The Hidden

when you took off your sweater and showed me your tattoos.”

With one swift movement he reached down and twisted up the shirt. It slid off, and my pulse skyrocketed. “Better?” he asked.

“Much.” I sighed. My heart beat like a drum in my ears, and the air around us felt heavy and thick. I couldn’t stop staring at him. Couldn’t stop looking at his skin. So different from mine, yet the same. It was fascinating. Little bumps and ridges made up the hollows of his collarbone, while smooth, taught flesh stretched all the way down …

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to return the favor?”

“No.” I swallowed hard.

“No? That’s not really fair.”

“Oh, yes. It is. I’m the injured one here, so you have to indulge me a little.”

Caspian nodded. “All right. Have you indulged enough yet?”

I shook my head.

He rolled over and stretched out on his stomach, arms crossed in front of him, back fully exposed. The edges and lines of the tattoos on his shoulder blades blurred a little. The interlocking chain of small black circles and triangles all ran into one another. I realized I was staring too hard. And possibly drooling.

I shifted and pulled my arm out from under me, turning so that I was on my side, facing him. “You aren’t … I can’t even … Does it ever bother you that we can’t touch?” I asked desperately.

“Every day.”

His tone was soft. Simple. But a whole different world lay behind those words. His world. A world that I couldn’t be a part of. Not yet, at least. We were miles apart.

“What were you thinking about when you got your tattoos?” I said, changing the subject to something easier. Something with answers. “What was your inspiration?”

He shifted too. “The stop sign outside my old house was graffitied. Someone painted big circles on it. Then someone else overlapped it with a triangle. It wasn’t the same pattern I have on me now, they were two distinct designs, but my mind just put them together in this weird way.”

“That’s cool.”

“It may sound hippieish,” he said, “but when I saw the circles, I felt this … connection. To the earth. Or Mother Nature. Or whatever ‘it’ is. I’ve always had this feeling that I was connected to something. Or someone.”

“Maybe it was me.” His eyes held mine, and I would have given anything to be able to reach out and touch him. “We’re connected. Maybe we-”

“Morning, sweetie!” Mom called from right outside the door. She came in holding a laundry basket, and I bolted upright. I’d never even heard her come up the stairs.

My gaze flew to Caspian. Even though I knew she couldn’t see the half-naked shirtless boy on the bed, I still had a moment of panic. “Hey, Mom,” I said awkwardly.

She crossed the room and pulled back the curtains. “What do you want for breakfast today?”

“I’m, uh, not really hungry.”

“But you have to eat. Why don’t I make chocolate chip pancakes?” She went to the closet, opening up drawers and putting away socks.

“Yeah. Fine. Good. Sounds great. I’ll get dres-”

“Or Belgian waffles? You love those.”

“Yeah, Mom. Okay.” I mentally willed her to leave the room. “I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed.”

She came out of the closet and smiled at me. “I was thinking that maybe after breakfast we could do a movie day. I rented a bunch of them.”

I got to my feet and opened the bathroom door, hopefully sending the message that I needed to get in there. “Okay. But first waffles, right?”

Looking way too excited, she said, “You got it,” and headed out the door.

A breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding escaped me, and I turned back to Caspian. He reached under the sheet and pulled out his shirt. I was sad to see his bare skin get covered up. “Well, great,” I said. “Now I have to go do breakfast. Want to come with?”

“I’d say yes, but since she can’t see me and I don’t eat, I think I’ll just hang out here.” He blew me a kiss as I padded into the bathroom, and I returned the favor.

Already I was regretting Mom’s terrible timing, and wondered just how fast I could get back to him.

Half an hour later I entered the kitchen and glanced at the plate stacked ten waffles high, wondering how Mom had made so many so quickly. Then I took a seat at the table. “Did you make some for the neighbors, too?”

She grinned and brought them over to me. “I just wanted to make sure you had enough to eat.”

I neatly slid two waffles onto my plate. Mom came over with apple and orange juice, and plunked them both down next to me. Then she put a couple of waffles on her own plate and sat down.

“We should go get another mani-pedi once your sling is off,” she said, pausing in between bites. “I think I want to go red on my toenails.”

“Bright red? Or dark red?”

“I think dark red. Maybe maroon.”

I looked down and pushed the waffle around on my plate. Kristen’s casket was dark red … Then I said, “Hey, Mom, if someone else is spending a lot of money, but it’s a purchase for you, would you get to decide the details?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Like a car?”

“Yeah. Like a car. If someone bought a car but it was actually for someone else, could that person make the decision about the details? Like what paint color it is?”

Mom laughed. “Is this some kind of graduation gift hint, Abbey?”

I moved my waffle around again. I wasn’t sure how to say what I wanted to say. After all, how exactly do you blurt out, I’m going to die soon, and I’d like to make sure that my casket is red, without sounding like a crazy person?

“What’s your favorite flower?” I asked instead.

“Daylilies. White ones. I know they can be sort of Easterish, but I think they make such a beautiful display.”

Not exactly my first pick, but it wasn’t that bad.

“What about your favorite church song? Like a hymnal?”

Mom leaned back and thought about it for a minute. “I guess I’d go with ‘Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In.’”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that one. ‘Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In’ is kind of peppy for a funeral.”

“A funer-?” Mom stared at me. “What did you just say?”

“Funerals have songs and flowers. I just wanted to know which ones you like.”

“Why are you talking about this, Abigail?” Mom’s voice had that high-pitched hysterical note in it again.

“Well, since Kristen died really young, it made me realize anything could happen. For my funeral I want a red casket. Like she had. White lilies are okay. I don’t really mind those. But pick a better song than ‘Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In,’ okay?”

Her fork clattered to the floor. Pushing back her chair, Mom stood up abruptly. “That’s not funny. This conversation is over. I’m not in the mood to watch any movies today. You’ll have to find something else to keep yourself occupied.”

She left the kitchen without saying another word, but her footsteps were angry as she stomped into the living room.

I stared down at my plate. Why was everyone around me so sensitive about death all of a sudden?

I went back upstairs to Caspian and threw myself down onto the bed. Groaning, I said, “You’re so lucky you