“Class,” says Mr. Langley. “This is Sarah Cash. She’s new to town, so be sure to take a moment to introduce yourselves at some point.”
In an easy, casual gesture, Sarah Cash reaches up and runs her hand back through her hair, opening up her face to the room. One corner of her mouth turns up, and she does a slow scan of the room as if she’s taking stock of us, and not the other way around. There’s a split second, a fraction of a moment, when her eyes land on me and my muscles freeze, my blood stops moving in my veins, and I worry that she’ll recognize me. Could she have seen me watching her from the window last night after all? But her eyes move right past me and Langley directs her to an empty seat, directly next to Brianna. She settles and he continues with his lesson.
I catch Burke’s eye, and unexpectedly, he winks. Surprising myself, I blush in reaction and turn away before he notices. I deliberately avoid looking at Sarah Cash for the rest of the class.
When the bell rings, I notice Brianna immediately accosting the new girl. I can tell that she’s making some kind of pitch, but when Sarah casually shakes her head and turns away without an explanation, I can tell by the look on Brianna’s face that she’s been turned down for the second time today.
Maybe Sarah Cash and I have more in common than just a neighborhood.
7.
After school, as Burke and I walk out the side entrance, we notice that a small crowd has gathered near the parking lot. At the bottom of the steps, we stop and watch as Sarah Cash walks nonchalantly across the parking lot to her Nova. I notice Brianna standing off to the side with her friends, watching with narrowed eyes. As Sarah opens the back door and tosses her backpack in, Brianna—her eyes still on Sarah—leans in and whispers something to her clique. They all turn and stare, unimpressed, as Sarah jumps into the front seat and slams her door.
Brianna’s clique might not be impressed, but plenty of other people are, Burke included. As she pulls out of her spot, one guy gives her an exaggerated holler of approval. The car stops, and a moment later, the driver’s side window opens and her hand appears, a middle finger snapping to attention before the whole arm disappears back into the car and she squeals out of the parking lot and drives away down the street.
I reach over and tap Burke’s lower jaw closed with my finger. “You’re drooling.”
“Oh, and you’re not?” he asks. “I saw you looking back there in class.”
“You did not,” I say, turning around and starting to walk away before he notices me blush.
He catches up but knows me well enough to drop the subject. “Hey, can I come over for a while?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Terry is back in town,” he explains.
I understand what he means immediately. “Good old Terrance,” I say. Burke’s uncle Terry is a classic deadbeat. No fixed address, no stable job, and a tendency to drop in on Burke’s family every couple of years. He always pretends he’s just visiting, but he usually needs a place to crash and ends up sticking around for weeks, or even months.
“He’s staying in the basement,” Burke says. “Just lying around on the couch all day, watching TV and drinking beer and farting. He’s so gross.”
I laugh. When Burke’s sister, Alicia, moved out last year, on her way to college out of state, Burke inherited the bedroom in the basement. It’s nothing fancy, just a boxed-in room in the corner, but it’s private. There’s a toilet and shower in the laundry room, and the rec room has some battered old couches set up around a giant old TV. It’s like a personal lounge, except now that Terry is sleeping on the couch, Burke’s oasis has been invaded.
We leave the school and move away down the sidewalk. “The worst part,” says Burke, “is that he’s talking about staying this time. He says he’s ‘looking for work’ and as soon as he finds something he’ll get his own place, but that’s bullshit. He’ll be around for months.”
“Why don’t your folks kick him out?” I ask.
“If it were up to my mom, they would, but my dad would never consider it,” says Burke. “Terry’s his little brother. He’s a screwup, but he’s family.”
Instead of walking back to my house through town, we take a shortcut, heading down the alley next to the old abandoned bowling alley and skimming through the hole in the fence to get to the path that runs along the train tracks. Once we’re out of sight from the street, Burke drops his backpack onto a crusty, pebble-encrusted snowbank and unzips, rummaging around inside for an old Altoids tin. He takes out a small glass pipe and packs it with some broken-up weed. He sparks up as I stand shivering, waiting for him to finish.
“You want?” he asks through clenched teeth, holding the pipe to me.
“No thanks,” I say. Burke knows it’s not my thing, but he never fails to offer, which I find equally irritating and endearing.
He breathes out the smoke, a thin blue cloud twisting into the air like a ribbon. I like the smell, even if I don’t smoke, sweet and sour like the decay of fall. Burke shoves his little Altoids container back into his backpack and we start walking again.
“So what’d you really think about the new girl?” he asks.
“Well, she lives across the street from me,” I say. It’s a nonanswer, but it gets his attention.
“No shit? In that house that’s been for sale forever?”
I nod.
“Why didn’t we ask her to give us a drive home?” He takes another haul on the pipe.
“What, and miss out on our precious quality time?” I ask him. “Come on, man, I haven’t even spoken to her. I just noticed them moving in yesterday.”
“The girl next door,” he says. I can hear the grin in his voice even through his clenched teeth. He exhales a cloud of smoke.
I ignore him. As always, Burke shuts up for a few minutes after he smokes, so we walk along in silence. It’s fine with me, since I have some stuff to think about anyway.
We reach the path that takes me back to our house, and I climb up after him, digging the toes of my boots into the sides, where the snow hasn’t been packed down into an icy slide.
At the top, I turn toward my street, but Burke stops me.
“Hang on,” he says. “I want to grab some chips.” He grins and rubs his hands together. “Got the munchies.”
I roll my eyes, he’s such a cliché, but I follow him across the street and around the corner to the gas station on Livingstone Street.
I follow him into the store and stand around near the cash register, looking at my phone while Burke slowly mulls over the snack options on display. He turns into a sloth when he’s stoned, carefully picking up every bag of chips and analyzing the packaging. The guy behind the counter barely looks up from his phone. He’s used to this routine.
The door jingles, and I glance up as a tall woman I don’t recognize enters. She’s very attractive, with long, super dark hair and a sharp, fine-featured face. She’s wearing high leather boots over tight jeans, a dark green wool peacoat and a nice scarf, and huge dark sunglasses that she sweeps back onto the top of her head as she walks out of the bright sunshine of the winter afternoon. Her gaze sweeps casually around the store, passing over me. To my surprise, her eyes land on Burke and she smiles and approaches him.