“Again.”
“Again. Lucy is gonna kill us.”
“Kill you,” I clarify. “I’m anticipating serious bodily harm for myself. A few broken bones.”
“Why are you the sole survivor of The Hunger Games?”
“Because Lucy likes me best.”
“She doesn’t,” Rio says with a sweet, humorous lift to her lips.
“Okay, okay.” I concede. “We’re both dead.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
Suddenly it’s eerily quiet on her end. Rio Maguire and silence don’t go together. They’re foreign enemies. It’s an omen. My stomach plunges to my knees just before Rio says, “And if we skip the festivities, maybe you won’t have to see Dimi.”
There it is.
I bite my thumbnail. Mom says it’s a terrible habit. I think it’s a healthy coping mechanism. I hate this topic. Honestly, who enjoys discussing breakups? Exes? The aftermath of your first real relationship? For months, I’ve done a spectacular job of avoiding any talk that involves Dimi. Rio hasn’t thrown her “I told you so” in my face—yet.
I swallow. “Sure.”
Rio’s nose scrunches. She’s holding something back. “It’d be good to, you know, not see him.”
“Definitely.”
I see his face every freaking day at school. It’s the perfect situation: having to walk past your ex and his friends on your way to homeroom each morning, a sweetly-wrapped “fuck my life” moment I seriously dread.
Luckily, I’m saved from poking at old wounds with Rio. My bedroom door creaks when it’s nudged open by a small head. I’ll never tire of seeing those big, round, hazel eyes, that gumdrop nose, and large ears. Warmth like the inside of a hoodie spreads through my veins when Clover’s tail wags and she pants happily at me. I check the time: 7:15 p.m. Clover is never late.
I turn back to my phone, to Rio’s serious face. “Sorry, my favorite girl needs me.”
Rio rolls her eyes. “If you say so.”
I scratch behind Clover’s ear. “No, I gay so.”
My weak attempt at humor gets a snort out of Rio. Thing is, this is what Rio and I do: Try to one-up each other with sarcasm. Of course, Rio always wins that war. But it makes taking on all the intense stuff, the topics that we hate discussing, ten million times easier.
“Avoiding things is not very seventeen-year-old-like,” she tells me.
“Wrong.” I grin at the screen. “It’s very seventeen-year-old-like.”
The call ends on a freeze frame of Rio’s middle-finger in a goodbye salute. I scramble to grab my shoes, a hoodie, and Clover’s leash. We’re out the door before I have a chance to think about all the things Rio could’ve said.
I’ve lived in Ballard Hills all my life. Our neighborhood is in a little corner of Dunwoody, a fast-growing suburb just north of Atlanta.
Two-story houses with attics and finished basements and brick walkways, painted in a kaleidoscope of pastel colors—tear drop blue, seafoam green, daffodil yellow or cotton candy pink, all identical in sizes and structure with neatly planted trees that reach toward the sky like emerald hands. Even at the start of October, the lawns are immaculate and evergreen.
It’s a white-picket-fence wet dream.
I glance past the gloss and finish of my neighborhood to watch the last rays of dipping sun from in front of the house belonging to Ballard Hills’ notorious rule-breaker; Mr. Ivanov.
Every holiday, Mr. Ivanov goes to extremes to decorate his front yard. My favorite is his Christmas theme: plastic reindeer and a galaxy of twinkling lights and a giant Santa Claus inside of one of those inflatable snow globes. Robotic elves guard the walkway while a massive sleigh butts up against the edge of his lawn. It’s over the top. It’s also six levels of dope.
Currently, the yard is a sanctuary of Halloween decorations. Cartoonish ghosts swing from a white oak’s limbs. Amid the bushes near the entrance, a strobe light pulses, flickering over a dancing skeleton on the blood-red door. Cotton cobwebs stretch over foliage. It’s off-the-wall and has I-shop-at-Party-City-too-much written all over it. The best part is the collection of hand-carved pumpkins staged along the front steps. Their faces vary from witches to vampires, ghosts, and cats. I can’t get enough of the Frankenstein one.
“Well played, Ivanov.” I grin and hug myself against a rare cool breeze. Georgia’s never cold this time of year.
I’ve never really spoken to Mr. Ivanov. He’s a quiet widower who spends most of his time peeking out from his living room curtains at passersby. He has sleek gray hair, the kind of face that naturally scowls, and owns one too many flannel shirts.
Clover barks at my feet. Right. She has a schedule to keep. All my stalling in awe has delayed things.
“No need to get sassy.”
Clover cocks her head and blinks a few times, another reminder that my humor fails to impress anyone.
I adjust my earbuds while thumbing at my phone to crank the volume. Nothing beats an easy stroll through the neighborhood after sunset while listening to my favorite band, POP ETC. Clover leads the way. I bop to acoustic guitars and mellow vocals.
The walk is mostly Clover sniffing every bush or small patch of fallen pine needles. She’s a beagle with a killer sense of smell. Walking with her is a constant stop-and-go. I don’t mind that much. It’s not a workout—not the kind I need—but, whatever.
I love the view of a neighborhood drifting toward slumber: windows lit like glowing gold eyes, cars of various sizes parked in driveways, street lights illuminating arcs of the road.
Autumn is beginning its annual dance-off with summer. I can smell it. Under the layers of peaches and bug spray is a hint of baked apples and wood smoke. This is the best time of year.
Our favorite stop—Clover’s favorite stop—is right outside Maplewood Middle School, which is tucked inside the heart of a block about a half mile from home.
I turn away to let Clover do her business in the line of pine trees near the school’s wire fence. This spot is a maze of memories. I ripped my favorite green jacket climbing the fence with Lucy. The junior football team used to practice a few feet away. Shirtless Elijah always ignited those nerves in my belly, the sizzle trailing lower until I bit my lip sore. Call it a sexual awakening, though my attraction to guys began a little before those Elijah days.
Maplewood Middle feels like a lifetime ago. It wasn’t. When you’re in high school, middle school seems like a faded memory, and elementary school feels like an alternate reality, one where you’re free as a bird, uncaged and happy.
Cars cruise by. Their headlights shine across the zipper on my red hoodie and my crimson Converse.