CHAPTER TWO

After school, I stick a Post-it on Emily Franklin’s locker. Seeing as she dumped her lunch tray everywhere in the cafeteria, I figure she could use an ego boost. I don’t always stick around to watch people read like I did that first time. Sometimes I have places to be.

Like today.

I unlock my bike from the rack out front. My house is two and a half miles from school, not an easy distance, but I’m determined. Riding five miles daily should keep me fit, but it’s bulked up my thighs while doing little for my butt. There are probably other exercises I should try, but I don’t care enough. Pedaling doggedly—while responding to the occasional greeting—carries me home.

Aunt Gabby is still at work when I arrive. She manages a new age place, where they sell healing crystals and hand-dipped candles. You’d think there wouldn’t be much market for that in a small Midwestern town, and mostly, you’d be right. Which is why she spends a lot of time filling Web orders. There’s a light walk-in business, but mostly she parcels things up and takes them to the post office.

Home is a two-bedroom bungalow, the exterior painted a cheerful robin’s egg blue. The house has pine-green shutters and a fanciful menagerie of statues in the front yard. Now, in early fall, the garden is bright with orange and yellow mums, an explosion of color curling around the side of the house. The lawn itself is browning around the edges, as we’re in a bit of a drought.

We live in a western subdivision, not far enough from the town center for the farms to take over. Once you leave Farmburg, drive four miles in any direction and fields are all you’ll see. It’s a fair drive to the interstate from here, so we don’t get highway traffic often. In the spring, there’s nothing but fertilizer and in the fall, there’s the scent of cut hay. This is a peaceful place, I suppose, better than where I’ve been. Most of the houses around ours are bigger, but they lack the quirky charm my aunt has cultivated. I imagine our neighborhood looks like a patchwork quilt from above, but since I’ve never been on a plane, I wouldn’t know.

After parking my bike in the shed out back, I let myself in, passing the hand-carved umbrella stand and driftwood coatrack. Aunt Gabby has a thing for primitive arts and crafts and natural furnishings, so our place looks like a roadside museum. The result is bright and cozy. My room is nestled at the back of the house, past the bathroom. It’s small, so I’ve got a battered bureau, a bookshelf made of reclaimed lumber and cinder blocks, painted scarlet and yellow for cheer, and a daybed that we bought at the thrift store downtown, and then sprayed a shiny gold. I’ve piled the bed with tons of throw pillows in all manner of fabrics, mostly inspired from watching Arabian Nights, as there’s lots of satin and sparkle. I never crafted or sewed before coming to Aunt Gabby, but she taught me, so I made the pillows myself. My closet is tiny, too, but that’s fine, as I don’t have many clothes. I hide that fact by rotating my skirts and leggings with different tanks and shrugs.

I spend two hours doing homework, and then leave a note, advising her I’ll be home by nine thirty. Then I haul my bike out of the shed. It’s not dark yet, so I don’t worry about reflectors; I’ll put those on later. I have plenty of time; I don’t kill myself peddling to the library, where we hold our monthly meetings. This isn’t a school club, so we had to find someplace else to host our group. It’s open to all ages, but so far, it hasn’t taken off. Only six members have joined.

I wave to Miss Martha, the librarian, as I push through the doors into the air-conditioning. The public library is one of my favorite places in the world. It’s an old building, two-story and historical looking, with marble floors, full of nooks and crannies where people can curl up to read. The books are organized by subject and then via the Dewey decimal system. Back near the reference desk, there are a couple of ancient desktops that people can use to check their e-mail. Fortunately, I don’t need those. I saved enough money this summer to buy myself a laptop. I’m pretty stoked about that.

Since I’m fifteen minutes early, I drop off my books at the front desk and pick out a couple of new titles. I carry them to the conference room upstairs where we hold our meetings. To my surprise, somebody’s already sitting there, reading, arms propped on the table. I recognize the green Army surplus jacket before I place him—Shane Cavendish, new kid.

How did he hear about Green World?

“Hey,” I say, as I sit down. “Good to see you.”

His head jerks up; he was totally into the book and didn’t hear me at all, which makes me like him instantly. I know all about the transportive power of fiction. Back in my old life, there were plenty of days when I wouldn’t have made it if I didn’t have an exit into the pages of somebody else’s life. My breath catches as his gaze meets mine. No joke, it’s like the whole world pauses for that second. Because Shane Cavendish has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, aquamarine flecked with darker blue and green, fringed with long dark lashes that actually curl up toward his brows. Eventually, I notice he has a nose with a bump in the bridge, like it’s been broken, a pair of sharp cheekbones, a faint scar on his left temple, and a layer of scruff at his jaw. His mouth … no, I can’t even.

But it’s incredible, too.

Though I could probably stare at him for another five minutes in awed silence, he’s not on board with that plan. His brows pull together as he shoves his book into his bag. “What’re you talking about?”

I thought “good to see you” was self-explanatory. It’s a universal greeting and expression of welcome, isn’t it? “I’m happy the group’s adding a new member,” I offer cautiously.

“Oh.” Shane pushes out a breath. “Is there a meeting in here?”

I check my watch. “In five minutes.”

“I’ll clear out then.”

“You’re not here to join?”

“Unlikely,” he says.

That tone tells me what he thinks of people who organize and try. He’s probably a nihilist or something, who thinks it’s a waste of energy because nothing will ever get better. I admit, there are some days when I understand that philosophy. But without people agitating for change, there’s only the awfulness of the status quo.

“You’re welcome.”

“What am I supposed to be thanking you for?” His expression is outright puzzled, but he’s paying attention to me, his eyes trained on my face like he really sees me for the first time.

Which is cool, except … “I didn’t mean it that way,” I explain awkwardly. “You’re welcome to check out Green World.”

“Let me guess. You sponsor recycling drives and bug people to stop using plastic grocery bags.”

I guess that breathless moment where our eyes made contact was a one-way circuit. It’s a good thing I have a sense of humor or his attitude might bother me. “So far, we haven’t achieved even that much. Mostly, we argue and order pizza.”

Shane laughs, surprising me. His fingers relax on the edges of his ragged backpack. It was like he thought I was setting him up. In some respects, he seems like a kindred spirit, as if life has taught him to expect the worst.

“I could eat.”

“Then stay,” I say.

My heart pounds crazy hard, like, I can hear it in my ears. I’ve never said anything like that to a guy before. I wonder if he knows how bad I want to keep him here, just so I can look at him. His mop of chestnut hair has a hint of curl, and it’s pretty adorable the way it falls around his ears. In geometry, he used it to hide, but he’s not doing that now. He’s letting me see him.

“Okay.” It’s apparently that easy.

Before I can figure out where to go from here, Ryan bounds into the room, tossing his backpack onto the table with a thunk. He flings himself into the chair next to me, beaming, and then launches into a convoluted story about why he couldn’t get a burrito. I must admit, while I usually love Ryan’s stories, I’m not riveted by this one. It feels like he interrupted something, though maybe that’s just wishful thinking. At the end of the epic saga, I laugh because that’s what he expects of me. Shane goes back to reading.