasn’t really spying on him. But now? My humiliation is total and complete.
Good job, Zorie.
I lie on the floor, dying. Wishing I could take back the last few minutes.
Guess I can add that to the list of everything that’s gone wrong today. Andromeda jumps off the bed and licks my nose in concern.
New plan: I am going on that glamping trip—and to the star party on Condor Peak—if it kills me. I have to get away from this place. Away from my cheating dad. Away from the daily mortification of living next door to a sex shop. And far, far away from Lennon.
4
“Oh, check out this one. It will look great on you,” Reagan says in a loud, raspy voice as she pulls a Barbie-pink backpack off a hook. We’ve been inside this specialty outdoor gear store for all of ten minutes, and she’s already filled up a shopping cart with enough hiking gear to outfit the Donner Party. The store’s owner is probably counting up the total in his head and putting a down payment on a new house. Reagan’s mom gave her a credit card and told her to go wild.
Must be nice.
“Jesus! Look at the price tag. It’s too expensive,” I tell her. It’s one of those structured backpacks that covers your entire back from head to butt and holds whatever it is that backpackers need when they’re hiking—sleeping bags and tent poles, things like that.
“Mom said we could buy anything, as long as it’s in this store,” Reagan argues, giving me a mischievous look as she swings a light brown ponytail over one shoulder. “She will regret that. Besides, my dad just made
