“You were sleeping.” There was genuine amusement in Mickey’s voice even though his lopsided smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
I nodded.
“On the floor.”
“Obviously.”
This time he grinned for real. “Then it’s obviously time for me to make introductions.” Mickey walked into—instead of out of—my room and plunked down on my bed, the frame creaking underneath him. “Kella, meet the best mattress in the house. Since Maeve’s idea of comfort is rock-hard mattresses, I convinced her to let me pick it out.” Mickey laid back on the bed, propping his head up with his hands. “But since you have no problem sleeping on the floor, I guess extra firm would have been fine after all.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it again. Did he really just lie down in my bed? I didn’t want him in my room. I didn’t want to talk to him. Hell, I was still mad at him for waking me up from my dream with Caleb. Well, with dream Caleb.
And yeah, I didn’t need Caleb around to know that I was being petty and illogical by holding it against my foster brother. But I didn’t care.
Instead of acknowledging Mickey, I grabbed the only thing that was mine in the room: the black backpack Deena had given to me. Once I dragged it over to where I was sitting, I noticed a white tag attached to the zipper. Girls Size M.
Lovely. The clothes for my first day of school were a size too big.
I looked down at the form Ms. Reid had given me—an inventory sheet with categories listed to one side and empty columns for me to write quantity, color, and the condition of everything I’d brought into care. The stuff in the backpack probably counted.
Even as I pulled out a powder blue hoodie, Mickey stayed laying on my bed, ignoring—or simply not getting—the hint. From the corner of my eye, I could see him looking around at the bare walls as if they were far more interesting than, well, bare walls.
A couple more seconds ticked by before he said, “You’ll like it here all right.” I flicked him a glance after writing “new” next to blue hoodie on the sheet Ms. Reid gave me.
“And Maeve’ll grow on you,” he continued. “She keeps to herself, but she’s nice enough.”
I barely nodded as I pulled out a light pink t-shirt. Great. Pastels made me look like the walking dead.
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
“Nope.” I glanced at him again.
Leave. I was thinking it so hard that if telepathy was a thing, he’d have heard it loud and clear. But it wasn’t, so Mickey stayed glued to my bed with a big, dorky smile on his face.
I tried to ignore him as I took out another shirt. He said something, but I wasn’t paying attention. Light blue. Perfect. I had two oversized zombie shirts.
“Earth to Kella, come in, Kella!” Mickey’s peppy voice grated on my nerves as much as the squeal of tires right before a crash.
I closed my eyes and took a breath before turning toward him, my lips pursed. “What?” I bit out.
“Your favorite color. What is it?”
I sucked in another pseudo-deep breath. “Blue.”
“Baby blue, sapphire blue, ocean blue…”
“Just regular blue,” I said to shut him up.
“How about music? Do you like pop, country, hip-hop?”
I held up a hygiene pack I’d pulled out of the bag, pretending to examine it. Maybe if he got an eyeful of tampons, he’d leave the room faster.
But no.
For the next five minutes—a time confirmed by multiple glances at the clock—Mickey was in monologue mode, mostly because I refused to answer any more questions.
He’d established his preference for chocolate over vanilla and cats over dogs early on, but when that didn’t get a reaction, Mickey launched into the risks associated with anorexia. By the time he got to the percentage of anorexics who die, shooting me a few pointed looks, he’d shredded the last of my patience.
“Mickey. I don’t care.”
“About anorexia? You should. It’s an epidemic, you know. Up to one in twenty girls—”
I slammed down a pack of hair ties hard enough that a few popped off the packaging. “I am not anorexic.”
“Starved?”
I glared at him before picking up the ties and shoving them in the top drawer.
“Why are you even here?” I asked.
He kicked his legs off the bed. “Well, I thought it’d be nice to get to know—”
“No, I mean are you even allowed in here? There’s gotta be rules for, like, teen boys and teen girls being in different rooms, right?”
Please let there be rules.
“Oh, so you find me attractive.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, but ended up looking like a doofus.
The idea was ridiculous enough that a laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I quickly swallowed it down.
He grinned at me. “No? Probably for the best. But be warned, I have a reputation with the ladies to keep up, so just don’t invade my space, ask me obnoxious questions, or follow me around in public, and we’ll get along fine. Unless you want to follow me around, because that might add to my appeal.” Again, the goofy eyebrow wiggle.
Maybe the ride had tired me out—or Mickey’d worn down my brain to the point where it’d cracked. Maybe everything had gone so far beyond okay it had finally reached absurd.
Whatever the case, I found myself laughing. My ribs ached, but that made me laugh more because them hurting was stupid. And me being here was stupid. And having a dorky little foster brother who wouldn’t shut up was stupid.
Tears streamed down my face—equal parts humor and pain. I wiped them off, forcing myself to stop. My ribs were burning, and I had the sneaking suspicion I was one laugh away from bursting into ugly tears—a definite no-go.
I cleared my throat and grasped for something to say—something normal, since Mickey looked a little alarmed. “Are you from around here?”
He shrugged,
