He’s too smart for his own good.
Noah looks between Mohammad and me, like he’s piecing together a puzzle. Mohammad keeps his chin tucked down, not meeting Noah’s eyes, but the second he looks away, Mohammad’s eyes get huge, like he’s seeing a car crash in front of him and he can’t look away.
“I didn’t want to affect your friendship,” I state truthfully.
Noah seems perplexed by my statement and pushes his sandwich away. “Okay.”
Harry sits down next to me, putting his tray onto the table as the word leaves Noah’s mouth. Harry takes a fork, stabs it into a brownie, and opens his soda.
“Healthy,” I comment, feeling slightly sick from just looking at his plate.
Harry winks at me before taking a bite, and Noah catches it. He purses his lips at me, and the second I know Harry isn’t looking, I just shrug at him.
“How did things go yesterday?” Mohammad asks Harry.
“Yesterday was shit,” Harry comments, his jaw twitching.
“Yeah?” Noah asks, his face softening.
“Mum wants to go after the bastard now,” Harry says, popping open his bag of chips. “She sees this as her winning hand, I think.”
“You mean, you?” Mohammad asks, focusing fully on Harry now.
“Yeah. She was beside herself—at least, she acted like she was,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.
And I’m not sure if he really believes that his mom doesn’t care or if he’s just acting this way to protect himself.
“I think we expected her to be,” Noah says gently.
“I guess.” Harry shrugs. “Anyway, she was outraged by it all and was on the phone with her lawyers this morning. She wants a divorce. Part of the company. Who knows?”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Mohammad asks, wanting him to see the bright side of things.
“It’s shit, mate. She doesn’t give two fucks about me. The worst part is, they’re going to drag me into their mess. If I thought good old dad was angry when his life was moving along fine, I can’t imagine what he’ll be like when he’s actually upset about all of this.” Harry swallows hard but then laughs. “Anyway, doesn’t really matter. She knows now and can decide what to do. I’m over the lot of it.”
“Harry,” I say to him.
“Fuck them,” Noah says.
Both Harry and I look at Noah, surprised. But a huge grin comes to Harry’s face, and he raises up his soda.
“Fuck them,” he repeats, taking a sip.
“You’re always welcome at the house. Whatever is going on, we’ll handle it together,” Noah says, looking around the table. “And if you have to be home with your dad, we’re going to be there. It’s not an option.”
Harry doesn’t say anything; he just nods.
We all stay quiet for a minute, waiting for the silence to break. Waiting for someone to say something.
But I think we’re all too scared to be the one to do it.
“I can’t believe I have a bloody squash match tonight. It’s bad enough that Mum’s home, but now, this,” Harry finally says as he pops the last of his brownie in his mouth. “You’ll all be there?” he asks, not looking up at any of us.
“Definitely,” I say first even though I know he wasn’t talking to me.
Because I can’t help it.
Harry is finally talking about how he’s feeling. He’s letting us—me—in. And asking us to come tonight is his way of leaning on us.
Mohammad nods at Harry. “Of course, mate.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Noah adds as the bell goes off.
Piece together a story.
Art
“How’s your project coming?” Noah asks as we sit down in class.
“It’s all right,” I comment, pulling out my clippings and paper. “I’ve got all the pieces, I think. I just need to put them together.”
His eyes scan my work. “You went with their favorite colors,” he comments, looking up at me.
“Yeah. I thought about doing the Greece thing, but I don’t know … something about this felt right. I want to put them together to make a sunrise,” I say, looking down at the pinks, oranges, and blues I have picked out.
“And do you have the story to go with it?” He pulls a blank sheet of paper out of his folder but keeps his collage tucked away.
“Yeah, actually. I haven’t written it down, but I know exactly what I want to say. What about you?”
“I don’t have the words yet,” he says, gesturing at the blank sheet of paper in front of him.
“You’re taking this pretty seriously. Isn’t your collage done?”
“It is,” he says, sitting up straighter, running his fingers through his hair.
“What’s the problem then?” I ask.
If he’s already created the collage, why can’t he just make something up about it?
Piece together a story.
He’s creative enough.
“It means something to me,” Noah says, his gaze connecting with mine. His brown eyes are glowing, and he bites into his lip.
“Okay,” I reply.
“Sorry. This project is … confusing me. I’m not sure what to write or why I care so much. It’s just a stupid collage …”
“Noah …”
“I’m struggling to figure out how to put what I created into words. And what it means to me.”
“Well, if you need help, I’m here.”
Noah lets out a sigh, his broad chest falling. “Thanks.”
I shift through my cutouts, putting them into rows by color on my desk, deciding I should lay them out from the soft cream of the sand all the way to the pinkish glow of the sunrise.
I stop and take a moment to peek over at Noah. He’s still just sitting there, holding his pen over his paper like he might write something but he doesn’t. He just keeps his pen there, hanging in the air.
I roll my eyes, grabbing it from him.
“You need a distraction,” I say, trying to pull him out of his thoughts. “You’re not going to get anything accomplished like that.”
“A distraction?” he asks, pursing his lips at me.
“Yes,” I reply, slipping his pen between my fingers.
A smile forms on Noah’s lips as he takes my hand into his, examining my fingers. “How can you accomplish anything with those nails?”
“I already told you, they weren’t my first choice.” I roll my eyes at him. “Are they that bad?” I ask, feeling a little self-conscious.
Noah doesn’t say anything. He’s just staring at our still-touching hands. “No,” he finally says. “But you don’t need them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you don’t need these long nails. Your fingers were cute before,” he says, his eyes flicking up to mine.
“Cute?” I ask, wondering what exactly that means to him.
“Yeah,” he says, dropping my hand. “You said that your nails or whatever weren’t very feminine, right?”
“Well, that’s what Naomi said,” I correct.