“No,” I snapped back because of how condescending he sounded. “I’m not afraid of that. But now that you’ve brought it up, why do you continue attending school here if you’re so unhappy?”
Instead of saying something nasty and walking away, he smiled. “Who says going somewhere else would make me happier? I just have one more year, half a year, actually. I’ll grit my teeth and bear it.”
We heard some girls laughing as they came up a sidewalk in our direction. I felt myself calm down.
“Do you take a walk every night?” I asked.
“Just about.” He paused, like someone deciding if I was worth another few minutes. “So really, what’s your impression of the place? You haven’t been here a week, but it doesn’t take long to decide.”
“It’s fine. I like my classes and teachers, and the place is beautiful. Maybe my bar for satisfaction is lower than yours,” I added.
He didn’t laugh, but he widened his smile and looked away. “Where are you from?” he asked, again not turning back.
“Ridgeway. And you?”
“Carbondale,” he said, “but I consider myself an exchange student.”
“What? How are you an exchange student if you’re from Carbondale, Pennsylvania?”
“I speak another language,” he said, turning back to me.
“What other language?”
“English,” he said.
“Very funny.”
“Is it?” There was that pause again. He looked like he was fighting with himself to continue talking to me, like he would just walk away. “What brought you here? Why didn’t you begin your high school education here?” he asked, like a lawyer in a courtroom surprising a witness.
Of course, the question sounded alarm bells, but I also thought he wouldn’t have asked it if he wasn’t interested in me. Could flattery overpower caution?
“I had to finish my needlework project in arts and crafts before I could leave my previous school,” I said.
He stared, first in disbelief, and then a real look of appreciation washed it away. “Do you always finish what you begin?”
“Of course, don’t you?”
“Can’t wait to see it, then,” he said.
“I don’t show it to just anybody. You have to earn the right.”
“And just how do I go about doing that?”
“Figure it out,” I said. “I’ll give you the rest of the year. Got to get back to my homework and tease the Iron Lady’s little spies. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”
I didn’t look back. Haylee used to be firm about that whenever we dated or flirted with a boy. “When you walk away, you don’t look back. If you look back, you commit and give them an advantage. Never show how interested you are, Kaylee,” she’d instructed.
I paused now, thinking about that, and then I shook my head and continued walking.
No matter what, as crazy as it seemed to me and probably would seem to anyone who knew about us, I was still relying on Haylee’s advice.
9
What slows down time? What makes it pass faster? Certainly, the minutes felt like hours to me when I was locked in Anthony Cabot’s basement. Even the days immediately following my release seemed to last more than twenty-four hours. There was so much recuperating to do, so much therapy to endure, and so much horror to hide, even from myself.
During the first few weeks at Littlefield, the days were long to me because I was under tension, despite how welcome I felt and how comfortable it was. On most of the early days, I became tired earlier than I expected and certainly earlier than Marcy wanted, but tension is subtly exhausting. She had boundless energy and an insatiable appetite for intimate conversations, which usually became more intimate the later it became in the evening. She was constantly fishing to learn about my experiences with boys. I knew when I was getting tired enough to slip and mention something that might lead to my real reason for being here.
“I hate going to sleep,” she told me when I pleaded for a breather and time to prepare for bed this evening. “Either I lie there regretting things I didn’t say or do, or I fill with fear that tomorrow won’t be any more exciting than today.”