“What are you counting?”
I walk faster. How could he know? “I wasn’t counting anything.”
“I saw your lips moving.”
“It was a song. I was humming a song.”
“No, you weren’t. It was numbers.”
“Drop it, Seth.”
He breathes out a loud grumbling breath. “Like everything else? Why do you always have to push everyone away?”
I walk five steps, three breaths, two sidewalk lines before I answer. “If you knew me. If you got close. You might vanish.”
“Vanish? That’s crazy.”
I stop. He gives me the look again. The demented look. The fragile-twit look. I prefer scorn. I can gain strength from that. Fragility weakens me.
“Des, I didn’t mean—”
I begin to walk on, but he grabs me and pulls me into the shadow of a storefront nook. His hands firmly grip both of my arms. “Destiny, I don’t care what you were doing. You could be reciting the periodic table in pig latin for all I care. I was just trying to connect with you. Is that so bad?”
He is a head taller than me and so close I must tilt my head back to see him fully. I feel the heat of his fingers on my arms. The tautness of my neck muscles. What was his question? So bad? My knees are shaky. Hot. And yet they continue to bear my weight. His face is close. Ten inches. His lips part. His head tilts. Nine inches. Eight. Seven. My chest is on fire. Six. Five. I turn away, my eyes looking down at the ground beside me. Four. The unholy number. He retreats. His hands drop from my arms.
“Mira and Aidan are waiting,” I say.
He steps back, looks away like he sees something at the end of the street, his eyes narrowing, his hands shoving into his pockets, and then he looks back. “And Lucky too,” he adds. He looks away again briefly and then turns back with a smile. Close to a smirk but a smile, nonetheless.
An offering. At least a truce.
And at that moment, for that unearned smile, I would gladly tell him every thought and secret that was ever in my head. But of course, he wouldn’t really want to know them. We all think we know what we want until it is too late.
30
EAST. I KNOW TO GO EAST.
“That way,” I tell Seth. The buildings of Langdon become scattered and few. Houses. None of them familiar. The wind is brisk. We should put the top up. Can a season turn in just one day? In just a few hours? We pass fields of golden flowers. Forests of birch. White rail fences. The colors, angles, and memories of home. But it isn’t. Not anymore. After today, it will never be mine again.
“Another toast!” Mira says. We stopped for cherry slushes at the market, and now Mira has turned the simple act of drinking into yet another game—anything to keep out the silence and keep us bonded. We have already toasted Mrs. Wicket, Lucky, the president, and the Victorymobile, as she has now dubbed the car. What could be left to toast?
“Here’s to Miss Boggs and miscounting tests!”
“Here’s to Bingham and comb-overs!”
“Here’s to bloody noses!”
Seth and Aidan seem as enthusiastic as Mira. I raise my cherry slush. “If we’re really going to toast our reasons for being here, we must include Mr. Nestor.”
They all lift their cups. “To Mr. Nestor and fair days!”
I finish my drink. So does Seth, and he passes his empty cup to me. I stack them together and shove them beneath my seat. This will surely put an end to Mira’s toasting.
“Who do you think Mr. Nestor really is?” she asks.
“A serial killer,” I answer. “That’s what I told him.”
Seth laughs. “Sure. He systematically kills his students by boring them to death? We already have one of those at Hedgebrook. Bingham. We don’t need another one.”