He’s popular.
Beautiful.
Why does he come to this park alone at night? Don’t his parents ever catch him?
My parents don’t check on me at night; in fact, they’re hardly home. I wonder if his parents check on him and wonder if he’s all right. If they know their son sneaks out the window for midnight therapy. If they know he smells like heaven.
White noise coats the space between us as honking horns from a far distance cut into my late-night daydream.
I should walk away.
I should hide from this boy.
I should hate him like I want to.
But then I remember the true reason why I’m here. That rainbow. So I stay still and stare down at the teddy, not caring how long I feel Tate’s eyes on me, burning through the left side of my head.
That is until my bones jump out of my skin at the sudden unearthly lightning bolt and following thunder that rumbles beneath the muddy grass my white Dr. Martens are stationed in.
Three.
Two.
One.
Heavily pounding rain casts down on us, its velocity reckless, and I can’t help but grimace.
Why didn’t I bring a jacket? Anything?
I glance between Tate’s waterproof jacket and my pink fleece Barbie pajama set, getting wetter by the second.
You’re a loser, London Héroux. A loser for getting drenched like this when you own five million umbrellas at home.
Okay, maybe not thaaat many, but you get it.
I should have been more attentive. But I was just so in my head when I snuck out of my parents’ penthouse apartment after my nanny—who is taking care of me while my parents are in Dubai—rushed out of my house just before midnight to see her boyfriend.
I know because when she came to check on me, I pretended I was asleep.
Not even ten seconds later, I heard a barely audible ringtone and her soft mumbles telling the person on the other line, “She’s asleep, and I’m fucking bored. Let me see you, baby. I miss you and want you to fuck the brains out of me.”
Whatever that last part means, it sounds like trouble. Anything that includes brains out of their intended space—the cranium—sounds problematic. And like it should be in a full-on sci-fi movie.
No, thanks.
Within seconds, the apartment door slammed shut, and I shot my eyes open, staring up at the super high ceiling of my very lonely, quiet, and freezing penthouse.
And then I started to cry. I don’t know why, but it helped ease the pain in my chest a little. Until it didn’t.
Here I was, alone and abandoned on a school night. A night that should have been filled with happy thoughts, my parents tucking me into bed, and a bedtime story.
But my parents were never that kind. I don’t think they’ll ever be. Work is where their loyalty lies. Work. And money. And reputation.
Definitely not me.
I know that big R-word because it’s all they ever talk about. Being rich. Staying rich.
Rich.
Rich.
Rich.
Reich in German.
I hate that we are—rich, that is—because ever since I learned that word, I’ve been spiraling in an endless pit of doom filled with Brontë, Pink Floyd, and sad thoughts.
Sad thoughts that only manifest lying on my king-sized bed alone at home. That’s when I decided the park was a good idea.
Tate—my enemy, or whatever he may be—is also rich. Well, his parents are. I can tell from his expensive haircut, that YSL raincoat, and squeaky-clean sneakers that he is. That and the fact that every day I take the bus from elementary school, his driver passes me.
Every.
Time.
Tate goes to a different private elementary school than me, but I’ve seen his baby-blue eyes stare out from the passenger seat with a soulless expression one too many times.
Wandering.
It’s as if he’s spacing out, wanting anything else but this as he leans his elbow against the armrest and his clenched palm balances his head. I know because every day I watch him—even if it’s a fraction of a second before the car speeds off and turns left in the street while the bus goes straight—it ain’t his parents driving him, it’s his driver.
And every day it’s a new car.
Maserati.
Ferrari.
Audi.
Always sleek black with glossy wax. Tate never sees me. He’s staring out at the world too much. Dreaming. But I always see him. See the agony in his eyes. The frown on his lips. The stiffness of his light olive skin and taut physique from all the sports I know he does.
Next year is middle school, and we may not take the same route. I don’t know why that thought makes my heart hurt. I don’t care about Tate. I don’t care about Tate Meadows at all. But something about possibly never seeing him again, even for a few seconds at a time every morning, sprays sadness all over my body.
He’s become a habit.
A secret habit.
A daily routine.
And I’m not sure why I’m thinking about it so hard when he’s sitting right next to me and my honey-blonde waves are sticking to my face as the thundery rain soaks my clothes, but I am.
I’m thinking about Tate while glancing at him.
I’m thinking about the way it feels like he saves me from drowning every time I look at him in the mornings through the bus windows and right now while he stares right at me.
I’m thinking about why it doesn’t hurt to breathe so much now that he’s near while we’re looking at each other, and it’s a mess.
We’re a mess.
Broken.
A broken soul.
That’s what I see looking back at me.
Gulping down the intensity of him has me focusing on my hands for a minute. I don’t know why he’s looking at me like that, but I don’t want it to stop.
I hate myself for it.
I do.
I hate myself for acting pretty normal while my entire body trembles from the rain. Water is everywhere and gliding down my lashes into my eyes.
But here I am, leaning over and acting normal as I pull a white daisy from the field of flowers just by my feet. I swirl it around with my pointer and thumb, then hover it under my nose and breathe to anticipate the sweet scent. Instead, cold rain is all I smell.
Ugh.
Large drops fall on the petals, making them bounce back and forth but never tearing. That makes me smile. Smile because I’m trying to act all normal and ignore Tate, so he doesn’t have to see the warmth across my cheeks. Warmth he brings.
I’ve never felt like more of a little girl as I slowly pull off each petal of the daisy. With each tug, I mutter in my head the nightmare that is, he loves me, he loves me not…
I know Tate doesn’t love me. He’d have no reason to. But hate—hate, he has a reason. And yet my little heart beats like crazy as I continue tugging, knowing Tate will never love me and I’ll never like him because he’s not someone I could ever know.
And yet… I play the crazy game.
I softly whisper the words this time, through the pouring rain where I know he can’t hear me—not through heaven’s roar.
“Tate Meadows loves me…”
Pull.
“Tate Meadows loves me not…”
Pull.
“Tate Meadows loves me…”
Third last petal.
Pull.
“Tate Meadows loves me not…”
Pull.
“London, what the hell are you doing?”